A Cold, Fine Evil

by A. C. Alexander

  “I’m worried about him.” The beer wasn’t quite cold enough but still tasted pretty good. Maybe it would help her relax a little. “He doesn’t sleep much, he drinks too much, and the solitude doesn’t help.” She added, “But he isn’t crazy, George. I’ve heard and seen some things that can’t be explained, too. I’ve seen Larimer Hanson twice and I saw Jon kill him years ago.”

  That revelation did not make George happy. “You were there?”

  “Hiding in the barn. He was following me. I saw you, too, when you both carried out the body.”

  “Well, shit.” That absolutely didn’t make him happy. He downed about half of the can in his hand.

  “Look, if I haven’t said anything before now, I think you can safely assume I’m not going to.”

  “Oh, I’m just happy as a clam that now two people could put my ass in jail. Forgive me for not dancing with joy. I was still basically a kid, and I had no idea Jon was going to kill him. I also thought Larimer was an asshole, so I didn’t cry buckets over what happened and Jon is my friend. I had to help him. That’s not my favorite high school memory.”

  “I just told you the man had followed me. Try walking back to your car in the pitch dark, alone and shaking, after being chased by a serial killer and witnessing the valedictorian of your class kill him with a shovel.”

  George briefly shut his eyes. “Okay, you win. It happened. Let’s move on. You’re still alive, and I am not serving time in prison for being an accessory to murder, concealing evidence, and probably fifteen other counts I don’t know about. Why are you here, Alicia?”

  “We both know Troy really wants to arrest Jon.”

  “I can’t argue that.”

  “Do you think it is possible Larimer wasn’t dead when you buried him? Neither time I saw him could it have been Jon. The first time Jon was sleeping next to me, and the second, the man was the wrong height and weight.”

  George sighed heavily. “It’s possible. There was no body when we went to look.”

  “It doesn’t explain everything. I’ve heard children laughing in the woods and Jon was right next to me then, too, so it sure wasn’t him. He told me he’d heard it before along with an extremely disturbing story I hope someday I’ll forget.”

  “The multiple drowning and suicide.” George took a slurp of beer. “I know. I wondered when he rented that cabin if he realized it had happened right there. There’s a reason it is leased out by a company that manages rentals. The owners are pretty uninterested in staying there. I’ve heard that you can sometimes hear the children splashing in the water.”

  She could have gone her whole life without knowing that horrific detail. “He offered to take me away from Black Lake, but I’m not sure he meant it. He left once, and then he was drawn back.”

  “No one is as tied to Black Lake as Jon Palmer,” George said and polished off his beer. “I need another one. You?”

  Chapter 21

  The woods are dark and can keep secrets. I learned that early and never forgot it. The leaves crunch and the narcotic scent of decay hangs in the air, but there’s no silence like the one under those spreading pines and birches and they won’t tell.

  I found comfort there.

  The crossed branches eerily brushing each other as the wind gusted, the dark sounds, the deer paths…those deep shadows.

  I roamed and I haunted those quiet pathways as a child, a spirit born of darkness, my soul looking for solace.

  I never found it.

  That says it all.

  Troy had to make funeral arrangements.

  It was a surreal moment to walk in and have to sit down. He wouldn’t care to relive it. It was wrong to be investigating his wife’s murder and having to do that also.

  He walked out the door sweating.

  What he needed was a drink.

  “No, you don’t.” George was standing there on the sidewalk, waiting by his car. “Let’s go have coffee. No booze.”

  “What? You a mind reader now?” That drink beckoned and Troy was pissed, he was damaged and angry and there were a thousand other emotions swimming around.

  In a way only he could pull off, George shook his head. “This isn’t clairvoyance or science. Your wife was murdered, and you are an alcoholic. You are going to want some booze. I want some myself, but for you I’m willing to have vanilla biscotti latte with a splash of caramel. We’ll go for coffee. Come on, Troy, that couldn’t have been easy.”

