“Are you a religious man?” the reverend asked.
Archie hesitated. “Will my answer affect what you’re willing to tell me?” he said.
The reverend smiled. “I’ll answer your questions as truthfully as I can, regardless of your eternal salvation.”
“I think that my eternal salvation is a lost cause,” Archie said with a rueful smile.
“We’re all sinners,” the reverend said. “That’s why we seek forgiveness.”
“I’ve worked too many homicides to put much stock in forgiveness,” Archie said.
The reverend nodded thoughtfully. “Human beings are capable of great evil.”
“That’s your word, not mine,” Archie said.
“You don’t believe in evil, either, eh?”
“It presumes a lack of biology or experience,” Archie said. “People don’t kill because they’re evil. They usually kill because they want money or sex.”
“Ah, a moral relativist.” He cocked his head at Archie. “What about Gretchen Lowell?”
Archie looked out over the pasture. “You know who I am.”
“We get newspapers. Even in St. Helens.”
The pasture was spotted with green—weeds were always the last to die in the summer. Archie looked back at the reverend. “I haven’t figured her out yet,” Archie said.
Reverend Lewis reached behind his neck and loosened his clerical collar. “It’s been a hot few months,” he said.
“Yes, it has,” Archie said.
They both looked at the view. Two more crows landed near the Dumpster.
“I have a theory that James Beaton was murdered,” Archie said.
The reverend nodded solemnly. “Do you think Mrs. Beaton’s murder is connected to her husband’s murder?”
“Well, it’s a hell of a coincidence,” Archie said. “Excuse my language.”
“Oh, we use the word
hell
here quite a bit,” the reverend said with a soft smile.
“Right,” Archie said. “So what can you tell me about the Beatons?”
“James grew up in St. Helens, attended church,” the reverend said. “He left to attend college. He met Dusty at school and brought her home when he graduated. Dusty joined the
church, and I officiated at their wedding. James took over his father’s accounting business not long after that. He and Dusty had the two kids. Colin and Melissa were both teenagers when
James disappeared.”
“How did they all react?” Archie asked.
“Dusty was angry, mostly,” the reverend said. “She truly loved him.”
“He cheated on her,” Archie said.
“She forgave him.”
There was a warm breeze. It rattled the leaves overhead. Archie felt a drop of sweat snake down the side of his neck into his shirt.
“The children went in opposite directions after their father’s disappearance,” the reverend continued. “Colin became very focused on the church, very devout. Melissa
strayed. They both left town after high school. A lot of young people do. I didn’t hear from Melissa for several years, until the day she called and told me that she’d been diagnosed
with cancer. She asked for us to pray for her.” He tugged on one of his huge ears. “She would have been about twenty-five then. I know she was married. We got a letter from her husband
telling us that she had died.”
“Do you have a copy of the letter?”
“No, I’m sorry. The return address was somewhere in Northern California.”
“What about Colin?” Archie asked.
“Gone,” the reverend said. “I know Mrs. Beaton received cash from him on an irregular basis, and the occasional postcard. She said he moved around a lot. I’m not even
sure what he did for a living.”
“Did you ever see any photographs of him, as an adult?” Archie asked.
Reverend Lewis shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Mrs. Beaton left the church.”
“That’s right,” the reverend said. “She had a crisis of faith after Melissa died. We believe in a literal interpretation of the Scripture. We rely on faith healing
through prayer and the laying on of hands.”
“You don’t go to doctors?”
“We do not,” the reverend said.
“Ever?”
“To do so would be to express doubt in God.”
“But you took care of Mrs. Beaton, even after she left.”
“Just because she wasn’t a congregant anymore doesn’t mean she isn’t one of God’s children.”
Archie slid the photograph out of the envelope and showed it to the reverend. “When I was at the Beaton house a few days ago, there was a photograph on the wall,” Archie said.
“It was just like this, but there was a girl in it, in Colin’s place. Does that sound familiar?”
“A girl?”
“Did Melissa have a close friend or cousin?”
“This was almost twenty years ago. Have you checked with the high school? There might be some of her old teachers still on staff. They might remember someone.”
Archie kept pushing. “Were there any girls Melissa’s age in the congregation at the time?”
“It’s a small congregation.”
“Are there photographs I could look at?” Archie asked. “Church picnics or celebrations?”
“I can have Nancy look through the archives and see what we can pull together. Can’t promise anything. We were in a building up the hill until about five years ago. We lost a lot of
our records in the fire.”
Archie kept his voice steady. “What caused the fire?”
The old man chuckled. “I think the insurance company called it an ‘act of God.’ You probably passed by the old foundation. It’s right up the hill. On Lowell
Street.”
CHAPTER
D
o you know
how many Lowell Streets there are? There’s probably one in every town.” Huffington was sitting
at her desk eating tuna fish from a plastic freezer bag. It was after five, but Huffington didn’t look like she was planning on heading home anytime soon.
