Chapter 22
Snowden turned the block, still jogging at a decent pace, though he'd been running almost an hour. It felt good to be outside, even if it was ten o'clock at night and the sun had long set. The temperature had cooled to seventy degrees, and though it was muggy, there was a slight breeze that invigorated his sweaty body. It felt good to push himself physically, giving his mind release.
He'd decided to take an unplanned run after arriving home following a quick stop at his mother's house. Her arthritis was bothering her again and he was worried about her. She seemed frailer than usual. But after the typical conversation he usually shared with her, he arrived home antsy and unable to concentrate on the fat file he needed to look over. This "sin killer" case, as he'd begun calling it in his mind was beginning to get to him. He kept going over the details again and again; he'd even spoken with an FBI agent in D.C. today who was also a forensic psychologist, hoping for some insight. He just felt as if he was missing something when he read the facts.
Snowden needed to get into the killer's head, but he didn't know how. All he saw when he looked at the file were the gory photos, the facts. He didn't see the man, and his gut feeling told him he needed to see the man to find the man.
Snowden turned the corner, intending to jog up this next block and then loop back home, but as he passed under a streetlamp, he realized he'd turned onto a different street than usual. In fact, he'd overshot his usual path by three blocks. This was a newer section of town, where an apartment building and a cul-de-sac of townhouses had been built in the last two years. Delilah lived on this street.
He hadn't consciously come this way on purpose. Had he subconsciously?
He found himself thinking entirely too often of Sergeant Delilah Swift these days, time he needed to be spending on trying to figure out who the hell was murdering Stephen Kill citizens. But he couldn't get her out of his head sometimes; the blond hair, the clear brown eyes, the sweet southern drawl that could turn authoritative at the drop of a pin. He liked the way she worked, and he liked to watch her work. She knew procedures and she followed them, but she had a way of picking up nuances, details not obvious to most cops. She knew people, understood what made them tick, and she used her knowledge to make herself a better cop.
Snowden considered turning around in the middle of the street and heading for home. He needed to get a shower, grab something to eat, and do a little reading before bed. He'd wasted half his day at city hall today and intended to be in the office early tomorrow, even though it was Saturday.
But he didn't turn around. Instead, he jogged into the cul-de-sac. The townhouses were nice, moderately priced, attractive, and seemed to be built well. On the small, well-kept front lawns he saw a plastic Big Wheel trike, an abandoned basketball, a couple of lawn chairs. Lights glowed behind pulled draperies and mini-blinds. Someone passed him going the opposite way, walking a cocker spaniel. "Evening," the middle-aged man greeted.
Snowden recognized him as one of the men on the volunteer fire squadron. "Evening, Mr. Kemp."
"Long way from home, Chief," he said as he passed Snowden.
"Nothing like a change of scenery," Snowden panted.
Mr. Kemp walked on and Snowden slowed his pace, suddenly feeling winded. He gazed at the townhouses he passed. He didn't know which one Delilah lived in. He followed the sidewalk, making the turn at the end of the cul-de-sac, headed out again.
That was when he saw her. She was just a silhouette on a dark front porch that was really no more than a stoop with a railing. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, leaning over the black wrought iron rail, a cigarette glowing in the dark.
He couldn't just jog by.
"Evening, Chief," she said in that accent of hers that could be smooth as silk.
"Delilah." He halted and walked in a circle on the sidewalk in front of her house.
She drew slowly on the cigarette. "You don't usually run in this direction."
He shrugged still walking in tight circles, letting his heart rate lower slowly. "Something different."
"Late to be jogging, but you can't sleep anyway, can you?"
He halted in front of her, leaning forward, hands pressed just above his knees. "I didn't know you smoked."
"I don't, so don't tell my mama." She leaned over and ground the cigarette butt on the brick step. "I bummed it off my neighbor. Figured it was better than the fifth of Jack Daniels I was contemplating earlier."
He laughed.
"You want to come in, have a glass of water?"
