In the bleak midwinter asacm-1

by M. R. Sellars

  She immediately tensed and her mind began ticking through the options.

  Her first inclination was to fire off a sarcastic volley, asking if she was in his way. However, she thought better of it before the words escaped. She needed to keep her foul mood contained, especially given her pariah status among the people of Hulis already. Barking at one of them certainly wouldn’t gain her any friends.

  Of course, since she was an outsider, that also narrowed the field a bit too. The only person she could think of off the top of her head who would purposely sit next to her was Sheriff Carmichael. Since the sheriff’s department was across the street, he seemed a likely candidate. All except for the fact that he was a cop and an unnaturally observant one at that. She was absolutely certain he would realize that placing himself in such close proximity on the side she carried her weapon would make her painfully uneasy. She couldn’t fathom him doing such a thing, unless for some odd reason making her uncomfortable was his intent.

  No. It probably wasn’t the sheriff. The reality was that not everyone had social skills. The clod next to her was probably completely oblivious to his faux pas, and she was just letting the grumpiness and paranoia override her brain.

  She finished sipping and lowered the mug back to the counter, then swiveled the stool a few inches while carefully repositioning herself to the left side of the seat. She finally stole a quick glance at the man, and as she had surmised, he was not Sheriff Carmichael. However, his face was vaguely familiar. She just couldn’t immediately place where she had seen it.

  He looked to be approximately the same age as the sheriff, maybe a few years older, but it was hard to tell. He was gaunt, clean-shaven and had angular features. Wire rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. His hair was trimmed short in an outdated style that reminded her of pictures she had seen of her father when he was a boy. It was predominantly gray, although dark brown strands were still visible throughout.

  The man was tastefully attired in a dark, heavy topcoat over a starched white shirt, tie, and what appeared to be a charcoal gray suit. As far as appearances went, he looked harmless enough. However, looks aren’t everything, and she knew it.

  After several heartbeats, he said quietly, “Good morning, Special Agent Mandalay.”

  Constance hated surprises. In fact, they were one of the very reasons she hated sitting with her back to the door.

  CHAPTER 18

  Constance didn’t recognize his voice.

  It actually sounded deeper than she would have expected based on her quick glance at him, but not unnaturally so. In a very real sense it came across as calm and soothing, carrying with it the underlying strength and even tone of a practiced orator. However, while the words were clearly audible to her, he was keeping his volume low. It was apparent that he wasn’t interested in being overheard by anyone else in the establishment.

  She forced herself not to outwardly react. His address made it plain that he knew exactly who she was, which put her at a disadvantage. Of course, this was a small town, and word traveled fast, especially where it concerned her. She’d already witnessed the grapevine in action more than once.

  She turned her gaze back in his direction, this time allowing it to linger. She noticed immediately that he wasn’t looking at her. Instead, his attention seemed fully occupied by his own hands. His eyes remained fixed on the counter in front of him where he was carefully sorting the blue, yellow, and pink artificial sweetener packets that were nestled in a rectangular plastic container.

  Never breaking his focus on the compulsive task he added, “It’s particularly cold out there today, isn’t it?”

  Obviously he was intent on starting a conversation with her. Playing along for the moment, without missing a beat she replied. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Unfortunate that Arthur is such a miser when it comes to the motel,” he continued, voice still low. “In this weather I’m sure that was an unpleasant walk for you.”

  A hot flush of alarm washed over Constance. She was willing to accept that he might know her name and recognize her on sight based on town gossip. However, that last comment was a different story entirely. While it could simply be an assumption based on the motel owner’s reputation, it had been delivered with too much confidence and familiarity for her liking.

  Holding her ground, keeping her voice steady and matching his volume, she decided to do a bit of fishing. “Who told you I walked?”

  “Nobody, Special Agent,” he replied; then with a matter-of-fact shrug added, “I’ve been watching you ever since you arrived in town.”

  When she dropped her line in the water, she hadn’t really expected to get a strike that hard or that quickly. As signs go, she wasn’t sure whether to consider that one good or bad.

  Feigning nonchalance, she slipped her coat from her lap and laid it across the stool to her left, freeing up her legs in the event she needed to move quickly.

  Slowly, she pivoted the rotating seat a little more, angling her knees toward him and bringing her sidearm farther away. She had no idea what was going on here, but she knew for sure she didn’t like what his admission implied. However, it now appeared that her heretofore inexplicable paranoia might well be justified. Unfortunately, she would have to take solace in that fact later.

  For the moment, she didn’t think he was going to do anything right here in the middle of the diner, even if he was intent on harming her in some way. However, you could never really predict what a crazy person might do. Stalking a federal agent and then openly confessing that fact to the agent in question didn’t strike her as the actions of someone with all of their screws securely tightened. Besides, like Ben was fond of saying, “Better safe than dead.”

  “Watching me…” Constance repeated, following the words with a measured breath. “Mind if I ask why?”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “I see. And, you obviously know that I work for the FBI.”

  “Of course.”

  She clucked her tongue then offered up a legal factoid, “So, do you also know that per Missouri revised statute five sixty-five point two twenty-five, everything you’ve just said gives me probable cause to arrest you for the crime of stalking?”

