by Dana Marton
But he did have a few hunches. The burglar was either a small-time crook, trying to support a drinking habit or a minor drug addiction, or… Those kids he’d seen twice now, out after dark in places they shouldn’t be, came to mind.
Questioning them was going to be tricky. For one, they were minors. Two, the son of the high school principal as well as a councilman were on the team. There would be a lot of huffing and puffing on the parents’ part, exactly the kind of small-town politics he hated.
Maybe he’d run his thoughts by Bing, see how the captain wanted to handle it.
But not tonight. Tonight, he still wanted to check out the grave site.
First he stopped by the diner to appease his growling stomach. He made a point of having a decent meal at least once a day. He wanted his full strength back for the inevitable face-off with Blackwell. He also wanted to see if Eddie had an alibi.
He did, according to the owner.
“Eddie has breakfast and dinner here every day, hasn’t missed a meal this year yet,” the round-faced woman told Jack, one hand on her hip, the other holding a dishrag. ”I remember him being here the evening of the first, specifically, because one of the giant dishwashers in the back threw a hose and Eddie went back there to help us fix it.”
“You’re sure it was the first?”
“One hundred percent. There was some water damage, so I had to fill out stacks of insurance papers.” She frowned. “I haven’t yet seen a penny of that insurance money either.”
Jack thanked her and, after he ate, he took the long way out to the reservoir, taking the back roads, some of which, technically, were closed for winter. Creedence played on the stereo, an old CD that skipped on track four, right in the middle of "Born on the Bayou."
He’d taken to driving the back roads at night when he couldn’t sleep. Hoping for what? That he’d catch Blackwell dragging some victim off into the bushes? But he had no leads, and anything was better than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and obsessing.
Or worse, falling asleep and dreaming of Ashley in his arms, his hands on her breasts, his mouth crushing hers in a wild kiss. He was that far gone now. Oh hell.
His high beams caught an ancient Chevy pulled over to the side of the road, almost in the ditch. He was instantly alert, shoving his coat aside to make sure he’d have easy access to his weapon if needed. Then he recognized the car and grinned into the night.
He pulled up to the side of the parked car and shone his halogen onto the backseat, and looked away from the tangled mass of limbs scurrying for clothes.
He rolled his window down, thinking he recognized one of his neighbors who lived a few houses down from the small ranch house Jack rented. He didn’t like apartments. He liked to be able to look out the windows in every direction and see what was coming.
"That you, Billy Pickett?”
"That you, Jack?" Billy, the fifty-something town mechanic was struggling into a white sweatshirt. With his head stuck somewhere shy of the opening, he looked like a cartoon ghost.
"Detective Sullivan, under the circumstances. And would that be Molly in there with you?" He risked another look. With one eye. Squinting.
"Hey, Jack," said the woman, now wrapped in a wool blanket, thankfully.
"Road's closed. You get stuck out here, good luck getting a tow."
"Jeanne moved back with the kids again." Billy's head finally emerged.
Jeanne was their oldest, with twins and a deadbeat boyfriend. When things turned rough from time to time, she moved back with Billy and Molly. Who also had the four younger kids still in the house, plus Molly’s parents.
He didn’t blame them for sneaking away for some private time, but he was the law in town. He supposed he had to say something.
“Open lewdness is a misdemeanor of the third degree,” he told them mildly. Then added on a more serious tone, “There could be dangerous people out in these parts."
"You should know. Shouldn’t you be home, recovering?" Molly asked with feeling. “You let me know if you need help around the house.”
Darndest thing about small towns. He hadn’t thought he’d made friends here. He’d kept to himself as always. Yet after he’d gotten home from the hospital, Molly had come over to clean. Another neighbor had brought an entire lasagna that had lasted him a week. Bewildering stuff for a man who’d spent his whole life a loner. “Seen anyone since you’ve been out here?” he asked.
Billy shook his head, but Molly said, “We did hear some snowmobiles.”
Those kids again. He was going to have a talk with them and soon, get a feel for them.
“All right. Go home. Stay safe.” He shut off the halogen, rolled up the window, and cranked the Creedence song as he pulled away.
As the old Chevy disappeared in his rearview mirror, for a moment he wondered what that would be like, having all that normalcy, having a good woman to love, family. Something weird tickled in the middle of his chest, something that felt irritatingly similar to longing.
He didn’t have time to be lonely.
But he wondered if Ashley was, living out there by herself. Whatever her problems were, she was a fine woman. Seemed insane that somebody hadn’t snatched her up yet.
He was a morose bastard; that he was alone was to be expected. But Ashley needed more in her life than what she had now. She deserved more—her daughter back, a family, a man to stand by her, a house full of laughter.
For a second, he almost wished he was the kind of guy who could give her that. Then he gave a sour laugh. Jesus, he was going soft in the head.
He drove down the road, watching for tire tracks, keeping alert. Finally he came out of the woods and onto the paved road again. In five minutes or so, he was coming up on Ashley’s place. Her downstairs windows were dark, only one light on in the house, upstairs but not the loft, probably her bedroom.