"I should probably get home." Snowden gazed down the street. Mr. Kemp had disappeared. He doubted anyone would see him go inside.
"Come on, Snowden. You're already here. You've already seen me in my underwear, you might as well come in." As she reached for the door handle she tugged on the hem of her shorts. "Well, maybe not my underwear, but my brother's. Boxer shorts. Good for sleeping."
Snowden followed her inside. The front door opened into a small foyer where an antique side table stood, an old wavy-glassed mirror hanging over it. To the left was a staircase leading up. She led him down the short hall, lined with family photographs. To the left lay a dimly lit living room, sparsely furnished. To the right, a brightly lit eat-in kitchen, dominated by another antique table, this one a dining table big enough to easily seat eight. On it lay stacks of folders, legal pads, and newspaper clippings as well as several assorted tools such as machetes and saws.
"Plan on clearing the farm or opening a tool store?" he asked, looking down at the table.
She went to a cupboard and opened it to reveal six glasses, all neatly lined up. She took one and carried it to the refrigerator, filling it with ice and then water from the automatic dispenser on the door.
He picked up one of the tools, the oldest of the collection. It had a stained wooden handle and a thin, curved blade.
"Scythe," she said. "My granddaddy called it a sling-blade. He used it to keep the woods from encroaching on his fields."
"Where'd you get it?"
"I ran into old man Pickering at the hardware store. He overheard my conversation with Leroy, who works the counter. He insisted on running out to his farm, bringing it back in. He said if he was to kill a man, a scythe would do it."
"Wrong shape to cut off a man's hands," Snowden said, running a finger over the curved, rusty blade. He set it back on the table.
She pushed the glass of water into his hand. "I know. But he wanted to help out, and I thought it wouldn't hurt to have a look. Compare different types of blades." She rested one hand on her hip, surveying her collection.
In the light, he could see that she was, indeed, wearing a pair of men's boxer shorts. Striped, white and green. Her T-shirt was a men's V-neck undershirt, white and transparent. Through the fabric he couldn't help but see her small, firm breasts, the dark areoles showing through.
His mouth felt dry and he concentrated on swallowing a mouthful of cold water. "You've been busy. I don't even recognize all these things. What are they?"
One by one she picked them up. Some were brand new, still with price tags, others had obviously been used a long time. "What we've got here, Snowden, are implements meant to trim, prune, chop, split, blaze trails, brush out lines, and clear campsites," she said with great authority. "We've got your axe, your hatchet, your pruning saw and shears, a pruning knife"—she tapped a long-bladed, short-handled knife he'd never seen before—"your bow saw and your lopper. But here"—she picked up the last tool on the table—"here we've got your common machete."
He watched her slice the air with it. This one, with two-inch-wide, thin blade and molded, blond wood handle still had a price tag on it, as well as a cardboard sheath on the blade to prevent injury. "If I were a woman looking to lop off a man's hands, I think I'd use this nice machete." It made a swishing sound as she sliced the air again.
"You'd be a pretty sick woman."
She smiled. "Exactly." She set it down, crossing her arms over her breasts, not seeming
in the least bit uncomfortable to be standing with him in her kitchen, only half dressed. "Guess what I found out at Burton's today? They have a brand spankin' new computer system they're using to track inventory, what comes in, what goes out."
Snowden finished the glass of water and walked it to the sink. "Do they know who buys what?"
"Darned straight they do." She grinned. "Been eleven sales of this kind of implement in the last two months, which is when they started keeping track. I crossed off any saws because the wound was obviously sliced rather than sawed, which left me with only five."
"The killer could have had one of these things lying around. We don't know that he bought the weapon, or if he did, that he bought it around here."
She frowned. "I know that, Snowden, but we have to start somewhere. Do you have any idea how many times a crime is solved by tracking down who bought a pistol, or rope, or the rat poison? Don't you ever watch true crime TV?"
"I try not to," he said with a teasing, superior manner. "So who bought something they could use to chop off a man's hands?"
