Cold Dark Places (Cady Maddix Mystery Book 1)

by Kylie Brant

  In that moment, the memory of last night flashed into her mind. She looked at him now, at the impatient expression on his face, which was showing the signs of middle age. In the daylight hours, it was even more difficult to imagine a reason for him sneaking out to the boathouse in the middle of the night.

  “Uh . . . I was thinking. I’d like a bigger place to use as a studio. And I was wondering . . . you have all those empty rooms in the unused wing . . .”

  “We’ve turned off the heat to those rooms.” His brows drew together. “As much as I could manage, at any rate. Perhaps you should ask Rosalyn to help you move the furniture around in yours. Or try one of the other bedrooms.”

  “There’s not enough natural light in them.” The nicest rooms in this wing had already been claimed. One large suite was occupied by Uncle Bill’s family; the other had once been used by Eryn and Mama. Mary Jane had a small bedroom, and there were two guest rooms. None of them was suitable for her purposes.

  “Well, sometimes we have to make do with what’s at hand, Eryn.”

  Her earlier courage was draining away. Before she lost the last remnant of it, she added in a rush, “I’d also like to learn to drive.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “I think that’s probably a good idea. In due time.”

  Irritation stiffened her spine. “When is in due time?”

  “As head of this household, I’ll make the decision. Perhaps in the spring.”

  She waited, but he only lifted the lid of the computer again, began staring at the screen. “What did Mama’s will say?” She watched the tension settle in his shoulders before he looked at her again.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve been feeling . . . grateful,” she said hastily, “. . . but uncomfortable, thinking I was encroaching here.”

  “Eryn, you’ve just gotten back . . .”

  “I know.” She trailed her fingers over the butter-soft leather of the winged chair next to her. “But I think I’d be more comfortable if we had a conversation about where things stand.”

  “Very well.” She could feel him watching her, but she couldn’t meet his eye. Not yet. Most of the adults at Rolling Acres had been professionals of some sort. While she’d managed a modicum of ease with her peers there, it was still easy to be cowed by grown-ups. They held all the control. They made the rules. She wondered how long it would be before she identified as a bona fide adult herself.

  “Your mama and I were equal inheritors of our parents’ estate.” He rocked back in the desk chair, his mouth held as though he’d tasted something unpleasant. “I’ve always managed the finances of the various Pullman properties and businesses. Most of the profits from them are plowed back into the companies. Some, a fairly significant amount, are used for the upkeep of this property. The remainder has been split between Aurora—now you—and me.”

  Absorbing this for a moment, Eryn said, “When do I gain control over my share?”

  His lips flattened. “Control probably isn’t the best term, but under ordinary circumstances it would come upon your twenty-first birthday, which has passed. Your doctor will be called upon to attest you’re equipped for the responsibility. But,” he waved a hand dismissively, “we’re rushing things. You need to give yourself some—” His cell rang, and he fumbled for it before drawing it out of his trouser pocket.

  “Rosalyn, what is it? You only left a minute—” He stopped talking, shooting from his chair as if launched. “What? Where?”

  Eryn could make out Rosalyn’s voice, but not the words. Her hysterical shrieks, though, were unmistakable.

  Uncle Bill rounded the desk and bolted from the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Eryn, stay inside!”

  Trailing behind him, she watched as he ran to open the front door, slamming it behind him. Had there been an accident of some sort? Her pace quickened until she reopened the door. Stepped through it. She followed her uncle down the circular drive in front of the sprawling house. Her gaze traveled beyond the expanse of lawn, brown now with winter’s approach, past the spiked wrought-iron fence to the other side of the road.

  A figure was mounted on a tall pole. Flames were climbing upward, engulfing its feet.

  “Eryn! Get back in the house!”

  She heard the sound of her uncle’s voice, but his words didn’t register. Eryn wasn’t even aware she’d left the drive and was crossing the lawn, drawn as if by an invisible force. The figure, a mannequin she could see now, had long light hair. A wig, maybe. Eryn’s hand rose of its own volition. Fingered a strand of her own straight blonde strands. At the top of the pole a large sign was displayed. She stopped only when she was close enough to read it:

  KILLERS BURN IN HELL!!!!

