Bogeyman

by Gayle Wilson

“So there’s nothing there.”

  “Not that I can see tonight. We’ll come back out in the morning and take another look.”

  “Just like after the fire.”

  “When the light’s better—”

  “Maybe he doesn’t leave prints.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The edge of hysteria that had been in her voice when she’d talked to him on the phone was back. She was trying to control it, masking her fear in sarcasm, but he’d talked to enough victims to understand that attempt at bravado.

  And that was what she was. Whatever was going on, Blythe was first and foremost a victim of a crime—maybe two—that had been committed in his jurisdiction.

  “Maddie said he’s the one who taps.”

  Despite their earlier conversation about the Wright house, there had been nothing in her call tonight that had made him think she was going to start that again.

  “On her window.” Although he’d been trying to sound nonjudgmental, the words had been flat. She was smart enough to pick up on that.

  “She also said that the little girl he hurt told her to hide. So she did.”

  “Blythe—”

  “I know. I just thought you should have all the pertinent information while you’re conducting your investigation.”

  The sarcasm was back, this time seemingly directed at him. Hell, he was here, wasn’t he? Without supper. Without catching up on the sleep he’d lost chasing her phantoms last night.

  “Do you think your daughter’s communicating with Sarah Comstock’s ghost?”

  The floodlight attached to the corner of the house where he was standing illuminated her face. Something changed in it with his question. Maybe he should have put it into words before now. Maybe once she heard how this sounded—

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I wish I did. I do know what I saw. And what I heard. And I know what Maddie said.”

  “Could I talk to her?”

  “To Maddie?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s four years old.”

  “She talks, doesn’t she? At least I understood from what you just said that she does.”

  “Of course she talks.”

  “Then I’d like to hear what she has to say.”

  “I told you what she said.”

  “It’s my job to interview witnesses. I can’t take information from them secondhand.”

  “She’s four,” she said again. “Have you ever talked to a four-year-old, Sheriff Jackson?”

  Not that he could remember, but he wasn’t going to admit that to her. “I’m not going to frighten her. I’m not going to badger her. I’d just like to hear what happened from her perspective.”

  “After I found her…She said that she didn’t remember whether the little girl had been here or not.”

  “The little girl who told her to hide?”

  “Look, it’s obvious from your attitude—”

  “Somebody set fire to your house last night. Apparently the same somebody was out here in the dark at your grandmother’s tonight. I’m trying to do everything in my power to discover who’s involved. If you’ll let me.”

  “And you think Maddie can help you with that?”

  “Since she seems to be involved in whatever’s going on?” he said patiently.

  “What do you think is going on?”

  “I think you’ve seen someone watching you and your daughter on two separate occasions. If this is the same person who set that fire, then I think…” He hesitated, trying to think of another way to phrase this. There wasn’t any. “I think you’re in danger. Or she is.”

  That was something Blythe knew in her heart or she never would have called him. Now that she had, she didn’t get to dictate the direction in which this proceeded. That was his job.

  “Is she asleep?” he asked, pressing his advantage.

  She shook her head. She was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, as if she were cold despite the jacket she wore.

  “Then why don’t we go inside and let me ask my questions while this is still fresh in her mind.”

  “I’m not sure it is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She never remembers the nightmares. She said she didn’t remember if the little girl was here or not.”

  “Maybe she sensed that talking about her upsets you.”

  He could tell she was thinking about the possibility. Unable to deny that she had been upset.

  “What can it hurt to try?” he prodded. “I promise I won’t scare her. You tell me to stop, and I will.”

  It was a promise he shouldn’t have made, and he regretted it as soon as he had. Still, if this was the only way he was going to be allowed to talk to the child…

  She nodded, the single motion quick. Then she began walking toward the back of the house. “I’ll let you in the front. I told Ruth to lock the door after us.”

  As he moved along the side of the house, Cade shone his light over the ground. Just as there had been no sign of anyone in the woods this morning, there was none here. Maybe the kid wasn’t the only one seeing ghosts.

  What was that disease where the mother made the kid sick so she could get attention? Maybe this was something like that—the mother pretends the daughter sees ghosts so she will be given attention. Except there was nothing in Blythe’s manner that would lead him to make that conclusion.

  If anything, she seemed reluctant to talk about what was going on with her daughter. As far as he knew, she hadn’t talked about it. Not until someone had set fire to her house with her and the little girl inside.

  Besides, every instinct he’d developed over the course of the ten years he’d spent in this job told him that whoever had thrown gasoline or kerosene in the window of the Wright place had been flesh and blood. And that their reasons for doing that had had nothing to do with a haunting.

  14

  “M addie, this is Sheriff Jackson. He wants to talk to you about what happened tonight.”

