The Fifth Victim

by Beverly Barton

  Wallace patted her back. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault you can’t see who the killer is. Melva Mae always said her visions were a curse more than a blessing.”

  “Granny was right about that.” Genny finished stacking the dishes in the dishwasher, then added detergent and closed the door. “Come on. We need to get those herbs shipped out today. We’ll finish packing them, and you can take them by the FedEx office in town on your way home.”

  “I thought you were going to check the drying shed first,” Wallace said. “Isn’t Miss Sally coming by later to help with the packing?”

  “You’re right,” Genny replied. “Why don’t you go ahead and get the boxes ready in the shipping room while I check out the drying sheds? But we won’t wait on Sally. She’s liable to show up any minute now or not show up at all. You know how she is.”

  Wallace chuckled. “I think Miss Sally’s funny. She makes me laugh.”

  “You’re right. Sally can be a real hoot.” Genny washed and dried her hands, then headed toward the back porch. Drudwyn, who’d been sleeping peacefully by the screen door, lifted his head and looked up at Genny.

  “Come on, boy, if you want to go out and run around for a while.”

  The minute she opened the screen door, Drudwyn bounded outside. The sun shone high overhead like a glossy yellow-orange ball. The weather forecasters were predicting a slight warm-up, with the high temperatures today hovering around forty-five. Over half the snow had melted yesterday, leaving patches of icy white dotted about everywhere. Genny grabbed her heavy coat from the rack on the back porch and retrieved her gloves and hat from the pockets. She slipped on her gloves, then her hat and coat.

  “I’ll meet you in the shipping room,” Genny called out as she left Wallace on the back porch.

  She had enlarged the drying shed a few years ago when she had expanded her business. Organically grown herbs were a top item in today’s market, and nearly a third of her profits came from the sale of medicinal herbs. Her list of herbs was quite extensive, everything from anise to yarrow. Some of the herbs grew quite nicely in the greenhouses, others she cultivated in warm weather in her gardens; but several were wild specimens found in the surrounding woods. She had learned everything she knew about medicinal herbs from Granny, who had learned the art of healing with herbs from her two grandmothers, one a full-blooded Cherokee and the other a descendant of Celtic Druids. She had been taught that both her Native American ancestors and her Scots-Irish ancestors shared a respect for nature. The Cherokees, as did most other tribes, lived in harmony with nature and used herbs as a means of drawing healing powers from the universe.

  The drying shed, situated behind the greenhouses, was built of wood and glass, with forced-air drying. Granny and Wallace had made a simple solar hot-air device from a length of dryer hose, but she had replaced the homemade system with a propane forced-air heater. Propane was a better choice than electricity because it was more efficient and reliable.

  Genny opened the shed door, then closed it behind her quickly. Her gaze scanned the interior of the five-hundred-square-foot area. She had used rafters, screens, and racks to make full use of the space. In one area she had also used a “raised” floor, which was a framework of beams covered with permeable sisal cloth.

  After making her way through the room, visually checking the dried herbs, Genny made a note of what needed to be processed soon. She always kept a personal supply of processed herbs to share with family and close friends. From time to time various Cherokee County residents came to her for potions, remedies, and such like.

  Dried herbs could not be kept indefinitely, of course, not without losing their healing properties. Granny had taught her that medicinal plants could be kept only as long as their growing cycle. If a flower blooms every year, it can be stored for only a year. And if an herb seed matures in two years, then the seeds cannot be kept longer than two years.

  Just as Genny emerged from the drying shed, she saw Sally standing near the back porch. Sally and Wallace were deep in conversation. The two were of a similar age and seemed to have a great deal in common. Wallace was known as the town idiot and Sally the town eccentric. Both possessed hearts of gold.

  Perhaps what this world needs is more idiots and eccentrics.

  Sally had brought along Peter and Paul, her bloodhounds. The two red dogs, each weighing well over a hundred pounds, frolicked in the sunshine with Drudwyn. The animals were old friends, too.