  Ryder

  The fire truck might have been overkill, but Ryder had been concerned about having a ditch fire on his hands by the time he got out to the Pullman Estate. A concern that had been warranted, because when he’d arrived, ten minutes ahead of the fire department, the flames had spread beyond the base of the pole and were racing through the ditch.

  He’d used the extinguisher in his trunk on the effigy, which had mostly burned itself out before his arrival. And only when the firefighters seemed to have the ditch fire contained did he leave his chief deputy, Jerry Garza, in charge while he headed toward the Pullman house for the second time in only days.

  The gates were open this time. William Pullman was standing in the drive, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket. There was a girl beside him. No, not a girl, Ryder corrected himself as he drew closer. A young woman. The one who’d been in the car the last time he was called. Eryn Pullman. She wore no coat, but someone had draped a blanket around her shoulders. The boots she was wearing looked too large for her.

  “Thank you for coming, Sheriff.”

  “I’m glad you called. This fire could have spread to several acres, as dry as it’s been.” And he had a few names that jumped to the top of the suspect list for today’s stunt. Every single person who’d been here last week, all of whom had to be ordered off the Pullman property.

  “Let’s go inside.” William turned, and, with a hand on Eryn’s arm, guided her back toward the house. With a feeling of déjà vu, Ryder followed them to the office he’d been shown to days earlier.

  “You said on the phone that your wife noticed the fire first.” Ryder pulled a notebook and pen out of his coat pocket.

  “Yes.” William Pullman slipped out of his jacket and hung it on the back of the desk chair before dropping into the seat like dead weight. “She had my son in the car. He’s seven. She was taking him to the doctor and he had to see . . . that.”

  “It was me.”

  Ryder looked at Eryn. It was the first time he’d heard her speak. She remained huddled in the blanket, as if the warmer temperatures inside hadn’t chased away the chill that enveloped her. “I mean, it was supposed to represent me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said grimly. Like the girl—he had to stop thinking of her like a kid—the young lady didn’t have enough on her plate. “I’ll be interviewing everyone who was here the day your uncle brought you home. The perpetrator has broken several laws, not the least of which is harassment. The wording of the message is similar to those on the signs wielded by the crowd blocking your gate a few days ago. But I don’t want to get tunnel vision on this. Can you think of anyone you came into contact with in Rolling Acres who might be responsible?”

  “What are you implying?” William demanded. “You just guessed it was probably the same people who were here earlier this week.”

  Eryn turned her head slowly in Ryder’s direction, seeming to focus on him for the first time. Her eyes were the palest blue he’d ever seen, like a winter sky.

  “No. The professionals wouldn’t have any reason to do this, and the residents . . . well, they’re still locked up.”

  “Maybe you had an altercation with someone, recently or in the past.” A former patient. Or even a current resident could have r
eached out to a friend or relative to do their bidding, much as Aldeen had done from Fristol.

  She shook her head definitively. “There’s no one.” Eryn stood abruptly. And when she spoke again, her voice was almost childlike. “May I go now?”

  “Why don’t you have Mary Jane make you some tea and lay down?” William suggested.

  Without answering she went to the door. Then paused. She turned her head to look at Ryder over her shoulder. “What I did when I was a child was horrible. People don’t understand it. They think I’m a monster, and if I were them I’d probably think so too. But you need to stop them. I might deserve this treatment, but my uncle and his family don’t.” Then she glided silently from the room like a quilt-covered ghost.

  When Ryder glanced at Pullman, the man appeared shaken. “This can’t continue.” He wiped a hand over his face and his jaw squared. “My niece is still in a fragile state, and this is a critical transition period for her. She doesn’t need the constant turmoil.”

  “None of you do. What time did your wife notice the fire?”

