Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2)

by Bob Avey

  As if fate were against them, a sound as unwanted as an early morning alarm dragged both of them back into the reality.

  It was the phone, and on the third ring the machine picked it up. The deep voice of Donegal’s chief of police blasted through the house. “This is Jed Washington. Be in my office first thing in the morning. We’ll talk about old Abraham Saucier.”

  Cyndi, blinking as she came out of her dream world, said, “No.”

  Elliot pulled her close again. “It’s all right. It’s just the phone.”

  She was silent for a moment, her face reflecting the puzzlement of one who has yet to shake off the cobwebs and fully realize the situation. Seconds later, she grinned. “You’re learning. You didn’t answer it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At 7:00 a.m. the next day, Elliot walked into Jed Washington’s office. Washington sat at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “You said you had something to show me.”

  The chief’s tone fell somewhere between sarcasm and irritation. Elliot placed Sullivan’s file on Washington’s desk and opened it, pointing to a name there.

  The chief glanced at the page. “Abraham Saucier?”

  He pronounced it Saucy Air.

  “So Shay,” Elliot corrected. “It’s French. I had a little chat with Franklin Taylor. He told me to ask you about old Saucier.”

  Washington’s stare hardened. “Franklin Taylor’s seen too many empty wine bottles, son. You should be careful, talking with people like that.”

  Elliot shook his head. He’d encountered enough crazies in his time to know one when he saw one, and he considered telling Washington that, but then it occurred to him that feigned incoherence was probably Franklin Taylor’s primary defense mechanism. “What is it with you, Chief Washington? Do we have a personality conflict or are you just generally hard to get along with?”

  Washington’s jaw twitched. “Nothing personal. I just don’t need no big-city cop telling me how to run my town.”

  “That’s not my intention,” Elliot said. “And maybe if you’d start acting like it was your town, I wouldn’t have to.”

  “What’s your interest in this Saucier?” He said it wrong again.

  “I’d like to question him, find out what he knows about the Stone family.”

  “What makes you think he knows anything?”

  Elliot tapped the file he’d placed in front of Washington. “Sullivan indicates here that Saucier had some connection with the family.”

  “Where did you get this file, anyway?”

  Elliot smiled. “I found it in Gary Sullivan’s Tulsa office.”

  The chief sat forward. Elliot finally had his attention.

  “Bible-based cults, disappearing families, and Satan worshipers. Jim Llewellyn had a fascination with that kind of stuff, Chief Washington. And your little town here would have been right up his alley. Too bad he never got the chance to pay it a visit.”

  The big cop swiveled his chair a fraction of an inch. “Who’s Llewellyn?”

  “The one who started all of this,” Elliot said, “for me anyway.”

  “What did he have to do with the town of Donegal?”

  “Nothing, I suspect. He was a writer, following an interesting story he’d stumbled upon.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “It had to do with the Stone family. That’s why he wanted to talk to Sullivan. Now they’re both dead. Kind of strange, don’t you think?”

  Chief Washington nodded. The expression on his face was that of someone who’d swallowed bitter medicine. “Tell me something, Detective Elliot. Have you ever had a pet?”

  The question jolted him back to the small town of Porter, Oklahoma, and the house there where the walls were too close together and an inordinate amount of adolescent time had been spent, completely alone.

  “No, sir.”

  Elliot’s reply seemed to him conditioned, like that of a child answering a parent, and he wondered if the words had rolled off his tongue as an extension of his own humility. As Franklin Taylor’s had done.

  “I got close once, but a neighbor rescued me. Are you going somewhere with this?”

  “People get attached to pets,” Chief Washington continued, “start treating them like family, get a little upset when they don’t show up for dinner.” He paused and shook his head. “If they miss breakfast the next day, I’ve got a real problem on my hands.”

  “You take pets rather seriously in Donegal.”

  “Something happens around here, rumors get started. It’s good business to act quickly.”

  “I wonder what kind of rumors got started over the Stone family.”

  Washington rubbed his jaw. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions.”

  A trapped look came over Chief Washington’s face. “What do you know about alternative religions, Detective Elliot?” Thankfully, he seemed to have lost interest in Donegal’s missing pets.

  “Funny you should ask. The concept keeps popping up in my investigation.”

  “Just south of town,” Washington said, “the elevation drops and goes on like that for several miles. The area is populated by an enclave of people who claim to be descendants of Irish immigrants who settled there about a hundred years ago. They’re all members of the church, but they still practice the old religion. We call it pagan.” He paused and then added, “Before we go any further, though, let me say this. I’ve watched those people, studied them for years, and I’ve never seen them do anything wrong, and that includes sacrificing animals.”

  Ah. “Good to know. How about people?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “I didn’t intend it to be.”

  The big cop looked at his watch. “There’s other talk about town concerning the fate of that family. Some folks claim it was the boy, that he went crazy one night and . . . well, you get the picture.”

  “When did this happen?” Elliot asked.

  “About fifteen years ago.”

