A Cold, Fine Evil

by A. C. Alexander

  Jon actually kind of liked this young officer, but he sure didn’t like the situation. “Should I call a lawyer?”

  “You always can, but like I said, you’re not under arrest. We’d just like to talk to you.”

  Yeah. Right.

  He certainly knew some lawyers back in Chicago, but mostly corporate attorneys. He wished he could be as naïve as Alicia and assume if he hadn’t done anything wrong, he would be fine.

  If he hadn’t done anything wrong.

  It was piling up. The shirt, the discovery of the body at the Murray farm, Amy’s car at the next cabin, not to mention Alicia and George could easily swear in court over what he’d done to Larimer.

  They could prove he was capable of hacking the county law enforcement system, but not that he did. He trusted Alicia, and George had too much to lose to come forward now. The shirt was the wildcard. He didn’t really know about that, but if the blood had been from the victim and the garment traced back to him somehow, he really would be under arrest. It was a macabre realization he was relieved in spite of the police being on his doorstep.

  Fine, he’d talk to them.

  “Let me get my coat.”

  Hammond nodded. “It’s pretty raw out.”

  It wasn’t that warm in the cabin either. Jon flipped on the electric heat, reminded himself he’d soon have to start being better about the woodstove, and shrugged on his leather jacket.

  He was almost amused in a bitter way as he walked out to the SUV. Jon Palmer being hauled in for questioning, how gratifying. Troy was getting his revenge, but too little, too late. Amy was gone.

  At least the deputy was decent about it all.

  He was shown into what he assumed was an interview room for degenerates of his possible stature, where two men he didn’t know sat drinking coffee. Hammond said succinctly, “State detectives. The sheriff chose to not be part of the conversation, and no to the bloody knife.”

  As Jon sat down, he wondered if people facing The Inquisition felt this way, as if no matter what they said, they were doomed.

  But then again, he’d sensed he was for a long time.

  They introduced themselves but he’d never remember their names and didn’t care to anyway. Both were young and fit, and wore decent suits, and one had a sharper edge than the other. He’d learned all about that in the business world. Appearances could be deceiving.

  This he was good at, so he started the conversation. “Explain to me why I’m here.”

  The mild one said simply, “We want to know where you were at the time of the recent two murders here in Black Lake.”

  That was certainly direct. Definitely the one to watch.

  “As I have no idea when they happened, I find that a difficult question to answer.” Jon took a moment. “I’ve already talked to the police, I’ve cooperated one hundred percent, and I am here now of my own free will. You searched my cabin, and my car, took my laptop, which I would like back by the way, and I’m starting to feel harassed.”

  “We understand you knew the second victim well.”

  “Twenty years ago. We dated in high school. I have already stated more than once that I have not seen her since then.”

  “Yet her car was found parked at the cabin next to yours.”

  Jon leaned back in the less than comfortable chair. “Let’s think about that. I am sure you know all this, but after graduating at the top of my class in high school and cum laude in college, I became an executive at a Fortune 500 company. My point is; I’m not stupid. Someone is trying to involve me in all this and maybe you should look for them instead of wasting my time and yours.”

  The edgy one asked, “Have you been to the old Murray farm lately, Mr. Palmer?”

  At least he was prepared for that question. The headstone was bound to turn up again anyway, and he had been stupid enough to have George ask Troy about desecrated graveyards. All along he’d worried someone had seen his car either headed that direction or coming back. “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Someone left a headstone on the property I’m renting. I thought it was a pretty sick joke and there’s no name on it, but I finally connected the date of death with when William Murray was hanged. I went there to return it.”

  He didn’t like lying but it was a white lie at best. Explaining that it kept showing up and then disappearing pressed the limits of belief unless you were the recipient of the grisly gift.

  “You are interested in William Murray then?” The laid-back one asked.

  “I think you’ll find most people in Black Lake are interested in him and have read those two books you found in my cabin,” Jon responded evenly. “He’s our only dubious celebrity.”

  They glanced at each other.

  The mild one asked in his casual way, “Have you ever shopped at a store called JL Stix?”

  He was ready for that one too, but was starting to sweat a little, which he hoped didn’t show. “No.”

  The truth, but Connie had, and if this went farther south than it already had, considering their acrimonious relationship, she’d be more than willing to bury him. He added slowly, “But my ex-wife has, I believe. Why?”

  “We’re the ones asking the questions, Mr. Palmer.”

  “And I’ve answered every single one.”

  “Did you put a shirt in a county trash container by a roadside picnic area?” Detective Mild raised his brows.

  This was the moment of truth. If he said yes and it happened to be the victim’s blood, his life was over. But, he assumed if there had been positive DNA proof, he’d be under arrest already. Still, another lie might be best. “No. I did throw away a shirt recently because it was missing a button and I knew I’d never take the time or trouble to find the button or fix it if I did. I’ve never sewn on a button in my life. I put it in the trash can outside the cabin.”