  The man chuckled lightly. He appeared to be genuinely amused by the comment. “I’m not stalking you, Special Agent,” he told her.

  “You and the law obviously have different definitions then, Mister…?” She let the honorific hang in the air between them.

  “My name isn’t important,” he replied.

  “You aren’t helping your case any,” she told him.

  “I’ve simply been waiting for an opportunity to speak with you.”

  “Well,” she said after a handful of empty seconds ticked by. “I’m pretty sure that’s what we are doing right now, but I have to be honest-I’m not terribly inclined to continue.”

  “I hope that you will reconsider and listen to what I have to say.”

  This peculiar old man was starting to wear on her already raw nerves, but she really didn’t want to create a scene here in the diner unless she had no choice. As long as he was keeping his hands to himself and not making any sudden moves, she figured she would play along. Maybe in a few more moves she could suss out his end game and know whether to arrest him or call the nearest mental hospital to see if they had an escapee.

  After a short pause she responded. “Give me a reason to. I really don’t care for the cloak and dagger approach, so let’s start with a name.”

  “All right then,” he replied. He gave a slight nod but still didn’t look up from the perfectly organized sweetener packets. “Call me Ed.”

  She turned the name over inside her brain. It rang a bell, but the note was a little off key, so she couldn’t yet name the tune. “Okay, Ed,” she replied. “That’s a little better. Now, obviously you have my undivided attention-for the moment. I’d say now is your chance to talk.”

  “Not here,” he said.

  “Funny,” she replie
d. “Why did I have a strange feeling you were going to say that?”

  “I was hoping that we could have a discussion somewhere more private,” he offered, ignoring her observation.

  Constance took a sip of her coffee but kept her eyes on him over the rim of her cup. After placing it back on the counter she said, “And when you say private, is there someplace specific you have in mind?”

  “We could go back to your room at the Greenleaf. My car is right outside.”

  Constance raised an eyebrow and snorted involuntarily as she fought to stifle a sharp chuckle. There were “holster sniffers” everywhere, so why not here? She’d had plenty of men-and even a few women-with rampant law enforcement fetishes try to pick her up over the years, but she had to admit this was a new and different approach. She took a moment to process what he had just said, but no matter how she looked at it, the question that came to her lips was the same. Finally, keeping her voice low she asked, “I’m sorry, but are you propositioning me?”

  “Not in the way you assume,” he replied, voice even and devoid of any real emotion. The words were simply a statement of fact.

  She continued to roll his name around in her head, assuming for the moment that he wasn’t lying. There was something about it that was bothering her. She usually had excellent recall, but maybe her spell of clear headedness had come to an end, and the exhaustion was taking over again.

  She watched him in silence, pondering the information that lay somewhere just beyond her grasp. He, however, still hadn’t looked up at her. His eyes remained focused on the sweetener packets. He had long since completed sorting them, but he would still occasionally reach out and adjust one, then another. Apparently they weren’t exactly right in his estimation, which told her he definitely had more than just a mild touch of OCD.

  Obsessive…

  Obsession…

  Fixation…

  Fetish…

  The words collided with his name as they tumbled through her thoughts. The resulting clash sparked a connection and the memory was recalled.

  She cocked her head to the side and said, “You own the hardware store, right?”

  “No, Special Agent, I do not,” he replied.

  The answer wasn’t what she had expected to hear. Adding up the stalking, the name he’d given, the OCD, and his veiled proposition, she had concluded he was Ed Ruble, the hardware store owner with the shoe fetish Sheriff Carmichael had warned her about.

  While Constance was still pondering the blind alley she’d just followed, Stella appeared on the opposite side of the counter and placed a short cranberry juice and glass of water in front of her.

  “Sorry about the wait,” the waitress apologized. With a bit more cheer than she’d displayed earlier she turned to the man next to Constance and said, “Good Morning, Pastor Reese. Your usual?”

  He replied, “Good morning, Stella. Yes. Thank you.”

  “Be right back,” she told him.

  Stella hurried to the other end of the counter, then returned with a fresh mug of java for the pastor. She shot him a quick smile, even though he never really looked up, and then she was off again to attend to other patrons.

  Once she was out of earshot, Constance said, “Pastor Reese… Well…at least now I know your real name.”

  “Ed is my real name,” he returned.

  “Your whole real name then,” she told him. “Listen, I don’t know what your game is here, but I’m not playing. And, just so we’re on the same page, I don’t make a habit of taking strange men to my motel room.”

  “I assure you, Special Agent Mandalay, I don’t have a game, as you put it. All I want to do is talk.”

  “But apparently you do have some kind of proposition for me.”

  “Yes. For us both.”

  “Well, Pastor, if you’re looking to save my soul, I’ve already heard the sales pitch, so you’re wasting your time.”

  “Yes. I am hoping to save your soul,” the Pastor replied. “But not in the sense you might imagine.”