  It had been pure fucking hell.

  What he wanted was to break down. To splinter in two, to fracture, to die not just inside but in a literal sense. “She wanted a baby. I didn’t give her one.”

  What that had to do with her murder he wasn’t sure, but it mattered to him. George didn’t know how to respond either, his posture reflecting discomfort. He finally came up with, “There are some things that are decided for us.”

  “I can’t get it out of my head Palmer is involved.”

  “You and Jon just go back too far.”

  Very rarely did he want to punch George because that wouldn’t be a fair fight, but he wanted to at the moment. “I can’t talk about Amy now.”

  At least his cousin got that. “So we won’t talk about her.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  They drove to the local café, as usual Troy wondering if his cousin was entirely sober, guessing he wasn’t, and giving it up.

  Once they were seated, he ordered black coffee, no cream or sugar, and George, who couldn’t afford the indulgence, asked for everything as far as he could tell, pushing the issue of his dicey heart aside. Cream, sugar, the works.

  He’d concern himself with it more, but not today.

  Amy was dead.

  He hadn’t seen the body, of course. Detectives and deputies had handled the scene and she was still in the morgue, two counties away because Black Lake didn’t have a medical examiner. He’d read the report but the image of the Gibbons murder gave him a fair idea of what probably happened if it was the same killer and that seemed likely.

  The Murray farm.

  It was circumstantial, but Jon Palmer had those two books written about Murray in his cabin. He’d known Amy, he’d found her bloody car near his cabin. The case was building enough that once they had a time of death, if he couldn’t produce a decent alibi, it might be possible to at least bring him in for questioning.

  That bloody shirt had gone nowhere. It wasn’t the blood of the Gibbons woman, but for all they knew, there was another body out there decaying the woods. Maybe someone who lived alone and hadn’t been reported missing yet. A motorist passing through who’d been followed and abducted…there were a lot of possibilities. Forensics had been able to determine the garment was a brand sold in only expensive shops, so that fit Palmer, and there was one in Chicago, but also in New York, LA, Aspen, Palm Springs…it was worthless as evidence as things stood.

  “You going to drink that?” George pointed at the mug that had arrived without Troy even noticing it. “I enjoy iced coffee myself, but black coffee that has gone cold from just sitting there doesn’t sound too great.”

  “I was just thinking about Palmer.”

  George lifted his brows. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about Amy.”

  “We aren’t. We’re talking about Jon Palmer.” Just to make an effort at normalcy, Troy picked up his coffee and took a drink. It did taste bad. “I just need one shred of physical evidence. A fiber, a hair, the murder weapon, something. He’s always been such a good looking guy. He’ll be popular in prison.”

  George sounded exasperated. “Jesus, Troy. I can’t even imagine the emotional trauma you’re trying to work through right now, but fixating on Jon isn’t healthy. All this baggage you’re carting around exists, you can take it out and look at it, but there’s someone out there killing women and it’s your job, and I suspect now, your mission, to find them before someone else gets hurt. Trying desperately to prove it’s the person you want it to be is counterproductive. If you h
ad any real evidence, you’d have slapped him in handcuffs and hauled him in already. What do you have?”

  “He had two books about William Murray in his cabin—”

  “So? He’s from here.”

  “It’s suspicious.”

  “Then we should all be under suspicion. I own those same books. Are you even listening to me?” George leaned on his elbows on the table. “I didn’t ask what you had on Jon. What do you have? I might not be the best professor on the face of the planet, but I’m a pretty good psychologist. Maybe I can help paint a profile of the type of person you are looking for. Jon might fit, or he might not. Let’s work that angle. I’m sitting right here and maybe am not a profiler for the FBI or anything, but I’ve certainly read books on the subject. Go for it. I’m here having coffee with you because I knew you’d walk out of the funeral home and want a drink. True?”

