by Dan Padavona
Harpy: Wait, did you see the body? How close to the lake do you live?
Scout hesitated. She’d already told the girl she lived in Wolf Lake. Harpy had helped solve two crimes already. She had a talent for ferreting out information. No sense hiding the truth when Harpy would figure it out.
Scout: Like right on the lake.
Harpy: Jeezus. Don’t tell me you saw the dead woman.
Scout: No way. Nothing like that. Besides, my mom was with me when the sheriff’s department arrived.
Harpy: Wow. So you live in the village. Who did this? You must have a suspect or two.
A moment passed before Scout replied.
Harpy: You still there?
Scout: Yeah. I don’t know who would do something like this. I need to play the video first.
Harpy: Oh. You haven’t played it yet? OMG it’s disgusting. It will literally give you nightmares. Go watch the video and tell me what you think. There has to be a clue that we can use to catch him.
Scout: Checking it out now. Talk to you soon. Bye!
Harpy: Hugs.
Scout clicked on the thread and bit her lip. This was crazy. She was about to watch a woman die, the same woman who washed up on the Kimble’s shore. What was poor Mrs. Kimble going through? The killer cut the victim’s head off, and Kimble found the remains.
After a quick scan of the messages, Scout found the video link. She moved the mouse over the link and hesitated. By now, the hosting site must have removed the footage. A part of her prayed the video had disappeared. But it was still there.
She clicked the link and turned her head away. Her eyes drifted to the screen. What she saw would give her nightmares for the rest of her life. When the psychopath finished strangling the woman, he put a knife to her throat. When the blade swept from left to right, Scout turned the monitor off and breathed. Her heart thumped, and her stomach flopped. The speakers remained on. The horrible death sounds continued, her imagination filling in the blanks.
When the video ended, she turned the monitor on and stared at her trembling hands. Perhaps it was smarter to let Harpy and the others solve this crime.
Except the killer dumped the body on her doorstep. Until the authorities caught the madman, Scout and her mother would be in danger. Her father once told her, the best defense is a good offense. He’d been talking about sports, but it seemed à propos. She needed to go after this guy and catch him before he hurt someone else.
Copying the killer’s profile name, she wrote Max Cady on her notebook. The name didn’t mean anything to her. She moved the video to the beginning and clicked the playback icon. This time she concentrated on the surroundings. It was a good excuse not to glare at the horror unfolding. They were inside a vehicle. The windows were rolled up, and the engine was off. She increased the volume. Gagging sounds filled the bedroom. Pausing the video, Scout switched to headphones so Mom wouldn’t overhear. She willed herself to block out the death noises and concentrated on the ambient sounds.
Spring had been too cold for the crickets to emerge. Dead silence wrapped around the vehicle as though it conspired with the madman. Scout stopped the video and narrowed her eyes. Though the killer aimed the camera at the passenger seat, the picture passed over the dashboard, which had an unusual wavy shape. Not much to go on, but it was a start.
Scout captured an image and saved it to a private folder. Then she opened the picture in Photoshop, boosted the exposure, and cleaned up the noise. Now she could see rear seating, ruling out pickup trucks. She searched for an item strewn on the seat, anything that might help her identify who this guy was. A knock on the door stopped her.
Scout minimized the browser and removed her headphones. She had just enough time to open her Spanish textbook before Mom walked in.
“Everything all right? I thought I heard you gagging.”
Scout copied a verb conjugation into her notebook.
“Sorry, I coughed.”
The corners of Mom’s eyes creased with worry.
“You aren’t sick, are you? We were up so late last night.”
“I’m okay. Just swallowed down the wrong pipe.”
“All right, if you’re sure you’re okay. Dinner’s on the table.”
The door closed, and Mom padded to the kitchen. When she was certain Mom wasn’t coming back, Scout opened the browser and clicked out of the video. Then she shut the computer down and pushed herself back from the monitor.
As she turned toward the door, a motor rattled her window. Scout pulled the curtain back as a black Chrysler Limited slowed to a crawl outside her house. Her skin prickled.
Murderers returned to the scenes of their crimes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Thomas parked his truck along the curb and shut off the engine. Through the passenger window, he stared at the contemporary four-bedroom home he’d grown up in. Poplar Hill Estates catered to the wealthy. A gate barred entry, and a security guard forced visitors to display identification before entering. The engine ticked. He lowered the visor as sunlight blasted through the windshield.
Two minutes until five. If he showed up a minute later, his parents would give him the death stare over dinner. After work, he rushed home and threw on khakis after showering. The navy blue polo would have to do. He wasn’t willing to indulge them with a button down and tie.
Thomas checked his hair in the mirror and brushed a lazy strand off his forehead. It hadn’t gone well at work. Nobody in Harmon spoke to Thomas and Aguilar. He often marveled at opposing gangs protecting each other, as though street rules took precedent over their war. He caught his fingers digging into his thighs. Was he anxious because he couldn’t track down LeVar Hopkins for questioning, despite the gang leader cruising through Wolf Lake like he owned the village? Or did he dread the forthcoming dinner?
