Authors: Tim Waggoner
She liked to think the reason the Crosses had never tried to corrupt her was because they knew how she’d react to any such attempts. But she doubted it could be that simple. Nothing with the Crosses ever was.
“So now what?” Dale asked.
“I’ll do my best to get the state crime lab to hurry up, but it’s bound to be a while before we get any results back. In the meantime, I’ll have my deputies interview all of Ray’s friends, see what they can turn up. I’ll go back over the evidence we’ve gathered, see if anything jumps out that I might’ve missed before. And all the while I’ll be holding my breath and hoping that whoever killed Ray Porter doesn’t decide to strike again.”
“And what do you think the odds of that are?”
“Not good,” she admitted. “There’s a reason why the killer’s copied Carl’s methods. A reason why someone — quite possibly the same person — terrorized Debbie Coulter last night. Whatever’s going on, it’s not over. It’s just begun.”
“I wish I could say I disagree, but I can’t. I may not get Feelings like yours, but my gut instincts tell me you’re right.”
“How about you? What’s your next move?” She didn’t bother asking if he was going to keep investigating Ray’s murder and the attack on Debbie. Once Dale started working on a story, he didn’t stop. It was another way they were alike.
He glanced out the passenger’s side window. “I’m not sure. I might go for a long drive. There’s something that’s … been nagging me lately.”
Joanne knew Dale sometimes took such drives, especially when he’d been thinking about his wife and daughter. “Good idea. A drive always clears your head.”
“It’s not so much a matter of clearing something as it is losing it.”
Before Joanne could ask Dale to explain, he got out of the cruiser and hurried through the rain to his Jeep, looking around as if to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He got inside, turned on the engine, and hit the headlights. He then turned his vehicle around and began heading down the long driveway.
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she saw something dark and sleek follow swiftly after him, running behind the trees lining the driveway. Just like she thought she’d seen something lurking about earlier when she arrived at Sanctity.
No, she decided. She hadn’t seen anything. She was tired and stressed, and her eyes were playing tricks on her, simple as that. She’d check in with whoever was on desk duty tonight — Anderson, she thought — and see how things were going. If all was well, she’d head home and try to catch up on some sleep.
She inserted the key into the ignition and started to turn it when her cell phone ran. Fearing her plans for sleep were about to go seriously awry, she answered her phone.
“Sheriff Talon.”
“Hello, Joanne. It’s nice to hear your voice.”
Joanne didn’t recognize the woman on the other end. Her words were spoken softly, almost whispered, yet there was an underlying strength and sureness to them. Joanne had the impression she was hearing someone old speak, but someone who still possessed a great deal of vitality.
“I’m sorry, but who is this?”
A gentle chuckle, playful and somehow disturbingly intimate, as if the other woman thought she was sharing a private joke with a confidant.
“It’s I should be sorry, my dear. I should’ve remembered my manners. This is Althea Cross. I was hoping you might have a few moments to visit with an old woman before you leave the grounds.”
Joanne was so surprised that she couldn’t answer right away, but she did take the key out of the ignition. And though there was no way Althea could’ve heard her do this, the woman said, “Good.”
Joanne carried a flashlight in her right hand and an open umbrella in her left. Rain pelted the umbrella’s fabric and rivulets ran down the sides. The rain caught and reflected the flashlight’s glow, making it difficult to see. But visibility would’ve been nonexistent without the flashlight’s beam, so she left it on. She stepped cautiously through the wet grass, the cuffs of her uniform pants soaked, as were the socks beneath. Joanne hoped the worst of the storm had already moved far enough south so that Ronnie was out of it. This would be a real bitch to drive through.
The grounds behind Sanctity — one did not use such pedestrian terms as front yard and back yard when referring to a place such as this — were unlit, and Joanne had no idea precisely where she was at and, more importantly, what was around her. Why the darkness, she wondered. It wasn’t as if the Crosses couldn’t afford to illuminate the grounds. Maybe they weren’t used to folks wandering the grounds after the sun had gone down. Maybe Althea had turned off the lights so no one would witness her meeting with Joanne. Perhaps the Crosses were simply more comfortable with darkness. She smiled grimly at the thought.