  “Um . . . it would have been about forty-five minutes ago. Only a minute or two before I called your office.”

  “Have you had any other incidents since you brought your niece home?” William shook his head. “No trespassers? Strange phone calls?”

  “No. We don’t have a landline. We all use cells.”

  Ryder asked several more questions, but it soon became apparent William had no more information to offer. Finally, he stood. “I’ll contact you after I’ve conducted some interviews.” He’d start with the guy they’d hauled in a couple of days ago. Frederick Bancroft. The man had spent a day in lockup and still faced charges for multiple misdemeanors.

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” William sounded weary.

  Ryder nodded and headed for the front door, letting himself out and jogging down the steps to rejoin his deputy, who was still outside the gate. The fire looked well in hand. He spotted Jerry speaking to Bruce Mayer, one of the firemen, and strode in their direction.

  “Ryder.” Bruce’s greeting was friendly. They’d played on the high school football team together, although Bruce was a year older. “I haven’t seen you around in a while. We’re gonna have to get together and relive our glory days over a beer.”

  “I’m up for the beer, but I have a feeling the memories will be more exaggeration than fact.”

  “It’s all in the tellin’.” The other man winked. “We’ll wait until the origin of the fire cools off before taking it down and packaging it for shipment to the state crime lab.”

  Ryder nodded, but he didn’t hold out much hope he’d see results anytime soon. The fire wasn’t linked to a high-profile crime, and finding evidence that had withstood the flames and could be traced back to a suspect would be dicey at best.

  When his cell rang, he stepped away from the duo to answer it. “Ry, it’s Patterson.” Cal Patterson was one of his deputies who was finishing up interviews of Fristol personnel. “We’ve covered just about every employee or sub who worked the week prior to the escape with the exception of seven. All of them are currently out on sick leave or on vacation. Security tapes show only one of those in the vicinity of the infirmary in the last several days, though. Joe Bush. Last month he signed up for a two-week vacation to begin two days before the escape. No one seems to know where he was headed, but he isn’t answering his cell. We contacted his ex, and she had no idea, either.”

  “Do you have an address?” Cal reeled it off for him. With one eye on the fireman who had peeled away from Garza and walked back toward the ditch, Ryder said, “We’ll check it out. By the way, I had a message from Dr. Isaacson this morning. None of the doctors on staff recognized the patient referred to on Aldeen’s audio files. Are you still listening to them?”

  “Finishing as we speak,” the deputy said sourly. “That voice could double as a sleep aid. I haven’t heard anything that would give me a clue about the identity of the patient. The only other weird thing I’ve run across is an entire file that contains nothing but laughter. Five minutes and eighteen seconds of it, to be exact.”

  “What the hell?” Ryder was nonplussed for a moment. “Was there any background noise? Maybe it was recorded at an event of some kind.” The crime lab could probably do something with the file if that were the case. Mute the laughter. Turn up the other sounds. Maybe they were from a place Aldeen had visited.

  “I’m not an expert, but it didn’t seem that way to me. It sounded like it could be different clips spliced together. All of little kids laughing.”

  Everything inside him stilled. The hair on his nape raised. Children. Of course. In the next moment another thought slammed into him. “Cal? I want you to contact administration at the Rolling Acres Resort.” There would be kids there, although he wasn’t sure how young. And there would be progress notes on all of them. “We’ll need another warrant like we had at Fristol for patient records. Take it and a copy of Aldeen’s audio files and ask if they can ID the patient.” Rolling Acres shared the same property as Fristol, although miles separated the two facilities.

  “Rolling Acres? Huh. Joe Bush worked there part-time, too, according to his employment records. I’ll get right on that.”

  Garza’s brows rose as Ryder disconnected. “What was that all about?”

  Ryder filled him in on the conversation while he scanned the scene, his mind already elsewhere. “The fire department seems to have things well in hand. We’re going to drop by Joe Bush’s house. He hasn’t been interviewed yet, and I have plenty of questions to ask him.”