He stepped from the truck and followed the concrete walkway toward the steps, counting each stride. It took fourteen strides to reach the stairs when he was a child, ten as a teenager. It took nine this time. He paused, shifted a few inches backward, and held his breath until he completed his tenth step.
The landscapers must have worked overtime. Deep green poured out of the lawn in July colors, and they’d trimmed the hedges to razor sharp perfection. He wiped his shoes on the mat, though they were clean. Old habits died hard. When he pressed the doorbell, chimes rang through the house like echoes through a canyon.
His mother opened the door. She wore a cashmere sweater, slacks, and heels that cost more than Thomas’s entire wardrobe. A pearl necklace draped to her chest.
“Thomas,” she said, eyeing the grandfather clock in the entryway. She shot him a frosty look. “You’re late.”
He wasn’t. His watch read five o’clock, but it wasn’t worth arguing.
“Good to see you again, Mother.”
Lindsey Shepherd ushered him inside. Her quick glare at his shoes confirmed she worried he’d track dirt into the home. He wasn’t ten-years-old and hadn’t spent the afternoon playing in the mud—another thought he kept to himself. He followed her down a long corridor to the dining room. His father sat at the far end of the table. Thomas swallowed. Mason Shepherd appeared twenty years older than when Thomas had last seen his father. Gray hair receded from his forehead and matching creases ran down each cheek. In Thomas’s mind, Mason stood half a foot taller. Maybe it was because his father slumped in a chair with financial statements spread across the table. He hadn’t noticed Thomas enter.
“Put the statements away, Mason,” Lindsey said, lifting her chin. “Our son is here.”
His father cleared his throat and glanced up. He clicked the papers together and slipped them into a leather portfolio, but he didn’t rise.
“Sit,” his father said, gesturing at the open chair kitty-corner to his. “You remember your old place at the table, I trust.”
“Yes, I remember. It hasn’t been that long.”
“How was the flight from California? Pleasant, I hope.”
“I drove my truck.
A 2017 Ford F-150.”
Lindsey put a hand to her chest, and Mason shook his head.
“Whatever for? The trip must have taken you five days.”
“Seven, actually. I took it slow and did a little sightseeing.”
Mason harrumphed.
“Nothing between California and New York except wasteland and manure.” Lindsey shot Mason a glare, and he changed the subject. “I understand you purchased Truman’s old home. Quaint little place. Personally, I wouldn’t pay a penny were it not for the lake frontage. Would you consider building a new home on the property? I know a builder who’d give you a deal.”
“I’m happy with Uncle Truman’s house. Remember I watched him build it from the ground up.”
“I don’t recall.” That was a lie. “The important thing is you’re back in Wolf Lake, Thomas. Family should stay together, don’t you agree?”
“Always.”
Lindsey moved between the kitchen and dining room as Mason expounded on the tremendous quarter for Shepherd Systems. His father owned a project management, accounting, and collaboration software firm. As Mason loved to explain, he created the concept while studying business and marketing at Union. The personal computer was novel to most homes then, and no one had conceived of the internet. But Mason Shepherd envisioned a future where the largest companies in the world used his software to improve performance and drive profits.
When Lindsey set the filet mignon on the table, Thomas wrinkled his nose. His mother knew her way around the kitchen, but he couldn’t recall the last time she cooked. Trina took care of the meals. Thomas wondered where the cook was today.
His mouth watered at the first bite. Lindsey hadn’t lost her touch. But each clink of fork on plate grated on Thomas as he waited for the inevitable. They hadn’t brought him here to welcome their only child back to Wolf Lake. An ulterior motive always existed.
He sipped from a Finger Lakes Chardonnay and enjoyed the silence. As a rule, his parents didn’t speak during meals. Crème brûlée followed the main course. If Lindsey and Mason intended to butter Thomas up before they cornered him, they were doing a helluva job. Afterward, Thomas stood.
“Let me do the dishes, Mother.”
“Nonsense. Sit with your father. You have so much to catch up on.”
Mason blanched. It seemed his father was just as uncomfortable speaking with Thomas.
“So, Thomas.” Mason’s fingers laced together. “Did you sign a contract with the county?”
“A contract, sir?”
“How long are you tied into the deputy position? Send me a copy of the agreement, and I’ll have the lawyers look it over.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mason set his elbows on the table.
“You don’t mean to work as a county deputy for the rest of your life, do you?”
“I filled out an application and interviewed. This job is important to me.”
“Thomas.” Mason closed his eyes for a composing moment. “You’re a smart boy. Apply your talents toward worthy endeavors. Challenge yourself.”
“My degree is in criminology. I’m doing exactly what I prepared myself for.”
Mason pulled the portfolio from beside his chair and opened it. He removed four sheets of paper, one with a colorful bar graph depicting rising profits over a five-year period, the other three comprising balance sheets, a cash flow analysis, and growth prospects for the next ten years.
“Shepherd Systems completed its strongest fiscal year last quarter,” Mason said as Thomas flipped from one page to the next. Was he gloating, or shaming Thomas for settling for less? “And the next decade will make last year look like a drop in the pond.”
“It seems you have the company firing on all cylinders, Father. Congratulations.”
