A Dead Issue (19 page)

CHAPTER 34

I sat watching her for a moment as she stood unmoving in the glare of my headlights. The fact that she showed no fear, uncertainty, or relief was unsettling. It was nearly midnight. She was alone on a dark country road standing outside her car. Things prowled in the night and a car had pulled up behind her, yet she appeared unconcerned by either approaching danger or salvation. She stared into and beyond my headlights and seemed to be making eye contact with me.

I opened my door and stepped out. The car sloped toward the side of the road, and the door fell closed when I released it.

“Sheesh! It's about time!” Her voice was impatient like I was late for an appointment. She stood erect. Her hands unclasped and fell to her side. Her long black hair framed a creamy white face, oval and marked by eyes I would later learn were violet. A large crucifix glowed against a dark sweater that blended into her hair and slacks. Even with the backwash of her headlights, she was a face floating in the night above a golden cross.

“You were expecting me?” I asked half in jest.

“Well, I was expecting somebody to come along. I just didn't think it would take like an hour.”

“Car trouble?” I asked as I stepped into the light, and for the first time she seemed to take an interest in the stranger who had stopped to help her on a dark, lonely road. She tilted her head and studied my face before answering.

“Yeah. Transmission. I felt it slipping a few miles back. That last little hill killed it. I got nothing.”

That explained the headlights creeping and struggling through the night.

“You have any kind of roadside assistance? Triple A? Anything?”

“Yeah, Triple A, and some kind of roadside service with my cell phone—and I think one of my credit cards has something. Trouble is, they're not psychic.”

She smiled showing even white teeth, and the bridge of her perky nose wrinkled.

“You've called

?”

“Phone's dead, no charger—this just isn't my freakin' night.” And then she stopped. The wrinkles disappeared as her smile faded and concern came into her eyes. “You've been . . . hurt,” she said and her brow furrowed as her violet eyes searched mine.

I raised my hand to my nose and brushed my fingertips under my eyes where the skin had faded from purple to an unattractive yellow. Her hand came up and rested on my hand.

“Not there,” she said gently and pulled my hand away from my face. “Here,” she said, guiding my hand to my heart.

For a long while we stood in that pose, which was at the same time awkward and wonderful.

“How do you know?” I asked as memories of heartfelt injuries rushed through me—Jonah's death, my parents' divorce, my father . . .

“Because I felt it . . . here.” She took my hand, turned the palm toward her, and, with eyes still boring into me, she gently placed my hand on her heart where the curve of my fingers fit the swell of her breast.

Our pose had surged into the realm of extremely wonderful and the needle on the awkward meter spun wildly. My right hand absorbed the feel of her firm breast while my pinky finger brushed the crucifix. It seemed like a good time to introduce myself.

“My name is Mark—Mark Cameron.”
She allowed my hand to slip through her fingers as I gently removed it from her body.

“Liza Lovell,” she said softly with the same penetrating stare.

We stood silently for a few seconds until my reeling mind came into focus. Saying, “Pleased to meet you,” seemed inappropriate, and shaking her hand after holding her breast was absurd. Instead, I fumbled for my cell phone.

“Want me to call?” I asked flipping it open.

She reached out with both hands and cupped mine. The cell phone closed like the wings of a butterfly.

“Actually, if you don't mind, it might be easier if you would just give me a lift. A tow truck could take an hour to get here, and I'm only going down the road.”

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and smiled. I liked the idea of sitting in the comfort of my car and getting to know her better. “I don't mind a bit,” I said, and her nose crinkled with her smile.

She opened the trunk of her car and I removed two suitcases. As I took them to the BMW, she got into her car and cut the engine and headlights, but left the hazards on. Slinging a purse over her shoulder, she slid comfortably into the passenger seat. Her eyes landed on the revolver, sitting nose down in the center console. She studied it a moment before closing the door, dropping us into darkness.

“Smith and Wesson .357, Model 65—K frame. Nice. You expecting bears?”