She grabbed a legal pad off the top of a pile of files on her desk. "I'm hungry. You want some ice cream?" She walked out of the dining area, back into the kitchen area, bare feet padding on the clean tile floor.
"No, I don't want any ice cream, Delilah. I want to know who's on that list."
She opened the freezer, tucking the notepad under her arm. "I've got Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia," she sang.
If Snowden had to choose his favorite ice cream, it would have been Cherry Garcia. "And I took you for a Phish Food kind of girl," he quipped.
She removed the cardboard pint and set it on the counter, pulling the legal pad out from under her arm. "Once I crossed off the serrated-edged saws and any type of shears, I was left with only four names. One bought an axe, two bought hatchets, and one a machete."
"I thought the ME said the wound was caused by something with a narrow blade. Wouldn't an axe show chop marks in the table?"
She set the legal pad on the counter and retrieved two bowls from the cupboard over her head. "Blasted table was old-school Formica. Probably came from the parents' house. Had to be at least forty years old. There were nicks on it, but nothing definitive." From a drawer, she fished out an ice cream scoop.
Snowden walked into the kitchen area but resisted leaning over the counter to read her chicken scratch. "OK, you've got my rapt attention."
She didn't need the piece of paper to recite the names. As she scooped ice cream out of the cardboard container into the delicate glass bowls, she spoke softly. "Joshua Troyer bought an axe."
"The man uses wood to heat his home."
"Dr. Cary picked up a hatchet two weeks ago. Actually bought it from Mr. Newton, who works there part-time." She dropped a scoop of ice cream into a bowl.
"Cary bought an old house on the end of Sycamore. Backyard is overgrown. It's going to take more than a hatchet to clear."
"Cora Watkins bought a hatchet too."
"What would she be doing with a hatchet?" Snowden wondered aloud.
"I thought the same thing." She put the ice cream container back in the refrigerator and pointed. "Spoons in that drawer. Come on in the living room and sit down." She picked up her notepad and the bowls of ice cream.
He grabbed two spoons from the immaculate drawer, neatly stacked with eating utensils. "I can't imagine Cora lifting anything heavier than a loaf of pumpkin bread." He followed her into the living room.
She sat down on the end of a small, paisley print couch, and setting everything on an old piano bench that served as an end table, she turned on a lamp.
Snowden stood in the entryway to the living room, spoon in each hand.
"Come on, sit down." She reached for the ice cream bowls.
"Delilah, I don't want to sit on your nice couch. I'm all sweaty." And the couch was small. She'd be sitting beside him, close enough to touch. "I probably stink."
She laughed. "Snowden, I grew up with six brothers, remember? There's no way in heck you smell half as bad as six Swift brothers come back from fishin' on the lake on a hot August day."
He glanced at the couch that looked very expensive. She had incredible taste for a woman as young as she was. The old polished furniture, with nothing quite matching, was striking against the blond hardwood floor, the faded Oriental carpet, and the rich, dark design of the couch.
"Sit," she ordered.
Snowden sat, passing her a spoon.
"You'll never guess who bought the machete," she said, drawing her shapely legs up under and diving into the bowl of cherry vanilla ice cream.
He slipped a spoonful into his mouth, and it was cold and sweet. "I'm listening."
She licked her spoon, smiling provocatively. "Name on the account is Gibson."
"Noah Gibson." He halted his spoon midair, lowering it to the bowl. "You've got to be kidding."
She bit down on her lower lip. "Not Noah, but Rachel."
"Jesus H. Christ," he whispered, looking away. Rachel a killer? Impossible. An accessory to murder? Even that idea seemed far-fetched. When he realized he'd cursed aloud, he turned to Delilah. "I apologize. Excuse my language."
She laughed, pushing another spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. "I know it's supposed to be Jesus Holy Christ, but in my family, the H. stands for Henry. Old Henry was my daddy's daddy and a real son of a bitch, so the stories go."