  He carefully plucked a yellow packet from the freshly arranged cube, then holding the edge pinched between his thumb and forefinger, flicked it three times with the index finger of his other hand. After that, he meticulously folded a crease in the top edge. Constance watched in silence as he proceeded to tear the packet along the crease with the same painstaking precision, then carefully poured the contents into his coffee. After laying the empty packet aside, he picked up his spoon and stirred the brew first three times clockwise, then three times counterclockwise. After that, he tapped the spoon a trio of times on the edge of the mug, and then balanced it with practiced ease across the rim, perfectly perpendicular to the handle. Sitting back, he folded his hands in front of himself on the counter and simply stared at it.

  Constance’s brain was on a roll and decided to take another shot at connect-the-dots. As she watched the pastor, she flashed back to the day she arrived in town when she and Carmichael had sat in almost this exact spot, talking about Merrie Callahan’s 1975 abduction case. There had been a lone patron at the far end of the counter that day, contemplating a coffee cup with his hands folded in front of him. Now she knew where she had seen the pastor before.

  “Great…” She thought to herself. “Here I am in small town hell on Christmas Eve with Sheriff Sherlock, haunted houses, a cheap motel, no sleep, weird emails, and now an OCD preacher who’s stalking me. What did I do this year that was so bad?”

  Out of curiosity she decided to press him on his last comment. “Well, since you seem to have an inside scoop on my thoughts, then why don’t you tell me what it is that I’m imagining.”

  “As I said, not here,” he replied. “What we need to discuss is too sensitive.”

  “I don’t see how saving my soul is all that sensitive, Pastor. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  “I, however, have certain information…”

  “Information…” Constance repeated the word, allowing the final syllable to linger and eventually become a question in its own right.

  “Yes, information,” was all he said.

  “Information about what?”

  “Why you are here.”

  She regarded him carefully for a moment, then dropped her voice another notch. “Are you telling me that you have information about the murders I’m investigating?”

  For the first time since their conversation began, he raised his head. He cast a somewhat furtive look to the side, glanced quickly toward her, then returned his gaze to the coffee mug. “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, either you do or you don’t,” she told him. “Which is it?”

  He finally turned slowly and stared back at her, then said, “It’s somewhat complicated, Special Agent.”

  She had to admit that now her curiosity was piqued even more. At the moment, she would certainly welcome a solid lead on this case that didn’t just create more questions, or have her hearing voices and drawing her weapon on errant snowflakes. However, something didn’t seem quite right about the man. The obvious OCD issues notwithstanding, there was something else definitely off-kilter with him, so she still wasn’t convinced that he didn’t have an ulterior motive in mind, and she couldn’t ignore that fact.

  Of course, maybe that was just her paranoia talking again. He was a pastor, after all; but then again, that really didn’t matter. Alden Forth had been a minister too, and he killed at least eleven prostitutes in the Denver area over a period of seven years before he was finally caught. Titles didn’t make you innocent. They just gave you something to hide behind if you weren’t.

  “Do you have information about these murders, or don’t you?” Constance asked.

  “I told you…it’s complicated.”

  “Then let’s go across the street to the sheriff’s office,” she suggested. “We can un-complicate it there.”

  He didn’t seem agitated by her suggestion, but his objection was succinct. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  �
�I am here to help you, not Sheriff Carmichael.”

  “In case you missed it, we’re all on the same team.”

  “Perhaps, but there is no longer any hope for his soul.”

  “I see,” she said with a patronizing nod. “Well, I’ve already told you my soul is just fine the way it is, so I don’t think there’s any hope for mine, either.”

  “Special Agent Mandalay, please listen to me. I really think we should go back to your room at the Greenleaf now.”

  “I’m confused,” she replied. “You obviously know where I’m staying. If it’s so important that we talk there, then why did you wait until I was here to contact me?”

  “Because I needed to be sure.”

  “About what?”

  “That you were alone.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m still not following you.”

  He answered with, “We should go back to your room now.”

  She was no longer second-guessing herself. Considering the weird circular conversation thus far, Constance had lost any miniscule amount of faith she might have had in the possibility of an actual lead coming from him. Like the conversation, she had come back around to her original assessment that he was hitting on her, or maybe that he was just a serial confessor or conspiracy theorist. Whichever it was, she was firmly convinced that she had a nutcase on her hands.

  “We really should go back to your room now,” the pastor insisted again when she didn’t reply to him immediately. This time his voice was beginning to show the first hints of agitation, and that wasn’t good. When dealing with crazy, you never knew how quickly something like that might escalate.

  Constance sent her gaze on a quick roam around the diner. The closest person appeared to be six or seven stools away, down the left side of the counter. On the right, the closest was probably seven or eight away. At the moment everyone appeared to be engaged in their own conversations and not paying a bit of attention to the two of them here at the far end. That was good. There weren’t any other outside influences to antagonize him, and she had a bit of a buffer zone if things suddenly went south and he became physical. However, her hope was to defuse this before it could ever go that far. Talking down a whack job was the last thing she felt up to doing right now, but there were innocent bystanders in the diner and she was on deck, like it or not. She knew the first thing she needed to do was get him out of here and isolated, in case things fell apart and started to turn ugly.