  As introductions went, this one hadn’t been designed to instill comfort, Cade thought. Although Blythe had agreed to this interview, it was obvious she was doing so under duress. Her reservations would undoubtedly be communicated to her daughter, if not by word then by attitude.

  Still, he didn’t have much choice but to pursue this. The little girl had been involved in everything that had happened. Apparently no one, however, including her mother, had questioned her at any length. Of course, the difficulty of doing that with a four-year-old rapidly became evident to him.

  Maddie hadn’t looked up when her mother had spoken. She was holding a small teddy bear, which looked to be brand-new.

  Which made sense, considering that whatever toys the child had would have been destroyed in the fire. He fought the surge of guilt that realization produced, stooping down in front of the couch on which the little girl was sitting.

  She looked poised to run. If she’d made eye contact, he would have tried to reassure her with a smile. Instead, eyes downcast, with small, slightly grubby fingers, she worried at the ribbon that had been tied around the bear’s neck.

  “Hey, Maddie. I hope you won’t mind answering some questions for me.”

  There was no response other than the momentary stilling of her fingers.

  “You mama says that you’re the one who saw the man at the corner of the house. Is that right?”

  Her head moved up and down, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  The motion this time was side to side.

  “Was he tall?”

  Another nod.

  “Tall as me?” Cade asked, standing so that she would have something to measure by. “Or maybe more like your mama?”

  He was nearly six-two. He judged Blythe to be closer to five-eight or -nine. It was a range that should give him a general idea of the size of the person they were dealing with.

  The little girl’s eyes followed
him as he got to his feet. He’d forgotten how blue they were. Darker than her mother’s, they were widened now as if she were trying to figure out what he wanted her to say.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  “All adults seem tall to her.”

  He glanced at Blythe. Despite her comment, her face was devoid of censure. Her eyes were focused on her daughter, and she appeared oblivious to anything else.

  He gave in to her superior knowledge of how a kid this age thought. “Then how about if you just tell me what you saw.”

  The child ducked her head, fiddling again with the ribbon.

  “Maddie, tell the sheriff what happened. We were swinging…”

  “We were swinging,” the little girl repeated dutifully.

  “And then you saw…” her mother supplied.

  The room was so still as they waited that Cade could hear the crackling of the fire in the grate. A real one, he’d noticed, unlike the gas logs in the parlor.

  “Maddie.”

  “You know what I saw. You tell him.”

  The child’s tone was so adult it took Cade by surprise, particularly after her previous monosyllabic replies.

  “I have told him. Now he wants you to tell him. You may have seen something I didn’t.”

  The blue eyes lifted again, studying Cade rather than her mother. Apparently, whatever the little girl saw reassured her.

  “He was standing by the corner of the house watching us.”

  “Could you see his face?”

  She shook her head.

  “Could you tell anything about him, Maddie?”

  “It was dark all around him.”

  Again there was something strange about that phrasing, but Cade decided to ignore it in the interest of keeping her talking. “And when your mama went running toward him, he left.”

  Another nod.

  “What did you do when she followed him out of the yard?”

  “I hid.”

  “Behind the shed.”

  An affirmative movement of her head.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because it was dark and I was afraid to be by myself.”

  He allowed the silence to build again as he tried to think what to ask next. Blythe took the decision out of his hands.

  “You said someone told you to hide.”

  No response.

  “Maddie? Tell the sheriff what you told me.”

  Nothing.

  “You told me that the little girl told you to hide. Is that what happened?” This time Blythe waited the child out, forcing her to respond.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “But you do remember telling me that, don’t you?”

  A nod.

  “So why did she tell you to hide?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do know, Maddie. You know what you told me?” Blythe’s composure was clearly beginning to slip.

  “Did you make that part up, Maddie?” Cade asked softly. “Did you make it up because you were afraid your mama would be mad you hadn’t answered her?”

  Blythe turned to look at him, mouth open, but he ignored her. He had known she’d be upset by his suggestion, but considering the child’s reluctance to repeat whatever story she’d told outside, that explanation made sense.

  More than a ghost child’s warning from the great beyond.

  “I was afraid he’d find me if I answered.”

  “But he was already gone, wasn’t he?”

  The small shoulders lifted in a shrug.

  “Did you make up the little girl, Maddie?”

  What Cade believed was at the root of this lay in Blythe’s question. Still the child remained silent until her mother spoke again, her voice low and serious.

  “Did you lie to me, Maddie?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then if it was the truth, you need to tell the sheriff what you told me.”

  “She said he’s the one who taps on the glass.”

  “Do you know her name, Maddie?” Cade asked, squatting in front of her again. “Did the little girl you talked to tell you her name?”

  She met his eyes briefly before she dropped hers to the bear. There was something in their depths he couldn’t read. Something that again struck him as too adult. Too knowing.

  “Maddie?”