He couldn't resist returning her smile. She was so beautiful—sitting on this couch in her brother's underwear, not wearing a stitch of makeup, legs tucked under her, eating ice cream—that Snowden, for the first time in as long as he could remember, actually wished he had a woman to jog home to tonight. Sitting here with his sergeant, who he had no business fraternizing with, made him realize how damned lonely he was.
He glanced away, his gaze settling on a large upholstered chair nestled in the shadows of the far side of the room. It was a big, cozy, comfy chair with a matching hassock, the kind men had once slept in on Sunday afternoons in the days before La-Z-Boys. He imagined Delilah curled in the chair in her boxers and T-shirt, eating ice cream, pouring over the files she had constructed on the case.
"So what do you think?" he asked quietly, setting his bowl on the hardwood floor beside the couch.
"This is about sin, Snowden, I know it is." She moved closer to him on the couch, drawing him in as if telling a story. Her voice was soft but compelling. "It's about punishment for sin, real or imagined. It's about religion. Miss Watkins and the Gibsons all have close ties to the church. To St. Paul's."
"Which takes us back to Noah Gibson knowing about sins his parishioners committed," Snowden said. It still pissed him off that Noah, in the name of so-called principle, refused to give information that could help solve the crimes. That certainly made him a suspect in Snowden's book. Snowden told himself that the fact that he had dated Noah's ex-wife and been disappointed that she still had a thing for Noah in no way came into play. At least he hoped it didn't.
"The priest who listened to confessions, the fallen priest who went to prison for his sins, is too easy," she whispered, reaching out to rest her hand on his. "We're barking in the wrong holler. Who else in that church would know about the sins people in this town have committed?"
"No one. Confessions are private," he answered softly, making no attempt to remove her hand from his. It seemed so small, so pale, resting on his large, black hand. Seeing it there made him want to cover it with his other hand, bring it to his lips.
"But they're not, Snowden." She patted his hand. "Think about it. You go to the church to talk with your minister or priest. People in the town see you pull into the parking lot in your car. People at choir practice see you slipping out of the priest's office. The church secretary enters your appointments in the priest's book. Shoot, the janitor lingers outside a closed door a moment too long, overhearing a conversation."
Snowden sat back on the couch, his hand sliding out from under hers. "That takes you back to the idea
that anyone in this town could have killed those people."
"Yes and no."
"How so?"
"We do have some possible suspects. Some leads. All I'm saying is that we keep our minds open. Right now, the priest looks so obvious that it can't be him."
"Or it is because he's right under our noses. It fits perfectly. He went to jail for a sin he committed, Delilah. Johnny and Pam weren't punished for their sins. Apparently neither was Skeeter. Maybe he's seeing that they're punished for what they did, as he was punished."
"Maybe. But we can't decide it's him just because you want it to be him."
"I don't want it to be him," Snowden defended.
"Sure you do. You think he should have spent the rest of his life in prison for what he did. He doesn't deserve to return home, go back to his pretty wife."
"I keep my personal feelings to myself when I'm conducting an investigation."
"I know you do." She sat back, pointing a finger at him. "Which is exactly why first thing next week, I want to talk to everyone who bought one of these tools from Burton's, including Rachel Gibson. Just a friendly visit. I also need to find out why the killer thought Skeeter was a thief. When I tried to address the subject with his parents, something strange was going on there. It seemed like Mrs. Newton wanted to say something, but not in front of her husband." She shook her head. "I could be wrong. Grief does funny things to people. I think if I can catch her alone, she might have some more information for us." She looked up at him. "So what do you think?"
"Good a direction as any to head." He rose from the couch. "Maybe I'll ride with you Monday."
"That would be great." She popped off the couch. "I mean, sure." She pressed her hands to the small of her back, seeming a little flustered. "That might be a good idea, you know, just in case Noah Gibson comes after me with a machete or Miss Cora tries to beat me over the head with a loaf of zucchini bread."
"So I'll see you at the station Monday morning." He leaned over to pick up his bowl. "And not before, Sergeant. You're already working too many hours."
Unspoken Fear Page 26