  Elliot thought about the file Gary Sullivan had kept and the words he’d used to describe one of the children, Justin he presumed—sociopath, dangerous—and a sick realization crawled over him. The Stone family had disappeared about the same time as Howard and Maud Wistrom found the answer to their prayers in the form of a boy who was wandering alone in a Tulsa park. They had taken him in and raised them as if he were their own. They called him Douglass.

  “I’ve been planning on paying a visit to the valley.” Washington heaved himself up and retrieved his coat from a rack beside the door. “You can ride along if you want.”

  Washington kept his patrol car, a white Chevrolet Caprice with tan upholstery, in a small lot behind the municipal building that housed his office. Elliot climbed into the passenger side, and as soon as he fastened his seat belt, Washington pulled into a narrow alley that ran behind the building then turned onto Main Street.

  A few miles later, they began winding the car down a hill. Elliot realized that, had he followed the waitress’s directions when he’d come looking for the abandoned houses and gone through town instead of following the back route, he would have driven past the area known by the locals as the valley, but not through it. This section of Donegal was fenced off. An uneasy feeling churned in Elliot’s stomach as Washington pulled up to the entrance. The chief stuck a white card into the reader, and when the gate swung open, he guided the patrol car onto a shiny blacktopped road.

  Elliot had imagined an area of cottages like those he’d seen in pictures of Ireland, with thick thatched roofs and smoke curling from the chimneys, and wrinkled old ladies stirring boiling cauldrons. But what he saw was a modern subdivision, a gated community of brick houses with two- and three-car garages.

  Washington brought the car to a stop on the street in front of an imposing house with colonial-style columns. He shut the car off and climbed out. Elliot followed him. He suspected they were destined for a meeting inside the house, but Washington did not go toward it. He
simply stood beside the car. When a black Mercedes pulled up behind them, Elliot began to understand. Seconds later, several men dressed in business suits got out of the Mercedes—Elliot counted five—and formed a semicircle around Elliot and the chief.

  A big man who knows how to effectively use his size is a dangerous opponent. Elliot suspected Jed Washington fell into that category. He towered above the welcoming committee, his big fist resting on the handle of the .38 strapped to his side. “Morning, gentlemen.”

  One of the men, a slender fellow dressed in what looked like an Armani suit, spoke. “What’s this all about, Jed?”

  Washington shifted his weight forward. “You remember Ms. Thompson, runs the Laundromat over on Third? She can’t find her Shih Tzu. Same kind of thing’s happening all over town.”

  The man straightened his lapels. “I’m surprised at you, Jed. We’ve been through this before. We don’t sacrifice pets in the valley. That’s not what this group is about.”

  Washington stepped forward, breaking through the line, disrupting the rank and file of the micro-army.

  Elliot remained where he was, leaning against the squad car with his arms folded across his chest.

  “There’s more than a few dead pigs out there who might disagree with that,” Washington said. “What do you call it, feast of the boar flesh, sacrifice to the winter solstice?” He shook his head. “I don’t know, Brian. Laying your hands on a pig and asking it to forgive you of your sins just before you slaughter it sounds a little weird to me.”

  Elliot didn’t move from the car, but kept his position, telling himself to get ready. If Washington was trying to provoke the man, that should have done the trick.

  But if the man was shaken by Washington’s statement, he didn’t show it. He simply shook his head. “Have you ever eaten ham for Christmas, Chief Washington? The Yule feast, which you clearly don’t understand, is where that tradition comes from. And it’s been going on for a long time, years before Christianity made its debut.” He paused and nodded in Elliot’s direction. “Who’s your friend here? Did you decide you needed reinforcement?”

  “Name’s Elliot,” Elliot said. “Tulsa Police Department.”

  That got the man’s attention. He turned toward Elliot. After a brief moment of contemplation he said, “I’ve heard about your investigation. And if you think the pagan community had anything to do with those murders in your city, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “Sorry,” Elliot said, “but I didn’t catch your name.”

  The man glanced around, as if he couldn’t believe someone would address him in such a manner. “McKenna,” he said. “Brian McKenna.”

  “Thank you,” Elliot said. “And if I decide to bark up your tree, Mr. McKenna, you will definitely know about it.”

  McKenna stared at Elliot briefly, then turned to Chief Washington. “Feisty one, isn’t he?”

  Chief Washington shrugged.

  “The Tulsa Police Department,” McKenna said. “Something tells me there’s a little more to this visit than missing animals. So why don’t we just cut to the chase? What is it, gentlemen? Why are you here?”

  “We’re looking for someone,” Washington said. “Heard he lived around here. Thought you might be able to help us out.”

  “Did you now? Well that depends on who it is, doesn’t it?”

  “His name is Abraham Saucier.”

  Brian McKenna wore sunglasses, but Elliot could almost see his eyes widening behind them. McKenna knew Saucier. “What do you want with him?”

  “My investigation has led me in his direction,” Elliot said.

  McKenna took a while to reply. His demeanor had changed, not quite as cocky as before. “Well I hate to dampen your enthusiasm, gentlemen, but Mr. Saucier doesn’t live in this community.”

  “Well, where does he live?” Washington asked.

  “What makes you think I know?”

