by Gayle Wilson
“You believe her?”
It was the only question Hoyt had asked during the fifteen or twenty minutes it had taken Cade to lay the whole thing out for him. And after all, it was the only one that mattered.
“I don’t know. If you were telling me this same stuff, I would have told you no without any hesitation. But listening to her…All I can tell you is that she believes it.”
“Lord protect us from ghoulies and ghosties and things that go bump in the night. My grandmamma used to say that.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I was a kid. Hell, when I was a kid, I believed anything.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m an old man. And I ain’t half so sure of all the things I thought I knew when I was a young one.”
“You think Sarah Comstock’s ghost is trying to use Blythe Wyndham’s daughter to reveal who murdered her?”
Cade could hear the sarcasm in his question. There seemed to be only one interpretation for what Hoyt had just said, which made the comment about being sure of things when he was young feel like a slap at Cade’s disbelief.
“I think if ever a spirit had reason to be restless,” Hoyt said, “it’s that little girl’s. Maybe she thinks I let her down, although, as God is my witness, I swear I tried.”
“Then why isn’t she haunting you?”
“Same reason she ain’t haunting you. Neither one of us would ’a listened if she tried. Maybe a four-year-old would. Especially one who’s sensitive right now to loss and grief. One that’s also living in your grandmamma’s house. Maybe Sarah finally found a receptive audience.”
“You’re telling me you believe there’s something to what Blythe Wyndham claims is happening.”
“I’m telling you that I’d like to go with you when you take that little girl out to Smoke Hollow. I’d be real interested in hearing whatever she has to tell you.”
Cade couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven by the Comstock place. Must have been three, maybe even four years.
Whenever it was, nothing had changed. If the house had ever had a coat of paint, it had long ago weathered off. A couple of rusting automobile carcasses, one set on cement blocks, graced the grassless front yard.
Broken windows had been stuffed with newspaper and rags, except for those in the lean-to addition Hoyt Lee had described. There they had been ignored, leaving that room open to the elements.
Cade would bet those hadn’t been treated like the rest because Abel Comstock never set foot in that part of the house. Guilt? Or simple grief?
Despite the former sheriff’s conviction that Abel Comstock hadn’t murdered his youngest daughter, Cade would have banked on it being the former. After all, who the hell would still live like this in these days of so much state and government support for the indigent?
Maybe an alcoholic father who feels responsible for not protecting his daughter…
He climbed out of the cruiser, deliberately slamming its door as a warning of his arrival. Despite the noise, nothing stirred on the property other than a plastic grocery sack that, carried by the afternoon’s cold wind, scurried along the ground.
“Abel?” He waited through the answering stillness.
He surveyed the entire compound, looking for any sign of life. Maybe Comstock was inside, insulating himself against the cold with some of Pete Carraway’s finest. Or maybe he was down in the hollow waiting to confront the next trespasser.
“Abel Comstock?”
Still no answer. Although it was only a little after four, the light was beginning to go. The temperature had probably dropped six or seven degrees since he’d left the office.
His conversation with Hoyt had sent him back there to reread all the material in the file on the Comstock murder. He’d come away with a sickness in the gut and more questions than answers.
It didn’t seem likely he was going to get any of those this afternoon. As long as he was out here, however…
He walked up to the front door. He knocked forcefully a couple of times, and then out of politeness turned, once more contemplating the desolate front yard. After a minute or two he knocked again. Still no response.
Of course, it was always possible that Abel had seen the patrol car and decided not to answer. Maybe he thought Cade had come about his encounter with Blythe yesterday.
And he wouldn’t be wrong about that.
The thought of the bastard hiding from him made him almost as angry as Abel’s claim about owning the hollow. That was something else he’d checked out in his trip back to town. The property was still in the town’s name. As if Abel could have managed to put together enough to even make an offer on it, he mocked his own gullibility in checking the title.
Cade had already turned to go back to the car when on impulse he reached back and grasped the doorknob. When it moved under his fingers, he pushed the door inward, revealing a front room that was dark and almost as cold as the outside.
Although there was a stack of wood by the hearth, the ashes in the grate were gray and dead. For the first time a tendril of uneasiness curled through his stomach. As cold as it had been last night, if Abel had passed out and let the fire go out…
“Abel? It’s Sheriff Jackson. I need to talk to you. You in here?”
Nothing. He pushed the door open a little wider, primarily to let more light into the room, and then stepped inside.
A miasma of odors assailed him. He could identify the scent of wood smoke from the fireplace, a trace of bacon grease, body odor, and despite the season, a strong smell of mildew.
A single armchair sat before the hearth. On a small table beside it an unlabeled bottle half-full of cloudy liquid sat on top of what appeared to be, judging by its size, a family Bible.
Leaving the door open, Cade crossed the front room to explore down the narrow hallway. There was a bath and a couple of bedrooms. The bed in the one at the end of the hall was unmade, with clothes lying in an untidy array over its brass foot rail. None of the rooms were occupied.