  The sharpness of Blythe’s question made him wonder if she had seen whatever he’d noticed. If Maddie’s expression bothered him, with his lack of a connection to this child, how would her mother react to it?

  “I don’t know her name. She doesn’t tell me.”

  “But you’ve seen her more than once,” Cade asked.

  “Yes.”

  “In the backyard tonight and…when else?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “At the other house?” Blythe suggested. “Did you talk to her there?”

  “I told you I don’t remember.” The words were petulant. “Can I go sit in the kitchen with Miz Ruth? She said she’d tell me a story. You said she could.”

  Blythe turned to him, brows lifted. Since it was obvious this was getting them nowhere, he decided to cut his losses.

  Maybe if he didn’t alienate the little girl, he might have another chance to talk to her. If he kept on with this—which even to him was beginning to feel more and more like badgering—she’d never trust him again.

  He nodded to Blythe, giving permission to put an end to the interview. Her head tilted as if she were surprised at his agreement.

  “Tell Miz Ruth I said…Tell her to tell you Cinderella. That was always one of my favorites.”

  The little girl unperched herself. Without giving either of them a backward glance, she crossed the room at a run and disappeared through the door.

  “I only repeated what she told me,” Blythe said when Maddie was out of earshot.

  “You believe she was telling you the truth.”

  “She was terrified. I think she was too frightened to lie.”

  “A lot of kids have imaginary playmates. Maybe this is something that makes her feel not quite so alone. She probably doesn’t know many other children yet—”

  “So my daughter has created an imaginary playmate who tells her that some man will hurt her? Where do you think she’d get an idea like that?”

  “Maybe on TV. Or maybe she overheard someone talking. All I know is I find it easier to believe that she’s got an imaginary friend than that she’s communing with the dead.”

  “You find it more acceptable to believe.”

  “I would think you would, too.”

  “I heard things I can’t explain in that house. Just as I can’t explain what happens to her during those nightmares. I sincerely wish I could believe that either had been caused by an imaginary playmate.”

  “If you think there’s a connection to Sarah Comstock, let’s put that to the test.”

  Her eyes widened, reminding him of her daughter’s. “How?”

  Putting the idea he’d just had into words seemed another cruelty. Like badgering a four-year-old? Refusing to believe what a distraught mother was telling him about her child?

  “Whatever is going on started when you moved into the Wright house?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No night terrors, no strange noises until then?”

  “Not even immediately after John died.”

  “You believe both of those have something to do with Sarah Comstock’s connection to that house.”

  “Her grandmother lived there. Sarah must have spent time there. Given what I now know about the family, I thought the house might have been…a haven for those children.”

  “Somewhere they felt safe.”

  “Yes.”

  But Sarah hadn’t been sleeping at her grandmother’s the night she’d died. She’d been taken from her own bed in that shack Abel Comstock still called home.

  “What do you think would happen if you exposed Maddie to somewhere Sarah didn’t feel safe?�
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  “I don’t understand.”

  He could tell by her eyes that she did. She just didn’t want to entertain the idea. He could hardly blame her for that.

  “Smoke Hollow.”

  “You want to take Maddie to the place where Sarah was murdered?”

  “Believe me, there’s no evidence of what took place there. It’s been twenty-five years. The spot’s as beautiful as it was when you were a child.”

  She shivered, crossing her arms over her body again. Her right hand made a back-and-forth journey from her shoulder to her elbow. “Still…”

  “Has she ever been out there?”

  She shook her head.

  “You tell her anything about it? Anything at all?”

  Another negative motion.

  “Has she even heard the name?”

  “I doubt it. I can ask Ruth and Delores, but…I can’t imagine why they would have said anything about that place.”

  “Then we take her there and see what happens.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She laughed, the sound without amusement. “If you don’t know, then I can’t explain it to you.”

  “You think there’ll be some kind of what? Psychic energy out there? Residual pain or terror?”

  “A little girl died there. I don’t think it’s so far-fetched that there might be something…”

  “Something that would traumatize your daughter? That would prove your point, wouldn’t it?”

  “My point?”

  “That whatever is happening with Maddie—and whoever is stalking the two of you—is connected to Sarah’s death.”

  “Why go through this charade? You’ve made it abundantly clear you don’t believe that.”

  “Prove me wrong.”

  “By exposing my daughter to a place where another child was butchered?”

  “If I’m right, there’s no risk, because Maddie won’t know what happened there. If you’re right…” He hesitated, searching for a reality that wouldn’t frighten her. “If you’re right, then we’ll have somewhere to start.”

  “To start what?”

  “Putting an end to this.”

  “So now you’re going ghost hunting?” Anger dripped from her question.

  “If we can prove this is connected to Sarah’s death—the fire, the man who was watching you tonight—then I won’t be hunting for her ghost. I’ll be hunting for her murderer.”