  He had a point. It was just his world was splintered into tiny little bits and Troy was much better at action than contemplation. Amy’s parents were at the house right now, going through her clothes…he couldn’t face them, they were as shell-shocked as he was…

  “I think the victims are very taken off guard,” he said, trying to distance himself and think logically. “Gibbons had no defensive wounds. I asked. Neither did Amy.”

  “So possibly someone they knew or an authority figure they would trust? Like a police officer.”

  Troy stared hard at his cousin. “Did you really just say that?”

  George looked unrepentant. “I’m trying to give you a reality check. Amy was about to leave you. I don’t have the slightest idea how many people knew that, but your single-minded quest to pin this on Jon doesn’t look good, Troy. Yes, I’m his friend, but do I think he’s capable of murder? We all are on some level. Not a valid question. That said, I can’t think of a single reason he would have to kill Amy. But you have one. I’d love to hear the statistics on how often when a woman is killed, it’s by a jealous husband. Listen to me. You should stop acting like one.”

  * * * *

  Maybe he’d done more harm than good.

  George brushed several wet leaves off his windshield and got into his car.

  Troy was tattered at the edges, more skewed than he knew probably, and George had been trying to help out. People handled stress in varying degrees. Amy was the love of his cousin’s life.

  Was.

  Operative word.

  The sooner he started to cope, the better. Clinical studies said that patients who avoided the reality responded to treatment much slower. Troy had been on runaway, downhill skis since the day he’d met his future wife. George had never been in love like that, not even close. The war over Amy had been so ongoing, he couldn’t really name the beginning or even now, the end. Not that Jon even knew it was going on. This was a one-man war, Troy fighting it alone. George had to admit maybe it was better to just be a bachelor and not participate.

  He was a scholar, not a warrior. That had been determined long ago. Not by him necessarily, but by a hierarchy he’d struggled his whole life to understand.

  Troy was a warrior. Jon was his enemy. George was one who studied how they interacted. The observer. That was him. Never really participating.

  He’d told the truth, though, Jon was certainly capable of murder; he’d done it before. But he had a reason to kill Larimer. A very good reason.

  Alicia Hahn was in real danger.

  Sleeping with Jon just wasn’t a good idea other than obviously she got off on it, but loving Jon Palmer was an invitation for pure destruction. Even if there wasn’t someone out there murdering women, Jon was so fucked up mentally that the best a woman could hope for probably was a good lay. Emotionally, he was just out of reach. Maybe back in high school when he and Amy were first together, that sweet romance was fairly normal, but even then the shadows were there, gathering, whispering to each other.

  Larimer had been one of those watchful shadows.

  He realized he was just sitting there and started the vehicle. Coffee had been fine, but sure wasn’t his preferred beverage and he needed to stock up on beer. He drove to the liquor store, wondered how often the good people of Black Lake saw his car in the parking lot and remarked on it, decided he didn’t care in the least, and went inside. He’d gone in to teach a late class now and then with alcohol on his breath, but generally was sober at work. He’d like to see them hire a better professor for what they were paying him, and he suspected the administration got that as well.

  Alicia was on her stool behind the counter and she gave him a subdued smile. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He went over and took out a cold six pack of Bud, and then picked up a twelve for the refrigerator in his little den. His plans for tomorrow were to watch college football pretty much all day.

  He paid in cash, like he always did, admired her breasts even through a baggy Vikings sweatshirt, and asked for a favor. “Would you mind calling me if Troy comes in here? I’m telling you he’s thinking about it.”

  “Who could blame him? I can’t refuse him service unless he’s already intoxicated, but yes, I’ll call you. Amy probably had some in the house anyway. She was a regular.”

  “I know.” He picked up his sack of cold ones and hefted the twelve pack. “We all have our vices. I’m not in a position to badmouth her habit, am I? But Troy could jettison his job if he really loses it. I’m just trying to run some intervention.”