  Sally threw up a hand and waved when she saw Genny, then called out to her, “Have you talked to Jazzy today?”

  Genny shook her head. When she approached Sally and Wallace, she asked, “Why did you ask about Jazzy? Is something wrong?”

  “Don’t know for sure.” Sally lifted a container of snuff from her pocket, flipped the lid, and, using a small stick, packed the finely ground tobacco in the hollow between gum and jaw. “I tried calling her a couple of times and didn’t get no answer at her apartment, and the folks at the restaurant said she had called them to say she wouldn’t be in this morning.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Jazzy, does it? Did you try her cell phone? Maybe she went out of town for some reason?”

  “No answer on her cell phone,” Sally said. “Besides, that gal don’t leave Cherokee County without telling me. She knows I’m a worrier.”

  “Did whoever you spoke to at the restaurant say Jazzy was sick?”

  “I talked to Tiffany. She was the one who talked to Jazzy, and she told me Jazzy didn’t give her a reason.”

  “I hope Miss Jazzy isn’t sick,” Wallace said. “Genny, maybe you should take her some of our medicine.”

  “I’ll try to get in touch with her this afternoon, and if I can’t contact her, I’ll drive into town this evening,” Genny said.

  “You know Jamie Upton is back in town.” Sally spit out a dark brown liquid on the ground, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I wish he’d stay away.” Sally grunted. “Hell, I wish he’d drop dead. Mark my words, one of these days somebody’ll kill that no-good rascal.”

  “Do you think Jazzy’s with Jamie?” Genny hoped and prayed not. Jamie had given Jazzy nothing but grief for as long as they’d known each other, which was just about all their lives.

  “She swore to me that she wouldn’t have nothing to do with him this time. I sure do hate that things didn’t work out with her and Jacob. That’s what my gal needs—a good man who’d treat her right.”

  “Why don’t you and Wallace go on into the shipping room and I’ll give Jazzy a call before I join you?” Genny offered Sally a forced smile, then hurried into the house.

  She lifted the receiver from the wall phone and dialed Jazzy’s home number. The phone rang repeatedly, then the answering machine picked up. Genny tried the cell phone. Voice mail. After that she tried the restaurant.

  “Tiffany, this is Genny Madoc. Has Jazzy come in yet?”

  “Yes, ma’am, she just showed up. I don’t know what’s going on, but we’re having an epidemic of no-shows. First Jazzy didn’t come in, then Lois called to say one of her kids was sick and Misty hasn’t shown up for the afternoon shift.”

  “Sorry y’all are having a problem,” Genny said. “Would you mind putting me through to the business line in Jazzy’s office?”

  “Sure thing.”

  Jazzy picked up on the third ring. “Jasmine Talbot. How may I help you?”

  “Next time you decide not to answer your phone or show up for work, you’d better call Sally so she won’t worry about you.”

  “God, Genny, tell her I’m sorry. But…well, I—”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to see you. I want you to give me a reading.”

  “What’s happened? Is it Jamie?”

  “He came to see me last night.”

  “Did you—”

  “No. I made him leave. At gunpoint.”

  A cold shiver danced along Genny’s nerve endings. “Come out around five-thirty. I’ll make sur
e Sally and Wallace are gone for the day.”

  “Genny?”

  “What?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Of Jamie?”

  “Yes, of Jamie. And of myself. I believe I could have actually shot him last night. I—I wanted him dead.”

  Brian MacKinnon had put in a phone call to Senator Everett first thing that morning. He needed to know what Dallas Sloan was doing in Cherokee Pointe. If he’d been on better terms with Jacob Butler, he would have asked him about the FBI agent. The two seemed damn chummy at breakfast this morning. Jacob had been especially reluctant to talk to the press about the two recent murders. But murder in their relatively crime-free county was big news. And two sacrificial murders was front-page headline news.

  Had Jacob asked for FBI assistance? The Cherokee Pointe Herald readers had a right to know, didn’t they? And hundreds of WMMK viewers had been calling the “Have Your Say” hotline since the morning of the first murder.