He passed the papers to Mason. Mason blocked his hand and pushed the papers back.
“Those are for you.”
“I’ve already memorized the figures. I don’t need to keep—”
“Thomas, I won’t beat around the bush. Tomorrow, you’ll announce your retirement and tell Sheriff Gray you made a mistake.”
“That’s preposterous. Why would I do such a thing?”
“Let me finish,” Mason said, raising a hand. “I’m bringing you aboard at Shepherd Systems.”
Thomas wrapped his feet around the chair legs to keep still. He ran a hand through his hair and glared at the documents. So this was the reason his parents invited him to dinner. To insult his career choice and strong-arm him into joining the family business.
“ This isn’t my area of expertise. I didn’t study business and marketing.”
“You should have. You have a mind for it, and you’re a Shepherd. I can’t think of one good reason you refused to attend Union like your mother and me. You settled, Thomas, and as your father, I can no longer sit by while you compromise. Time is running out.”
Lindsey emerged from the kitchen, her hands wringing at her hips.
“You shouldn’t have asked me to dinner.” Thomas pushed his chair back. “Must you always have an angle?”
“Sit down.”
“No, thank you.”
“This isn’t an entry level position. You’d come on as Chief Operations Officer, starting salary a quarter of a million dollars.”
Thomas wavered on his feet. This was insane.
“I’m not qualified to be your COO. Find a worthy candidate.”
Mason threw his chair back and slapped the table.
“No! It must be you.”
Thomas glanced between Lindsey and Mason. His mother raised a hand to her mouth. Her eyes glistened.
“Thomas, please listen to your father,” Lindsey said, swiping at a tear.
Sinking into his chair, Thomas felt the stately home shrink. The vaulted ceiling lowered, and the faraway walls surrounding the open floor design converged.
“I’m dying, Thomas.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The sun’s dying embers burned on the horizon as twilight pushed across the sky. Thomas pulled the pickup into his driveway and sat with the engine off and his hands gripping the steering wheel.
Dying.
His father had lung cancer, which seemed inexplicable. He never smoked a day in his life and avoided smokers as though they spread the black plague. Now he understood his father’s offer. The COO position would be temporary. Thomas would take over the company after Mason passed, and the Shepherd empire would be his.
He removed his hands from the wheel and covered his face. This wasn’t real. He’d wake up from the nightmare and go about his day. The truck made an electronic whir when the battery shut down. Taking that as his cue to leave, he climbed down from the truck and crossed the lawn toward the front deck. Scout sat on her front lawn. He hadn’t noticed the girl when he drove in, too consumed with the news.
She raised a hesitant hand, and he waved back.
“Good evening, Deputy Shepherd.”
Thomas swallowed the lump in his throat.
“Hello, Scout. Aren’t you cold sitting out here by yourself?”
The temperature had dropped ten degrees in the last hour. A thick frost would cover the lawn by morning.
“May I talk to you?”
He leaned closer.
“Is everything okay? Your mom all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas strode to Scout. The girl wore the same bulky winter jacket he’d seen her in when Mrs. Kimble discovered Erika Windrow’s remains. He assumed it was Erika Windrow. The ME hadn’t got back to Sheriff Gray yet.
“Would you like to take a walk?” he suggested.
Scout nodded.
He pushed the wheelchair through the grass until they reached the shoulder. The soggy April fed the lawn and encouraged the grass to grow past his shins. This weekend he’d mow the Mourning’s yard. This was too much for Naomi to handle, considering she had her hands full with Scout.
The windless night seemed secretive. Stars burned through
the building twilight, and the night held the crispness of midwinter. He shivered as they walked, but Scout seemed warm enough dressed in thick layers.
“Scout, if you want to talk about last night, I’m here for you. It’s all right to be scared. But it’s important you understand I live next door, I’m monitoring the house, and I won’t let anything happen to you or your mother.”
Water sloshed against the southern shore of Wolf Lake in hushed whispers. Full dark loomed on the horizon, but they had enough light to move down the lake road. Scout remained quiet. She held something back. Thomas could see it in her tight grimace.
“Deputy Shepherd, is it true criminals return to crime scenes? Or is that just a cliché from movies and television programs?”
He tilted his head in thought. Scout wouldn’t ask unless she believed the killer would come back.
“That’s an unexpected question. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?”
“I would never laugh at you.”
And he wouldn’t. He recalled his anger and frustration when classmates laughed at him.
She paused in consideration. Her hands tightened on the chair arms.
“I’m an amateur sleuth.”
Thomas stroked his chin. He’d read about amateurs solving crimes on the internet, but never took the concept seriously. After a story surfaced about online amateur detectives uncovering evidence which led to a serial killer’s capture last year, his interest grew. Still, he had a hard time accepting amateur sleuthing as serious crime solving.
“So you look into cold cases and ongoing investigations, and send your theories to the police.”
Her hands fell into her lap and she glanced down.
“I never found evidence worth sending to the police, but my friends have.”
“What does this have to do with what happened last night?” A cold thought occurred to Thomas. “Scout, you didn’t download the video, did you?”
Her silence spoke volumes. A shiver rolled down her neck.
“It’s all over the internet.”