  “Might be a waste of time if he’s supposed to be on vacation. But if he showed up on the security feed near the infirmary recently, maybe he’s our guy.”

  There was a kick in his veins telling Ryder the same thing. They got into the cruiser, and as Ryder pulled onto the blacktop, the deputy asked, “Is anyone else from the task force meeting us at Bush’s?”

  Ryder shook his head. He’d been on his way to the local community center, which they had set up to be a command center to accommodate all the agencies involved in the case, when he’d received the call from Pullman. “Let’s wait and see what we learn at Bush’s.”

  They drove a few miles in silence before the older man scratched his craggy cheek. “This case, along with the Pullman thing, raises all kinds of interesting ancient history. From back when your daddy was sheriff.”

  As always, just the mention of Butch Talbot had tension creeping up Ryder’s spine. Most of the employees in the sheriff’s office had been hired by Ryder’s dad. Many had worked alongside him for decades—Jerry perhaps the longest, since the man was well into his sixties and showing no inclination for retirement. “How so?”

  “Well . . .” Garza settled his weight more comfortably in the car seat. “Take the Pullman girl, who killed her mama all those years ago. You would have still been in the military then, but our office—your daddy—handled the investigation. Sad state of affairs. The judge said the kid was crazy, and she’s been locked up until recently.”

  Ryder wasn’t at all sure being in and out of Rolling Acres Resort met the traditional definition of “locked up,” but he understood the sentiment. Tragedy was blessedly infrequent in the county. The memory of it by longtime residents would be fresh.

  “And then you have that Deputy US Marshal, Cady Maddix, on the Aldeen task force. Funny sort of coincidence.”

  The introduction of the marshal seemed a non sequitur. “Maddix? I don’t see the connection.”

  “Well, I’m not saying there’s a connection, just a coincidence, given her childhood.” When Ryder only looked at him, Jerry shook his head. “I keep forgetting you’d a just been a kid yourself at the time. Shit, that makes me feel old. You’d a been no more than seven or so. No reason you’d remember. But when Cady Maddix was just a mite—four or five, I think—one of her parents left a loaded handgun on the table. The girl picked it up and it went off. Lonny Maddix was all kinds of a son of a bitc
h and a wanted man, at that. Not many were sad to see him go, but it was a helluva thing when his little girl shot him dead.”

  Joe Bush’s home was just outside the Waynesville city limits. Rimmed by timber, it offered seclusion and not much else. The surrounding property was unkempt and—except for a narrow patch on which the house sat—unmowed. It boasted a detached garage several decades newer than the house. The place looked deserted as Ryder and Jerry got out of the vehicle and approached the front door.

  “Maybe he’s around,” Jerry suggested as they climbed the peeling steps to the front porch. “If Bush lives like this, he probably can’t afford to be off on some luxury vacation.”

  “Maybe he can afford a vacation because he lives like this.” Ryder pounded on the rickety screen door. He waited a minute and then repeated the action. When the third try brought no response, the men turned as one and made their way down the steps again. “Let’s try out back.” Plenty of places a guy could go to get away from it all without spending a ton of money, Ryder reflected as they rounded the house. He was partial to fly-fishing himself. No better way for a man to relax than heading for a mountain stream and soaking up the solitude.

  The back porch was in the same state of disrepair as the front. But as Ryder approached it his pace slowed. The interior door was standing ajar. They might have gotten lucky and caught Bush at home.

  He knocked on the screen door, to no avail. Shifting position, Ryder tried to get a better glimpse of the interior. The first space was clearly a kitchen, one with cracked vinyl flooring. It opened onto another room, of which he could only see a sliver. Something caught his eye then, and he stilled. “Stand right here,” he murmured, moving aside to allow Jerry to crowd closer. “What do you see beyond the kitchen? On the floor?”

  The deputy pressed his face against the screen, squinting. “It looks . . . oh damn. That’s a bare foot.” As one they drew their weapons. “Mr. Bush!” Ryder called out. “Haywood County Sheriff. We’re coming in!”