On an impulse, he gave her a ring. “Hey, it’s Jack. Just wanted to check in. Painted anything today?”
“Finished a pretty good abstract.”
“Nothing else?”
She hesitated on the other end.
“It’s not an official inquiry.”
He could hear her releasing her breath.
“No, not today.”
Something inside him relaxed. “All right. Good night, then.”
“Thank you for the shovel,” she hurried to say.
He didn’t want her to read anything into it. “You needed one,” he said gruffly, then hung up on her.
The dark hole in the ground.
The light in Ashley’s window.
There was a choice there, whether or not he wanted to admit it. The light drew him. But he drove past her driveway and turned right on Hadley Road, toward the grave.
~~~***~~~
Chapter Nine
Ashley woke later than usual, cursing herself for missing the best morning light for painting. She shoved out of bed bleary-eyed.
Since visiting the grave hadn’t worked the night before, she’d convinced herself that her “visions” were brought on by anxiety, stress, and exhaustion, so she’d stayed up most of the night, trying to think of all the things she was scared of. A pretty miserable way to spend the time.
And nothing to show for it. She didn’t “see” a thing.
But she had to. She had to figure out a way to get the FBI off her back. She would somehow carve out a normal life, for her and her daughter, no matter what she had to do to get there. She would paint; she would force a vision if it killed her; she would not give up.
At least she no longer had to fight Jack. She was grateful beyond words for that break. He made a bad enemy.
But if they were no longer enemies, what were they?
The way his arms felt around her came back in a rush, unbalancing her a little as she plodded down the stairs, unsure whether she had energy to make coffee.
The phone interrupted before she could reach the pot.
“I hope I’m not disturbing your work,” her father sai
d on the other end.
Her stomach clenched. “Is everything okay?”
“Some people I’m working with called a last-minute meeting in Baltimore. I’m going to drive down. Leaving right now, actually. I thought—”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly wide awake. “Could you please bring Maddie? You could drop her off, then pick her up on your way back.”
“All right. We’ll be there then, shortly.”
She said good-bye on autopilot, grinning at the sink, doing a little dance barefooted on the tile.
Maddie was coming. On a regular old Wednesday.
Then she thought, oh God, I probably look like a zombie. Never mind that. She had makeup, and she knew how to use it. She could fix herself up and pretend that everything was okay.
Then, with her eyes open a little wider now than a slit, she registered the living room. The mess was, well, artistic. Creative chaos. Okay, disorder on a monumental scale.
She’d been looking for a magazine article on psychic experiences in the middle of the night. Most of the contents of her magazine rack as well as her bookshelf—at one point she’d thought maybe she’d seen the topic in a book, after all—were spread all over the place.
She couldn’t let her father see this mess. He’d think she was having some kind of breakdown. Forgetting coffee, she tackled the cleaning as if it was an Olympic event. She even put a batch of cookies into the oven. She just finished, and was halfway up the stairs to clean herself up when a car pulled up her driveway.
She finger combed her hair and straightened her clothes, wishing she had another ten minutes. Her father was big on personal hygiene. Great. But instead of her father, Pete was waiting outside when she answered the door.
He handed over a stack of envelopes, then reached into the side pocket of his mail carrier bag and pulled out a wad of newspapers that held half a dozen brown lumps. “Paperwhites. You pot the bulbs up now, and in a few weeks it’ll be like spring in here. Maybe you’ll paint them.” He gave a friendly grin.
He was big on indoor gardening. He grew everything from tulips to hyacinths, bringing the outside in. He’d gotten into it two years ago when his mother had breast cancer and had some pretty bad chemo all through winter.
He’d been a traveling trainer for the postal service before that, but he came back to town and took a lower-paying delivery job, moving in with his mother to take care of her, and brought her spring.
He was a decent guy. As far as she could tell, everybody in town liked him.
“Mother says to say hi. She’ll be by next week to pick up donations for the club if you have anything.”
“I’ll find something.” She always did. If nothing else, she did a quick sketch that the Broslin Women’s Club could auction off at the benefit auction they held once a quarter.
A familiar SUV rolling down the road caught her eye. As the car came closer and turned into her driveway, she recognized the man in the driver seat. Agent Hunter. Her stomach sank. Was he coming to arrest her this time? God, she didn’t want to do this in front of Pete.
“Looks like I have visitors. Thank you for the flower bulbs. Say hi to your mom for me.” She gave a none too subtle hint for him to leave.
“Don’t mention it.” He gave her a big grin, casting a curious glance at the car. “I better get back to work. Say hi to Maddie for me.”
Agent Hunter waited to get out until Pete climbed into the mail delivery van and drove away, rubbernecking but only a little.
Her insides twisted into a knot. Two other men came with the agent like before. Her face was so tight, her teeth ground together. They couldn’t take her in today. Maddie was coming.
“Miss Price.” The man’s tone and the look in his eyes were all official. He pulled a sheet of paper from his coat pocket. “We have a search warrant for your home.”
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or furious. “On what probable cause?” They’d searched her property before but had left her house alone.
“Jack Sullivan was buried on your land. You knew where the grave was.”