  “Small town like Donegal, someone who grew up here, someone like you, ought to know just about everybody.”

  “You’ve got me there, Chief. But I doubt the old relic could have anything to do with murder, especially in Tulsa.”

  “Why do you say that?” Elliot asked.

  “Saucier is an old man, Detective. He doesn’t get around very well.” He paused, then said, “Go back through the gate and turn right. About a mile up the road, you’ll see a white house that sits deep on the lot, up near the tree line. That’s Saucier’s place. But don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk to you. The way I understand it, the old fellow hasn’t spoken to anyone in years.”

  “Thanks,” Elliot said. “We appreciate the information.”

  Elliot and Washington got back in the squad car and left the uncomfortable atmosphere of the gated community, heading for Saucier’s place. It was right where McKenna said it would be.

  In a sort of valley of its own, the old house existed at an elevation much lower than that of the road, and as Washington guided the patrol car onto a drive that was nothing more than a winding path of beaten earth, a trickle of sweat ran from Elliot’s armpit and down his side. As soon as the wheels of the car rolled onto the property, a wave of heat came over him, as if he’d suddenly contracted an infection that left him riddled with fever.

  He’d experienced the feeling before. He knew what it meant, could almost see the presence of the black cloud shrouding Saucier’s place. A shudder racked him. Something here was profoundly not-right.

  Washington stopped the car and turned off the ignition, and when he got out, the driver’s side of the vehicle rose a good six inches and all but sighed with relief.

  Elliot unfastened the seat belt and swung the passenger-side door open, then climbed out as well.

  Chief Washington pulled a cowboy hat from the backseat of the car and positioned it on his head. It was the first time Elliot had seen him wear the hat, and as he watched Washington visually survey the area, he began to suspect that the chief was a little on edge too.

  “Certainly is quiet,” Elliot said.

  “Yeah. Maybe nobody’s home.”

  “I don’t see any cars.”

  “Maybe Saucier doesn’t drive.”

  “Maybe.”

  Washington put his hands on his hips, still standing beside the patrol car, as Elliot was. Neither of them seemed eager to approach the house. Its beige paint made it seem like a thing crouching, ready to spring from its hiding place in the dust.

  Elliot knew from experience that it wasn’t always a good idea to verbalize his feelings, especially when they leaned toward premonitory, but he felt obligated to say something. “Do you think we should honk the horn a couple of times, let the guy know we’re here?”

  Elliot studied the house, paying particular attention to the door and the windows, wondering if Saucier was inside, pinning them down in the sights of a high-powered rifle. “I wouldn’t want the man to start shooting at us or anything.”

  Washington opened the car door and leaned on the horn a few times.

  No response, not even the twitch of a curtain.

  Washington closed the car door and started toward the house.

  Elliot fell in behind him. Seconds later, they stood on the front porch, where Chief Washington searched for a bell. When he didn’t find one, he opened the screen and rapped his knuckles against the front door.

  The door swung open under the pressure of the knock. Elliot stepped back, instinctively sliding his hand around the handle of the Glock holstered beneath his jacket.

  Washington glanced at him. “A little jumpy, aren’t you?”

  “My nerves have been screaming at me since we drove onto the property. Something’s wrong here, Chief.”

  The chief poked his head inside the door and shouted, “Mr. Saucier. You in there? This is Police Chief Jed Washington. I need to talk to you.”

  There was no response. Elliot wasn’t surprised.

  Washington tried again, then he turned to Elliot and shook his head.

  They st
arted back toward the car, but about halfway there Elliot stopped and looked back. Beyond the house, the doors to the barn were open. “Wait a minute.” He gestured toward the outbuilding. “Maybe he’s back there.”

  Washington paused and rubbed his chin. “He should have heard the horn blaring. I guess we ought to check it out, though.”

  The barn, not the typical faded red variety but one that’d been painted beige to match the house, sat about two hundred feet behind the living quarters, and as Elliot closed in on the structure a fetid odor, one that reminded him of an unattended campground toilet, invaded his senses. At the apex of the roof, an iron pole, which perhaps a weather vane had been attached to at one time, jutted into the air. Above the front entrance, a utility light glowed, though there was no darkness for it to dispel.

  At some point, Elliot wondered why no stray dogs roamed the area, attracted by the malevolent odor, but then he remembered the missing pets, and he fancied that the animals stayed away, having been warned to avoid the area where so many of their brethren had vanished.

  A set of sagging double doors led into the barn. There were no windows, and the inside lights had been doused, which left the interior dark except for a swatch of sunlight that spilled through the front entrance.

  Glancing at Washington, Elliot continued forward, unable to rid his thoughts of the image of someone waiting inside, brandishing a wheat scythe with which to slice their throats.

  When they reached the area just before the entrance, Washington stuck out his arm, but Elliot had already ascertained the need for caution. And then, as if to substantiate his fears, he saw that someone was waiting for them. In the shadows, a pair of legs protruded from the edges of the darkness.

  Washington had seen it too. He cleared his throat. “That you, Saucier?”

  No response.

  Chief Washington frowned, his right hand clutching the handle of his .38. “Are you in there?”