  Plausible. He debated mentioning the bloodstains and his nosebleed theory, but then again, if it proved to not be his blood for some reason, it would prove he knew the blood was there in the first place. If they did a DNA swab and it was his, he could claim that he could wash the shirt, but the button was why he threw it away.

  So he waited.

  Instead of addressing that, they put some photographs on the table. “Would you mind taking a look at these and telling us if you recognize these young women?”

  He did. High school came flooding back. He looked up sharply. “Of course. This is Black Lake. I went to high school with them, and dated a few of them, but then again, so did Troy Walda. Have you questioned him yet about his wife’s death?”

  To his relief, they stood. “We appreciate the cooperation. Deputy Hammond will take you back home but Sheriff Walda would still prefer you stay in this county until the investigation concludes.”

  Hammond was impassive as they drove back to the cabin, gray skies ominous above them, the trees wet. They pulled into the winding lane through the woods without exchanging a word, but that was fine with Jon, he was absorbed in his thoughts, wondering what the hell else was going to happen to screw up his life. He took some responsibility, but not all of it was his fault.

  The cabin sat there, the eaves dripping, the windows dark and shuttered, and the forest gathered quietly around it.

  Then Jon got his first break. Of sorts anyway.

  The headstone was leaning against the front door again. He stopped in the act of getting out of the SUV, staring at it. He turned. “Deputy, I believe you can testify that the headstone propped against my front door was not there when we left and there is no possible way I put it there.”

  * * * *

  Alicia had been trying to get ahold of Jon but his phone was evidently off. It worried her enough she tried approximately every five minutes, but that didn’t help anything, still no answer.

  I’ve been suicidal most of my adult life…

  He wouldn’t. Or maybe he would.

  When he finally answered, she felt almost faint with relief. “Jon?”

  “I see you’ve call
ed. Is something wrong?”

  He sounded off, maybe more stilted than usual. Alicia sat down on her couch and took in a calming breath. “No, except I couldn’t get in touch with you and it worried me. I wanted to ask if you’d like to come over for dinner.”

  “I was at the police station. They frown on suspects answering their phones during an interrogation.”

  Her heart sank. “Why?”

  “Alicia, I told you already that Troy would push for this. They took me in for official questioning.”

  “It isn’t you.”

  “Let’s face it, even you have had, or still have, your doubts.”

  Maybe so at some point, but she was past it. “Not still have.”

  “I appreciate the faith. Yes, to dinner, by the way. Staying out here alone holds no appeal. I thought it was just what I wanted but maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

  That cold cabin, the encroaching darkness…

  It was hard to tell if he was being sardonic, but she didn’t want to be alone either. And the cabin would give her a serious case of the creeps but she wasn’t sure her house was any safer. “Come over whenever you want. I’m going to try for spaghetti again.”

  “I can bring the sauce you made the other night.”

  He was dealing with this so much better than she was. He’d been hauled in by the police on suspicion of serial murder and was calmly offering to bring the dish she’d hastily shoved into the freezer.

  “That would be nice. Grab the loaf of garlic bread too.”

  “I will.”

  She ended the call with the surreal feel of floating in a world that made no sense any longer, but that was the norm since the day Jon had walked through the door of the liquor store. She understood to an extent that he was someone who drew a certain energy, but that didn’t help her interpret it.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have called in Amy’s car, but then again, it was inconceivable to not call it in. She was honest by nature anyway, and she’d been raised to be that way. Her sympathy for Troy alone would make it impossible to not report it. How the parents of those missing girls back in high school who were never granted closure of any kind felt was unimaginable to her.

  Jon had lived through some horrific experiences also that maybe had left him damaged beyond repair.

  She wasn’t certain what that meant. Her failed marriage had made her wary, so perhaps she also fit into that category.

  But not in the same way.

  The ghosts of her past were emotional disappointment. His could be real phantoms.

  When he pulled into her little driveway she was in the kitchen, making a salad. She’d roasted some garlic for the vinaigrette and poured lettuce from a bag into a bowl. Heat up sauce, boil water and pasta…she wasn’t going to win any culinary awards, but then again, she wasn’t after that anyway.

  Survival seemed to be a goal she just hoped she could achieve.

  Maybe. In Black Lake that wasn’t a given.

  She let Jon in and he’d brought not just the sauce and bread, but also a bottle of scotch. She didn’t blame him for the booze.

  Taken in by the police, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t do the same.

  “Glass in the cupboard above the sink.” She pointed. “Help yourself.”

  He looked tired, but lately, that wasn’t new. He took out a tumbler. “Thanks. I’ve had better afternoons.”

  From the amount he put into the glass, that was true, but then again, he routinely drank too much.

  “What did they say?”

  He leaned against the counter, his gaze unfocused. “It was just a series of questions that showed me more than anything that they have nothing but circumstantial evidence against me or anyone else so far. I think I was able to explain everything well enough they’d have a tough time getting a warrant for my arrest, but I can’t be sure. I might need to find a decent lawyer so I have someone to call.”

  “Surely they don’t think you’d park Amy’s car right next to your cabin?” She dumped the frozen sauce in a pan and set it to a low simmer.