Unsure whether I was more stunned by her calm demeanor or her knowledge of guns, I stared at her for a second.

“What's a K frame?” I finally managed.

“Sturdier than a J frame—it's for heavier loads.”

I couldn't take my eyes off of her. “Can I ask you something?”

She looked over. “Sure.”

“How do you know I'm not some kind of homicidal maniac running around the woods with a gun?”

“You touched my heart,” she said and looked away.

“I touched your breast,” I corrected.

“But I felt it in my heart. You're a good person.”

“So you're . . . psychic?” My tone was flat, neither sarcastic nor accusatory.

She looked down as if uncertain or embarrassed then looked directly at me. “If I told you I'm psychic, you'd laugh at me. If I say I'm sensitive, you'll chalk it up to woman's intuition. So for now, let's just call me perceptive.”

“Perceptive . . .”

“Yes, perceptive. You have a .357 magnum right here.” She glanced down at the revolver now visible as a shadowy outline in the instrument lights. “You feel threatened. Are you psychic?” She paused and looked into my eyes again. “Or sensitive? Or are you just perceptive?”

“Cautious,” I said, trying to suppress a smile. She was right—she was extremely perceptive.

“I knew it!” she said triumphantly as if she had won a bet. And then she laughed. It took me a moment to realize she was having fun and I joined her.

“OK, Lisa,” I said shifting from park into drive. “Where to?”

“L
ee
za,” she corrected, emphasizing the sound. “With a Z.”

“OK, L
ee
za with a Z, where to?”

“I'm not sure,” she said. “I've never been there. The address is on Fog Hollow Road wherever that is.”

Fog Hollow Road. I closed my eyes in disbelief. Liza Lovell was Jonah's long lost granddaughter—the one who was handling his estate.

I pulled onto the road and drove slowly down Belhaven Road. Fog Hollow Road was a narrow lane that wound its way through the range of hills between Route 212 and Belhaven. The shortest way would be to go back up to the Crow's Nest and drive down through the campus of Cameron Industries to 212 on “Cameron Drive,” the private road that linked my father's properties. I didn't need a shortcut. I needed time to absorb what was happening and all its complications.

This was the granddaughter of the man I had killed—Jonah, large yet gentle, the picture-book farmer of every story where a five year old spends summers in the country. Grandpa. And I was responsible for his loss. I looked over at Liza, knowing that this could never be made right, but certain that I'd try.

CHAPTER 35

“You're Jonah's granddaughter—aren't you?”

“So now you're psychic,” she said.

“Perceptive,” I countered. “There are only a handful of houses on Fog Hollow Road, and I know that Jonah has a granddaughter.”

I glanced over and she was nodding appreciatively, traces of a smile on her face as if she were remembering him fondly. I drove in silence for a while, not sure of what to say about my relationship with Jonah or the details of his death. She was certainly perceptive enough to sniff out a lie. I decided to deal in the truth—to a point.

“Did you know my grandfather well?” she finally said.

“I worked for him for the last few months. He was one of the good guys.”

“And he was murdered . . .” she shook her head.

It was time to change the subject.

“Look,” I said, “you're not planning on staying there are you?”

She gave me a puzzled look. “Why not?”

“For one thing, it's a crime scene. I think it's locked up. And two, it's . . .”

I paused and she filled in my blank.

“Creepy?”

“I think you'll understand when we get there. It's dark, lonely, and . . .”

“Creepy . . . I know.” She caught my eye and smiled. “Look, I do it all the time. It's not creepy.”

“Do what?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Spend time alone . . . where people have died.”

I glanced over at her, studying her as long as the winding road would allow. She continued.

“I read—people, places, things . . .”

“So you are psychic.”

“Let's leave it at sensitive.” She smiled again. “I walk around the house, pick up objects, touch what the dead touched when they were alive, feel what they felt, smell what they smelled—and it floods into me. I know them and they talk to me.”

She must have sensed my skepticism. “And I don't mean they talk in words. They leave impressions.”