“Darkness of all kinds,” she added, speaking softly to herself.
She continued walking, sweeping the flashlight beam back and forth, hoping to spot the grande dame of the Cross family. She began to feel a strange disorienting sensation, like thousands of ants were crawling through the narrow space between her skull and brain. She remembered another time that she was surrounded by darkness and damp. It hadn’t been raining in the cavern, but she’d been cold, naked, alone, and hungry. As soon as the memory flash came, it disappeared, but the feelings of fear and abandonment remained behind.
Joanne considered turning around and heading back to her cruiser and getting the hell out of here. But before she could do so, she heard a woman’s voice singing a wordless tune. Out here on Sanctity’s grounds, in the dark and the rain, the sound was eerie, and Joanne couldn’t help shivering. But her voice was strong as she called out, “Is that you, Mrs. Cross?”
The singing stopped, and the woman replied in a voice that, while soft, was firm and confident. “Call me, Althea, child. I’m over here, in the gazebo.”
Joanne swung the beam of her flashlight in the direction of the voice and saw a white gazebo, thin vines curled around the supports of the black-shingled roof. A shadowy form sat on a bench inside, partially hidden by a curtain of streaming rainwater pouring off the roof. The figure was small and slight, barely larger than a child. She raised a hand to cover her eyes.
“I’d be grateful if you could avoid pointing your flashlight directly at me. The light’s harsh to these old eyes of mine, I’m afraid.”
Joanne angled her hand downward so the flashlight’s beam no longer shone on the gazebo but still provided enough illumination to guide her steps as she walked toward it. As she entered the gazebo, she kept the flashlight aimed at her feet, but she didn’t turn it off. She didn’t fear for her safety. If the Crosses wanted to attack her, they could’ve done so any time. But she wanted to be able to see Althea Cross, not only to gauge the woman’s reactions as they spoke, but out of simple curiosity. Joanne thumbed the catch to automatically close her umbrella, then sat on a bench opposite her hostess.
“Thank you from coming to speak with me,” Althea said. “I know it’s uncomfortable to be trudging around the grounds in the rain like this when we could be inside, warm and dry.”
Althea might not be warm out here, but she
was
dry, Joanne noticed. And there was no sign she’d brought an umbrella with her. Joanne was most assuredly
not
dry.
“You could’ve just told me to meet you in the gazebo when you called, instead of just saying, ‘I’ll be out back.’ ”
“Perhaps. But where would be the fun in that? A night like this” — Althea gestured to the night and the rain — “absolutely demands a touch of intrigue, don’t you think?”
“Speaking of intrigue, I assume you wished to meet with me out here so that we could speak in private,” Joanne said.
“That, and I love listening to the sound of the rain, especially when there’s a bit of thunder off in the distance.”
Joanne shouldn’t have been startled by Althea’s words. After all, lots of people enjoyed listening to rain. But hearing the woman echo the thoughts Joanne had been thinking just before her cell phone rang was more than a little unnerving, given the circumstances.
Joanne had expected Althea Cross to be a wizened old woman in her eighties, if not her nineties. A frail thing with sagging, wrinkled skin, bird-boned arms and legs, and wisps of fine white hair clinging to a liver-spotted scalp. But while the woman sitting across from Joanne was petite, she was anything but decrepit. She appeared to be no older than sixty — which was impossible since Marshall, her son, was in his fifties — and she was elegantly attractive. She possessed high cheekbones, patrician nose, regal chin, and eyes the same ice-blue as her son and granddaughter. Her make-up was subtle and understated, and while her hair was silver, it was thick, full, and salon-styled. She wore an expensive brown leather jacket over a black dress, the hemline just above the knee. Her legs were toned and firm, like those of a woman in her thirties. Hell, they looked better than Joanne’s did. A pair of black high heels completed Althea’s outfit, and Joanne noted they were not only dry, but there was no mud on them, despite the heavy rainfall. The woman was so slender, maybe she slipped between the raindrops, Joanne thought.