  She nodded somberly. “I’m sure not interested in him going off, given how he feels about Jon. I’ll call you. For both their sakes, but this isn’t the only place he can get something to drink.”

  “Point that out to Jon.”

  “I will.” She looked troubled.

  She should be.

  George left, shoving the booze into the back seat. Pulling out of the parking lot absorbed in thought, he nearly T-boned a compact car because he wasn’t looking.

  Focus.

  Maybe he’d just go talk to Jon. He’d claim his purpose was to warn him about Troy, but Jon already knew it. A toad sitting in a wet puddle could discern that Troy Walda was hell bent to destroy him, partially out of past conflict, and partially out of grief that just needed someplace to go.

  Jon had the money to just leave the country. He should.

  It would be wise to pick a destination without extradition.

  But George knew well enough Jon wasn’t going to just give it up and move on. He’d come back with a vengeance, and the answers existed, but might just destroy him. His choice, and there were things a person could do, and things they just couldn’t control.

  Aptly put. So he went home and downed a beer in about a minute flat, felt better, and sat down at his computer.

  So his heroine was too stupid to live, huh. And here he thought by making her outwit the villain she’d refute that impression, but apparently he hadn’t pulled it off. He needed to revise and at least give hints she was more intelligent earlier in the manuscript…

  His phone beeped with a text.

  Forensics called. We matched Palmer’s car with the tread at the Murray farm from the first crime scene. He’s going down, George. That’s an expensive car with tires people don’t usually buy around here. It’s not a perfect match because the ground was so wet, but we might be able to make it stick.

  He responded: But still no physical evidence? Remember my advice? It’s no secret you want to screw him over. Ask yourself if you were doing a different investigation if you’d feel this way.

  Troy didn’t respond.

  His first impulse was to call Jon, but that was stupid. He knew Jon had found that first body and so there was a logical explanation for the tire tracks but George wasn’t anxious to admit he’d known and not told Troy.

  They would now quickly assume Jon had hacked the system to report the murder. He doubted they could trace it since Jon was smarter than that, but they could certainly prove he was capable of doing it. That was a mistake he shouldn’t have made.

  George sat there w
ith his fingers poised over the keyboard and wondered if Troy would destroy Jon or if it would be the other way around.

  Some things never changed.

  Chapter 22

  The waiting is the worst part.

  And the best part.

  A paradox, I know, but I can’t describe it any other way. Something bad is going to happen and on an intellectual level you acknowledge it’s best over quickly, but yet the anticipation of the event adds energy to what otherwise might be a dull existence.

  Boredom was always my enemy. It inspired dark thoughts and encouraged an imagination that perhaps should have been left dormant.

  Did I say perhaps?

  Jon was having a dream. Not a good one either. In it someone was pounding on the door, but he didn’t want to go there, to answer it, to face what was out there. In the dream the creature was calling his name, and he woke restlessly.

  Not a dream. Someone was knocking on his door.

  He ran his hand over his face and took in a breath. He got up and went to answer it, still pretty fuzzy. For someone who had sought solitude, a lot of people seemed to be dropping in to disrupt it.

  He didn’t really remember going to sleep in the chair by the window, but that was how sleep worked. One moment you’re awake and the next sliding into that dark world.

  The deputy standing there was someone he recognized from Troy’s visit after Amy’s car was found. Jon said sarcastically, “I’m sure this is good news. What now?”

  “Mr. Palmer, we’d like you to come in for questioning.”

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t anticipated it but it was still unpleasant to hear. “Why? Troy plant a bloody knife under my pillow? I thought you were going to keep an eye out for me.”

  The young man ignored his caustic comment. “You aren’t under arrest. We’d just like to speak with you in a more formal setting where we can record your answers. This is for your benefit as well. No one can claim you said something you didn’t under questioning. It’s helpful for you, and for us. Especially if someone changes their story, it is hard to document exactly what they said and when they said it but this way, there’s proof.”