When I didn't respond, she reached over and pulled the revolver out of the console and cradled it in both hands.

“Even in the dark, I can tell,” she said, rolling the gun over and studying the other side. “This isn't your gun.”

I waited for her to continue—to explain, but she seemed content to torture me with a simple statement that happened to be true.

“Just an impression,” she added with a quick look in my direction.

We exchanged glances for several minutes. I challenged her with my eyes—demanding an explanation. Her stubborn silence finally caused me to break. “OK, so how do you know?”

“Am I right?” She sat up and wiggled in her seat. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I knew it!” she said and wiggled back, getting comfortable and smug. “This gun isn't you. This is a showpiece—probably only fired a few times, if ever. The owner spent big bucks on it. He's the kind of guy who gets his hair cut every week—on Saturday. Has his underwear pressed and starched. That's not you, by the way. Then, you have the gun stuck barrel-down in the console. Mr. Starchy Pants would die if he saw his gun treated that way, like a used Kleenex. And who rides around with a gun in the console? Not a criminal. A criminal sticks it under the seat—like cops never look there. Licensed gun owner? Someone who knows the law? I doubt it. You're afraid of something—you need a gun for protection. You're not worried about not having a permit or getting stopped by a cop.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“The car. It goes with the gun. Neither of them belongs to you. Your car probably has McDonald's wrappers ankle deep on the floor. My grandfather couldn't pay you enough to afford a Beamer. You're not a criminal, so you borrowed the gun and car from some rich guy with starched underwear—your father?”

Christ, she was good. I looked over at her and she had her arms folded in complete confidence of her accuracy.

“Maybe I stole them. Maybe I'm a rapist.”

She threw her head back and let out a short burst of laughter. “I placed your hand on my heart and you acted like a seventh grader with pimples. Some rapist. Like I said, you're a good person.”

That was nice to hear. It soothed the ache inside. Dodging a murder investigation, wondering if a man might be alive if you had done things differently, knowing that you are the cause of most of your own misery—it made a difference to have someone, even a stranger, see the good inside. I basked in the glow of that remark all the way to Jonah's lane. I slowed and threw the high beams on the rusted mailbox so she could see “Jonah Heard” painted on the side.

Rolling down a farm lane after midnight, the woods pressing in from both sides, tires crunching on the gravel back to the “scene of the crime,” gave me the creeps. I glanced over at Liza to see if she read my mood, but she seemed to be in the same confident state of self-control. Finally, she turned toward me. “Is it far?”

“We're almost there.”
The woods opened to the orchard on the right and the fields on the left. The piles of brush were tucked back there well cloaked in darkness. The lane's steep pitch pulled us toward the wooden bridge. I braked and we bumped over the boards into Jonah's compound. A light burned somewhere in the house and I remembered the timer. But the glow inside did not radiate the cozy warmth one might expect from a light in a farmhouse. A few short weeks ago I could picture Jonah reading a newspaper, sitting by the fireplace. But now the only image I had was of Jonah lying dead in the shaft of light across the floor.

“Is someone in there?” Liza asked uncertainly.

“It's a light on a timer,” I said pulling up to the front porch. As we stared at the drawn shades with their soft yellow glow, the light went out. Holy fuck.

I calmed myself by reasoning that a timer that was set
to go on would also be set to go off—probably after midnight when most people are asleep. But still . . .

“It could have waited until we were inside,” Liza said with a touch of annoyance. To her, it seemed to be just another inconvenience in a day marked by a bad transmission and a dead cell phone.

“We may not get inside,” I said in a voice that belied my anxiety. “The last time I was here this was a crime scene.” The yellow police tape was gone. “There was a padlock on the door.” I pulled the Smith and Wesson from the console.

With the engine running and the headlights flooding the house, we got out of the car and approached the porch. A panel of plywood had been slapped over the broken windowpane of the front door and screwed to it at an angle, but the hasp and padlock were gone. There were marks where the screws had been pried out roughly with the same lack of care with which the plywood had been added.