He retraced his steps, looking into the kitchen. It, too, was empty, dishes stacked in the sink and the counters cluttered with empty cans and boxes.
“Abel?” he said again, pitching his voice loudly enough to carry through the small house. No response, and there was now only one place he hadn’t looked.
He walked across the front room and, without giving himself time to think of a reason not to, he opened the door to the addition.
He’d been wrong. The interior of the house wasn’t as cold as the outside, but with its broken windows, this was.
A double bed sat against the wall of the house. It was made, a thin quilt pieced from a variety of scraps serving as a spread. A small chest, the only other piece of furniture, stood against the wall to his right. Directly in front of him were the two windows, which had been ineptly set into the outer wall.
For a moment he wondered why they’d even been added. And then he realized that there was no ceiling fixture. No bedside lamp. Those windows would provide the only light in the room.
As well as a means of entry from the outside…
If Abel and his wife’s bedroom had always been the one at the end of the hall, then it was possible that whatever had happened in here, they couldn’t have heard anything. Certainly not a tap on the window.
This was where Sarah Comstock had spent the few short years of her life. Was it any wonder that if she had chosen to come back, it wouldn’t be to this place?
If she chose to come back. And he was still a long way from buying any of that.
He turned and reentered the front room, pulling the door to the lean-to closed behind him. It was clear that Abel wasn’t here. Judging by the ashes in the grate, he probably hadn’t been all day.
Was it possible that he spent his days in the hollow? Waiting for the next trespasser to show up, so he could convince them that he wasn’t guilty of his daughter’s death.
Given the unpleasantness of his surroundings, Cade didn’t
plan to wait for Abel to come home. And although it was probably less than half a mile by foot to the scene of the crime, he wasn’t going to walk it. Not this late in the day. He’d take the road and follow the trail in as Blythe said she’d done yesterday.
If Abel was hanging around there, he’d warn him off. Cite him for harassment or something. If he wasn’t…
Then it was probably for the better. Given the mood Cade was in, he was the last person Comstock would want to run into.
If Abel was out here, the son of a bitch was even crazier than Cade had thought. Although the description of the place where the murder had taken place was fresh in Cade’s mind from his reading of the files, he’d already come farther from the road than he’d expected to.
On top of that, it was almost dark. In the murky twilight under the canopy of pines, he was having a hard time seeing the ground in front of him. The sound of the creek to his left would take him into the heart of the hollow. If he didn’t trip over an exposed root and break his leg first.
The deeper he went into the woods, the more conscious he was of the isolation. His military background told him this would be the perfect place for an ambush. With the waning light—
He stopped, head cocked to identify whatever he’d just heard. It had definitely come from in front and slightly to the left. Even over the noise of the water, the sound had been sharp and distinct.
Although he hadn’t hunted since he’d come home, he had spent enough time in the woods as a kid to know that hadn’t been the kind of noise game made. Besides, he was upwind of the area it had come from, which meant any animal who’d been here before he’d entered the hollow was by now long gone.
Still frozen in place, he reached down and undid the snap on his holster. Although his intent hadn’t been to take out his weapon, his fingers seemed to wrap around the butt as if they had a mind of their own. As soon as he felt the comfortable heft of the Glock settle into his palm, some of the anxiety he hadn’t even been aware he was feeling seeped out of his body.
He eased a breath and then expelled it in a cloud of white. The temperature had continued to drop, and the humidity along the creek bed made it feel even colder.
Or maybe this is the chill ghosts are supposed to cause.
Despite his uneasiness of a moment ago, the thought amused him. Whatever he’d heard, whatever he was feeling, he was pretty sure it wasn’t the spirit of Sarah Comstock. More likely the drunken stumbling of her sorry-assed daddy.
Weapon in hand, Cade began to move again. The toe of his boot caught on a rock or a root, sending him stumbling forward a couple of steps before he could regain his balance. At least the misstep reminded him of the flashlight on his utility belt.
With his left hand, he freed it. The cone of light it provided illuminated only a few feet in front of him, but that was enough to allow him to stride more freely.
He thought more than once about turning back, heading to the patrol car and then to the Town Square Diner for supper. Even if Abel was out here, Cade would play hell making any kind of charge against him stick. That had been thinking with his gut again.
He probably would have followed that instinct to give this up as a bad idea except for the realization that he’d reached the area where the murder had taken place. He stopped, directing the flashlight over the location in a wide circle.
The light reflected off the trunks of the trees, creating wavering shadows between them. After a moment, he switched off the distorting beam, allowing his eyes to adjust to the murky dimness. Once they had, it became clear that the spot indeed matched the crime-scene photographs he’d looked at this morning.
He expelled another breath, watching the white mist that formed when it hit the air drift in front of him. Apparently Abel didn’t have the place staked out to warn off trespassers. Or if he did, he was still sober enough to recognize that he would be pushing his luck trying to get rid of Cade.
“Abel? You out here?”