Althea offered her hand, and though Joanne wasn’t here for a social occasion, she decided it wouldn’t be wise to be rude to the most powerful woman in this part of the state, and so she reached out and clasped Althea’s hand. The woman’s grip was firmer than Joanne expected, almost painful, in fact, and though the skin was smooth, it was dry and too warm, almost hot. Joanne imagined she was touching the hide of some desert lizard, and she grateful when Althea released her hand. The older woman’s eyes glimmered with amusement, as if she were aware of Joanne’s discomfort and enjoyed it.
Joanne worked to maintain her professional composure as she spoke, but it wasn’t easy. She had just met Althea Cross, and already the woman had her off balance.
“When your son greeted me tonight, he told me that you rarely left your room. If that’s true, I’m glad you made an exception for me.”
“Marshall’s a dear, and I’d be lost without him. But he can be a bit overprotective at times.” A thin smile. “I might not be a young, fresh thing anymore, but I’m hardly an invalid.”
Joanne became aware of a scent intermingling with the smells of rain and wet grass. It was sweet in a way, but it was too cloying, too faintly repulsive to be perfume. Certainly not any scent a woman of Althea’s wealth and taste would choose to wear. It wasn’t a smell Joanne usually associated with old people, either — soap, medicine, or musty cloth. Rather it was the scent of cut flowers on the verge of going bad, petals drooping, their edges turning brown. It was probably some scent clinging to the gazebo itself, Joanne told herself, one that had nothing to do with Althea Cross. A person couldn’t smell that like … could they?
“You know why I came here tonight,” Joanne said.
Althea nodded. “I know all about the murder of the Porter boy. Marshall keeps me well informed. I also know my granddaughter saw the boy last night, and that they parted ways before he was killed. And before you say anything, I understand you can’t accept Lenora’s story at face value. You can’t afford to in your line of work.”
“What else do you know?”
Althea surprised Joanne by throwing back her head and letting out a hearty laugh. “Child, if I started telling you
everything
I know, we’d still be here until well after sunrise! But of course you’re asking if I know anything that might aid you in your investigation. And while you might find this hard to believe, I
do
wish to help. You fulfill an absolutely vital function in our community, Joanne. I will do whatever I can to help perform that function.”
Though Althea’s words might’ve seemed overly formal and forced if someone else had spoken them, coming from her, they possessed a sincere solemnity that made her pledge seem believable, or nearly so.
“Do you know who killed Ray Porter?”
“No.”
“Do you know who terrorized Debbie Coulter?”
“No. Do you think they’re one and the same? That would be my guess, but then I’m not a trained law-enforcement officer.”
Joanne hadn’t expected Althea to know, or at least admit to knowing, the answer to those questions, but she’d had to ask.
“I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. — Althea, but I’m tired, wet, and cold. Normally I might not mind sitting here and chatting — ”
“Just one local legend to another, eh?”
That was what Terry had called Joanne earlier when he’d asked about her childhood disappearance. Once again Althea was echoing something Joanne had heard elsewhere, almost as if the woman was rooting through her memories and picking out tidbits with which to taunt her. But instead of frightening her this time, Althea’s carny trick just pissed her off.
She continued speaking as if Althea hadn’t said a word. “If you don’t have anything pertinent to discuss, I’m going to say goodnight, go home, and try to get some sleep before these bags under my eyes turn into suitcases.”
Althea’s thin lips pressed together in irritation, but when she spoke her tone remained pleasant enough. “I suppose that depends on how you define the word
pertinent
. What do you know about my son’s wife?”
Joanne frowned. Of all the turns their conversation might’ve taken, she hadn’t anticipated this one. “Her name is Charlotte, and according to rumor she left your son several years ago and hasn’t been seen since. And no one seems to have any idea where she went.”
“Sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? Especially given my family’s reputation — one that I’ll admit is fully deserved.”
Joanne felt her pulse kick up a notch. One of the rumors she hadn’t mentioned was that some people believed Marshall had tired of his wife and killed her — or ordered someone else to do it. It had happened before Joanne had taken over as sheriff, but in looking over Stan Manchester’s files, and doing a bit of digging on her own, she’d come to the conclusion that there was no solid proof one way or the other.
So was Althea now sitting here and telling Joanne that her son had indeed murdered his wife?
“When you questioned my granddaughter, you might have detected an undercurrent of tension between her father and herself.”