Nothing new, then. Jack was still keeping her macabre paintings and her secret. As much grief as he’d given her, she was grateful for at least that. And the call last night. It was strange that he would care enough to check up on her. Of course, last night she’d actually been hoping for a vision.
“This is what I keep coming back to, Miss Price.” Agent Hunter handed her the search warrant. “How is it that you would be out there, in the middle of your hundred acres in the middle of the night, at exactly the right place?”
“It was barely twilight, not the middle of the night. I went out there to look for a new subject to paint.” She needed to stick with that, keep her story straight.
She drew a deep breath to settle her nerves. It didn’t work. “Go ahead.” She gestured anyway, knowing fighting them would be futile. “I would appreciate if you hurried. I’m expecting company.” With a little luck, they’d be out of here before her father came.
The agents passed by her, not looking like they gave a hoot for her company one way or the other. Of course, they didn’t.
Perfect.
They made her so nervous she was about jumping out of her skin, so she grabbed her coat, put it on, and stayed outside. Her obvious nervousness would just arouse more suspicions. Better go with the whole “out of sight, out of mind” thing.
They would look. They would leave. Maddie was coming, she told herself. Nothing could ruin the day. She simply wouldn’t allow it.
She had a small house. The search lasted less than an hour. They took her shower curtain and gave her a receipt for it.
She grasped the stupid receipt as she went inside, then nearly cried when she looked around. Her furniture overturned, the carpet bunched up, the bookshelf’s contents spilled to the floor. The house looked like a herd of elephants had stampeded through.
Exhaustion dragged her down. Tears burned her throat. To hell with it. She scooped up the pillows and the blankets. She could do this. They weren’t going to win. She threw herself into cleaning, forcing herself to think positive thoughts, nothing but how much fun she was going to have with her daughter today.
She wasn’t quite finished when her father pulled up the driveway.
“Mommy!” Maddie flew into her arms as soon as she opened the door.
She carried her baby inside, kissing the top of her head, then nuzzling cheeks.
“What happened here?” her father asked as he walked in behind them, looking at the sofa she hadn’t had a chance yet to drag back into its place. “You look disheveled. Is everything all right?”
Her first impulse was to hide her troubles. But lying to her father wasn’t progress. She had to be strong enough for the truth. So, as Maddie ran off to check out the cookies on the kitchen table, Ashley told him about the FBI.
“It’s not a big deal. They can look all they want. They’re grasping for straws. I have no connection to Blackwell, so it’s not like they’ll find anything.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I happen to know the best criminal attorney in the state. I’ll have him give you a call before the day is out.”
“No,” she said, then pulled back a little. She didn’t want her father to keep solving her problems for her. “No, thank you. I have nothing to worry about. I didn’t do anything other than save a man’s life. I already contacted my old attorney. If they want to question me again, he’ll be coming with me.”
There, she stood up to her father. And, oddly, he didn’t seem to mind. He accepted her decision with a look akin to approval.
“I might be late coming back tonight,” he said.
And for the first time that week, she smiled. “Be as late as you like.” She glanced back at her daughter, who was pouring a glass of milk and missing the glass here and there. Warmth spread through her chest.
“So you’re feeling well.” Her father’s tone held a touch of concern. “This new thing didn’t bring back any of th
e old depression?”
“No.”
“How are you doing with the anxiety? If you’re scared, you don’t have to stay here alone.”
Giving up her independence wasn’t the answer. “Whatever happened, happened on the other side of the property. Over two weeks ago. The guy isn’t sticking around. He’s probably in another state by now. Yes, it’s creepy, kind of, but I’m okay with it. Bad things happen, and then we move on, right? Life keeps going.”
And she knew her father couldn’t disagree with that. She was quoting his own words, after all, something he’d told her after her mother’s death, a million years ago.
He gave her a brief nod and left them with a brisk, “See you later.”
She locked the door behind him, then skipped to Maddie with a grin.
* * *
Jack started his morning with calling the Lanius gallery and asking about how to reach the mushroom artist, Greg Shatzkin. The guy had been all around the mushroom houses. He could have been the one to track those spores onto the last Blackwell crime scene. He could be Blackwell.
But it didn’t turn out that way. Shatzkin, when finally reached, claimed a solid alibi, teaching at a local college, which was confirmed by the admin office. Another dead lead.
After Jack finished grousing over that, he spent the morning online, checking eBay and Craigslist, checking local listings against the roster of stolen items he had from the burglaries. The work was tedious and not the case he wanted to work, but if this was the price he had to pay for being back on active duty, then so be it.
His hand paused over the mouse as a listing for a laptop came up, same model as on his stolen items list. The hard drive would be wiped clean by now, the laptop pretty much unidentifiable, but he made note of the username—topjockhere with numbers after it—then did a search for anything else that user might have listed.
The office buzzed around him, the usual business. He tuned that out as he scanned through some pictures.
He saw things that might or might not be the same as the items he was looking for. He also saw some snowmobile parts that user had traded recently. Made him think of the teens who rode their snowmobiles out around the reservoir.