  “Could be a clever ploy to make it seem like someone is setting me up. The old ‘I would never be so stupid’ argument has been done before. I said it myself to the detectives, but it could be argued otherwise. On a brighter note, the headstone was back.”

  That was a brighter note? She found the whole thing macabre and disturbing. “Explain to me how that’s a positive.”

  Jon’s smile was sardonic. “It was delivered while I was being questioned, and the same deputy returned me. I can prove I never touched my phone to call someone to bring it back and stage it there, and I didn’t know they were coming to take me in, so whoever or whatever, is playing their black little game, did me a favor. It certainly lent some credibility to the theory someone’s taunting me.”

  Whatever. That horrible scarred face. Alicia shivered. “If it wasn’t for my experience at the liquor store, I would buy into the theory Larimer Hanson was still alive. I keep looking back on it and wondering if when we searched he could have been moving around, evading us, and slipped out somehow. He has a true reason for a vendetta against you, Jon.”

  “They asked me about the girls who disappeared when we were in high school.”

  His tone was absolutely emotionless, but Jon did that like no one else. She could never gauge if he really did care, or if he was able to conceal it so well it was impossible to get a nuance of what he might be feeling.

  She hoped for the latter.

  “Why?” It was a cautious question.

  He took a sip of scotch, his eyes reflective. “I assume they are trying to connect the old murders—let’s face it, those girls have never been seen again so that is a logical conclusion—to the new ones. I come back, the murders start again.” He admitted darkly, “It’s damning.”

  “What did you say to them?” She should stir the thawing sauce, but was riveted by the conversation.

  “I pointed out that I knew them, yes, but we all did, small school, and so did Troy, whose wife was murdered. The husband is usually suspect number one.”

  Alicia considered that theory. It was true, Troy and Jon had been clear rivals, both athletic and good looking. The popular girls had gravitated their way. Some had disappeared.

  Jon was a bad influence. She needed a glass of wine to continue this conversation. She crossed over to the refrigerator and pulled out some chardonnay she’d opened weeks ago. “You don’t really think Troy had anything to do with Amy’s death or those missing girls, do you?”

  “No.” Jon watched her splash the gold liquid into a glass. “I’m just saying he’s as viable a suspect as I am.”

  Except she wasn’t sure Troy had those missing sections of time to account for, but Jon had a point. “He’s grieving.”

  “I know. I assume we all are.”

  “True enough.” She remembered Jon and Amy together what seemed like a lifetime ago. The ultimate beautiful couple. The royalty of her adolescence. Toppled from their thrones, lost and locked in tragedy now. Amy was gone, Jon just hanging on by a thread, and the reality entirely different from the illusion.

  There just was no perfect life. Her mediocre existence seemed good in comparison.

  “If he doesn’t lay off, I’m going to push back.”

  Alicia took a long sip from her glass. “You and Troy were once friends.”

  “We were once young men who attended the same high school, played the same sports, and dated the same girls. That isn’t necessarily friendship.”

  It wasn’t; she didn’t understand that, but considering everything, they needed to put it behind them.

  “He wants justice for his wife.” Her voice was quiet and cool. “You want to make sure the world understands you had nothing to do with Amy’s death. Same goal, different reasons.”

  He looked at her searchingly. “Are you sure you don’t want to go somewhere? Take your father and mother with you. Go to Florida or wherever. I’ll pay for the tickets.”

  It
was generous of him, but she wasn’t going anywhere. She opened her mouth to say so, but was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Frozen, she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  “That came from the back of the house,” Jon said grimly, his face taut. He whipped out his phone and handed it to her. “I’ll go look. Call 911 if you hear anything else.”

  She was shaking so violently she wasn’t sure she could manage to punch in the number, but like a puppet she nodded. He went down the hallway and when there was nothing but silence except for the drum in her ears from her racing heart, Alicia followed because standing there alone in the kitchen was more unnerving than taking some sort of action.

  Jon was in the doorway of her bedroom, his arms at his sides. The window was shattered, there were pieces of glass on the bed, and on the floor there was an old rusted shovel with a wooden handle.

  “You know what I did with the shovel I used to bury Larimer?” He turned to her dispassionately. “I threw it in the river. If this isn’t a message, I don’t know what one is.”

  Chapter 23

  In the history of mankind, the tapestry of good and evil has always been finely woven, the cloth malleable, shaped to the individual that wears it to cover his naked soul. It can be draped over all manner of sins from the pious parsimony of my grandparents, to darker deeds than considering the poor all lazy and shiftless. Though I do have to say that even as a child I puzzled over their devout obsession with their religious beliefs that were not based on a faith generous and forgiving, but instead rigid and judgmental. You were bound to hell if you didn’t believe exactly the same doctrines they did, and that seemed wrong to me and I made the mistake of pointing it out once.

  How, I asked, could they possibly know if they were right or not?

  The punishment for having an opinion they weighed in on me was reflected in the painful way they died.

  It seems to me, they must have been wrong. In the end, their God deserted them and left them instead to my tender mercies.