There was no sound except the noise of the creek.
Even if Comstock was here, he wasn’t going to answer. This whole thing had been a waste of time from the start. He’d do better to go back to town and then return to the Comstock place tomorrow. He could take some photographs of the tire tread on Abel’s truck. Do something that suggested investigation rather than personal vendetta.
Or a ghost hunt.
“If you’re out here, Abel, be aware I know what happened here yesterday. What lies you told Ms. Wyndham. You sure as hell aren’t the owner of this property. The county is. And that means you’re the one who’s trespassing.”
By the end of that speech, delivered at volume, Cade was beginning to feel more than a little foolish. First of all, he didn’t know whether or not Comstock was here. Secondly, he seemed to be threatening Abel with trespassing, a relatively toothless charge, even for Crenshaw.
He just needed to get the hell out of these woods. Find someplace warm. Grab some food.
And some perspective.
He turned, at the same time shoving the semiautomatic back into his holster. He hadn’t completed that action when the bark on the tree beside him exploded outward, fragments striking the unprotected side of his face. Then, at almost the same instant, the sound of the gunshot that had struck the trunk echoed through the clearing.
18
C ade’s reaction was pure reflex. He threw his right hand up to shield his eyes, bringing the semiautomatic with it. As he did, he dropped into a crouch, pivoting on the balls of his feet so he was facing the direction from which the shot had come.
When he’d completed that turn, the Glock was already out in front of his body, left hand cupped under the right to steady it. He pumped two quick rounds at the place where he believed the gunfire had originated before he sidestepped, positioning himself behind the tree the bullet had struck.
Then, holding his breath, he listened for any noise that might reveal the shooter’s position. He could hear nothing over the ever-present gurgle of the creek.
Eventually he eased a breath, trying to think of the best way to get out of here without getting his head blown off in the process. He had no doubt that had been the intent of his assailant’s shot. If he hadn’t begun to turn at the exact second he had…
Rather than worrying about what might have been, he concentrated on formulating a plan. He wasn’t going to sit out here in the woods all night. Although it wasn’t cold enough to be dangerous, it would be damned uncomfortable.
He also didn’t intend to do anything that would allow Abel to take another shot at him. Judging by the accuracy of the last one, the bastard hadn’t drunk enough today to spoil his aim. Of course, he reminded himself, Comstock had supplied meat for his family for years from these woods. And judging by his long-standing habits, most of those times he’d gone out hunting, he would have been intoxicated. Abel could probably shoot as straight drunk as Cade could sober.
Son of a bitch. The expletive didn’t help. And the fact that he couldn’t express it aloud added to his frustration.
He could edge around the trunk and then work his way through the trees until he was behind his assailant. Despite the recent rain, however, there would be no way he could do that without making enough noise to alert Abel to his approach.
Or maybe he should let him hear. Maybe if Abel knew Cade was coming for him, he’d leave. Melt back into the shadows and head for home. After all, as things stood now, there was no way to prove who had fired that shot. Comstock had probably already thought of that. Maybe that was why he hadn’t fired again.
Hell, maybe Cade had even been wrong about his intent. Maybe the drunken bastard was good enough to graze the tree beside him without hitting him.
Cade shifted his weight, leaning to his left to peer around the other side of the trunk. Even in the few minutes since he’d taken shelter here, it had grown darker. Enough so that he could barely distinguish the trees from the spaces between them.
His eyes strained to spot any anomaly, any
area of more solid blackness among the shadows and the vertical lines of the pines. There was none.
With the semiautomatic leading the way, he moved in a low crouch to the left of the tree and began to circle back toward the location from which the gunfire had come from. He moved slowly, taking as much care as possible. Still, the occasional crack of a twig or rustle of leaves seemed to echo through the stillness.
During the times he halted to listen for any answering movement from his opponent, he could hear nothing but the stream to his back. It would mask his progress as well, he told himself as he drew nearer his destination.
As his distance from the creek increased, its noise faded. When he moved into the area from which he believed the shot had originated, there would be an even greater need for stealth.
He took another careful step forward. As he lowered his boot, it encountered an obstacle that caused him to hesitate, balancing on one foot. The surface he’d just touched lacked the solidity of wood. Nor had it moved, like the foliage on the fallen branches he’d stepped on before.
There had been something different enough about the feel of this to make him take a backward step and then stoop to investigate. The Glock still grasped in his right hand, with his left he reached out, fumbling in the darkness. What his fingers discovered caused the rhythm of his heart to skip before it resumed its steady beat, but much more rapidly than before.
He traced along the fabric-covered surface his intellect had already identified as the torso of a body. There was no discernable warmth beneath the flannel shirt. When his fingers reached its open collar, he slid them into position on the side of the man’s neck, feeling for the life-sustaining pulse of the carotid artery.
Because of the stubble of whiskers beneath his fingertips, there was no question about the gender of the victim. And after a few seconds, no possible doubt that he was dead. And judging by the coolness of the skin, that he had been for a while.