  Besides, he had a burning need to find out everything he could about the man who was interested in Genny. Having Pierpont as a rival was bad enough, but where Pierpont was merely a minor thorn in his side, Agent Sloan might prove to be real competition.

  Chapter 11

  While Jacob was out of the office tending to business earlier in the day, Dallas had made a phone call to Teri Nash. He’d given her an update on the second murder and asked her if Linc Hughes had finished with the profile he’d promised to compose from the information Dallas had given him on the murders in Mobile.

  “Fax me whatever Sheriff Butler will share with you and I’ll get it to Linc and he can compare the murders in Mobile to the ones in Cherokee Pointe,” Teri had told him. “Rutherford’s got him working night and day on another case right now.”

  Rutherford had given Dallas about as much leeway as he was going to. The guy could be a real prick sometimes, a real stickler for rules and regulations. Rutherford had given him a couple of verbal reprimands and threatened him with suspension for a few weeks or even months. Dallas figured that he’d have to take a leave of absence to avoid getting suspended.

  Although they would have to be careful not to risk their jobs, Dallas knew Teri and Linc wouldn’t let him down. They understood how much finding this killer meant to him personally—and they also realized that if he was right about Brooke’s murderer being a serial killer, other women’s lives could depend on narrowing down the suspects with a top-notch profile done by an FBI expert. But with only a handful of profilers on staff, the Bureau kept them busy all the time.

  Because none of the local or state law enforcement agencies in Alabama, Texas, South Carolina, or Louisiana had requested federal help, the FBI hadn’t been involved in the four other cases where a series of five sacrificial murders had been committed. The Bureau seldom looked into cases involving a lone criminal. If the killer had continued murdering women in the same area and the crimes had been suspected as the work of a serial killer, there was no doubt that the locals would have looked to the Feds for help. The fact that there were similarities in the four sets of murders in various southern states came to light only because Dallas had started digging for information.

  Teri had been the one who’d helped him comb the files collected by the UCR—the Uniform Crime Reporting Program—for the information about reported homicides that had anything relevant in common with Brooke’s murder. And when they’d found those cases, Dallas had made phone calls to each local law enforcement authority to request all the information they had on each case. As late as the day he’d left D.C., more documents arrived from the similar case prior to Mobile, in Hilton Head, South Carolina.

  Dallas had also made another call while Jacob had been gone—to the FBI field office in Knoxville. Chet Morris, who headed up the office as the special agent in charge, was an old friend and had agreed to cooperate with Sheriff Butler by using the FBI’s labs to conduct examinations of evidence. All Dallas had to do was get Butler to put in a call to Chet.

  Jacob entered his office, where Dallas sat behind his desk studying every tidbit of information on the two Cherokee Pointe murders. When Dallas glanced up, Jacob nodded as he shucked off his coat and removed his hat, then hung them on the rack in the corner.

  “Sorry about being gone so long, but I’ve been following every lead, responding personally to every phone call about anything suspicious.” Jacob headed for the coffeemaker on the small table braced against the side wall. “Half a dozen people are convinced that the animal sacrifices we had back before Christmas are somehow connected to Cindy’s and Susie’s murders.”

  Dallas rose from the chair and rounded the desk to join Jacob at the coffeemaker. He’d been so busy studying the files that he hadn’t even stopped for lunch.

  “What do you think? Is there a connection?” Dallas asked.

  “I don’t know what to think, but if you’re asking me what my gut instincts tell me, I’d say there probably isn’t a connection.”

  “I tend to agree. Animal sacrifices aren’t all that uncommon, but human sacrifices are.”

  Jacob poured coffee into a clean mug and handed it to Dallas, who said, “Thanks,” then asked “Were there any reports about animal sacrifices prior to the human sacrifices in any of the other cases? In the series of murders in Mobile?”

  Dallas shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Did you talk to your people at the Bureau today?”

  “No profile on my killer. Not yet. But soon.”

  Jacob eased his hips down on the edge of his desk and lifted the orange UT mug to his lips. He took a couple of sips, then set the mug on his desk. “I’m going to be totally honest with you—I think I’m not experienced enough to handle this case properly, and it doesn’t help that our chief of police is a numbskull. I’m considering asking for some help.”

  “Call Chet Morris at the Knoxville field office and ask for some official assistance from the Bureau so that your department can have access to all our resources. Chet’s an all-right kind of guy, and he’s not going to bellyache about my looking over your shoulder. And if you’re willing to let me, I’ll work with you in an unofficial capacity. I’ve got the law enforcement experience you lack.”

  “I need to talk to Roddy Watson first. The damn man is determined for us to handle these murders ourselves. He’s going to put up a fuss.”

  “You’ve got jurisdiction over the Susie Richards case. Call Chet about using the Bureau’s resources just for that case and you really won’t leave Watson a choice in the matter. And you might want to consider asking Chet to send some people here to join your task force.”

  “Yeah, it sounds like a good idea.” Jacob chuckled. “That’s damn sneaky, going behind Roddy’s back, but it’s probably the best way to handle him.”

  Dallas downed several large gulps of coffee, then set his cup on the floor. He dragged a chair up to the side of Jacob’s desk and picked up a notepad and pen.

  “Have you got time for us to compile that list of suspects now?”

  “You mean the list of newcomers to our area?”

  Dallas nodded.

  Jacob rubbed his chin. “To begin with, there’s Reverend and Mrs. Stowe over at the Congregational Church. They’ve been here only a few months. They came after old Reverend Thomas retired.”

  “Isn’t Reverend Stowe the one who found Cindy Todd’s body?”

  “That’s him.”

  “What’s the preacher’s first name?”

  “Haden,” Jacob replied. “And his wife is Esther.”

  Dallas printed the names on the notepad. “Who else?”

  “Dr. MacNair is new. Been here a couple of months. Galvin MacNair’s a general practitioner. His wife’s name is Nina.”

  Dallas added MacNair’s name to the list.

  “A minister and a doctor,” Jacob said. “Not exactly your criminal types.”

  “A serial killer can hide behind any facade,” Dallas told him. “I’ll see if Teri can check them out for us, or, if yo
u get Chet on the case soon, he can run a check on our suspects list. We need to find a man who moves around quite a bit or at least travels a lot.”

  “Jamie Upton.”

  “Who?”

  “Forget it.” Jacob finished off his coffee and walked across the room for another cup.

  “Why forget it? Who’s Jamie Upton?”

  “A spoiled brat who grew up to be a sorry bastard. He travels a lot. He comes back to Cherokee Pointe every so often. He just came back into town less than a week ago.”

  “Right before Susie Richards was murdered?”

  “Yeah, about that time. But forget Jamie. His name just popped into my mind. I’m afraid I’m prejudiced where he’s concerned.”

  “I take it that along with Brian MacKinnon, this Jamie guy is high on your shit list.”

  The corners of Jacob’s mouth lifted ever so slightly. A hint of a smile. “Yeah, I have some issues with rich guys who think their money can buy them out of trouble or get them whatever they want.”

  Dallas jotted Jamie’s name down on his list.

  “If you’re adding Jamie’s name, you might as well add MacKinnon, too. He travels quite a bit. Wouldn’t hurt to check him out.”

  Dallas grinned as he wrote Brian MacKinnon on the list. “Who else has been living in Cherokee County six months or less, or travels a lot?”

  “Dillon Carson runs the little theater in town. He’s new, and a real ladies’ man. And there’s Genny’s friend, Royce Pierpont. The guy’s a wimp and a bit of a weirdo if you ask me, but Genny likes him. He owns an antique shop here in town. He hasn’t been here more than six months.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “I can’t think of anyone off the top of my head. Isn’t that list long enough? How many names do you have?”

  “Six.” Dallas quickly scanned the names. “It’s a place to start.”

  “Do you want to wait until I contact Chet Morris or do you want to ask your friend Teri to start the ball rolling with that list of names?”