“I know,” Archie said.
“And if Gretchen was from St. Helens, don’t you think someone would have recognized her by now?” Huffington asked. “Her face has been plastered all over the news for
three years.”
Huffington’s light brown hair was pulled back. There were new kids’ drawings up in her office, Archie noticed. Another tour must have gone through.
“I think she’s changed her appearance,” Archie said.
“People don’t change that much,” Huffington said. She took another pinch of tuna out of the bag and put it in her mouth. “You think she was close enough to the Beatons to
be included in a family photo—but only one—which has since disappeared. You think she killed Papa Beaton. Perhaps with the help of the son, Colin. And the two of them began serial
killing sprees. With him sometimes using her signature. And now he’s killed Mama.”
It sounded even crazier when she said it. “I just need you to help me prove it,” Archie said.
“So Gretchen Lowell isn’t talking.”
“Not really,” Archie said.
“She got you this far,” Huffington pointed out.
“She wants Ryan Motley caught.”
“And Ryan Motley is Colin,” Huffington said.
“That’s my theory,” Archie said.
Huffington sorted through some papers on her desk. “Last anyone heard of Colin he was getting a traffic ticket in Boise eight years ago,” she said, scanning a report. “He had a
Nebraska driver’s license at the time, but that’s expired, and after that he’s not in the system.”
Archie copied down the date of the speeding ticket and the address on the driver’s license. One of the children murdered with Gretchen’s signature had been killed in Boise about that
time.
“What about Melissa?” he asked. “The reverend over at their old church said that she was married. Can we track down her husband? Maybe he knows where Colin is.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Huffington said. “And I’ll send someone over to the high school. In the meantime, we turned up something interesting on the Dusty Beaton
case.”
“What did you find?”
“Tears,” Huffington said. “On the pillow. And they aren’t Mrs. Beaton’s.”
DNA testing required cells. Tears didn’t have cells. “I thought you couldn’t get DNA from tears,” Archie said.
“You can’t. But apparently if you have ocular herpes they can see the virus in your tears. Mrs. Beaton didn’t have ocular herpes. But her killer does.”
Colin had cried when he’d killed his mother. “Nice work, Huffington,” Archie said.
She held the freezer bag of canned fish across the desk. “Tuna?” she said.
CHAPTER
H
enry was in
bed by the time Claire came over. She had worked late. Archie had the entire team following leads
attempting to tie Colin Beaton with Ryan Motley and prove him responsible for the murders. Henry had left Claire at the office an hour before, sitting in front of a computer, with barely a cursory
good-bye glance. Now he listened as she let herself into his house with her key. One of the cats got off the bed to go and greet her. She didn’t come in right away. She made tea. He heard the
familiar sound of her fumbling around his kitchen, the water running into the kettle, the mug on the countertop, the foraging through tea boxes in the cupboard. He read through James Beaton’s
missing person report while he waited for her tea water to boil. After a few minutes he heard the whistle, and a few minutes after that Claire came into the bedroom, followed by the cat.
She put the tea on the bedside table and sat down and started taking off her shoes.
Henry took off his reading glasses and waited.
When she had her shoes off she leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. She smelled like Thai food.
“I’ve barely seen you since yesterday,” she said. She tucked her legs up under her on the bed. “I missed you last night.”
They spent most nights together. It had happened organically, after he’d gotten out of the hospital. Nearly dying had a way of putting a spark in a relationship. “I didn’t get
home until after one,” Henry said.
She reached for her tea and blew on it. “So you missed physical therapy?” she asked. The cat curled up next to her and started purring.
“I’ll reschedule tomorrow,” Henry said.
He liked that she didn’t ask where he’d gone. She had every right to know. Even though Henry knew she wouldn’t like it. “I went down to Salem with Archie,” he said.
Salem could only mean one thing in that context. Henry didn’t have to elaborate.
He could tell by her body language that she’d figured it out already. There was no jolt of surprise. She took a sip of tea and lifted an eyebrow. “I thought he’d agreed not to
see her anymore,” she said.
“I couldn’t let him go alone,” Henry said. “He thinks she’s connected to this Beaton thing somehow.” What was he supposed to say?
Archie thinks he can see
Gretchen’s shadow in the grass?
Claire’s face was over her tea, the mug cupped in her hands. “What’s his deal with her?” she asked.
It was a rhetorical question. There were things Henry had learned about Archie and Gretchen that he would never tell Claire, and she knew it. Maybe someday—when they were old and dying
side by side in futuristic recliners—but not now, not today. “We don’t know what he went through,” Henry said.
“Yeah, we do,” Claire said. “She nearly killed him. You know the appropriate emotional response to that?” She glanced over at him, and he saw her eyes flash.
“Anger.”
Henry didn’t know where this was coming from. Claire had been on the Beauty Killer Task Force. They’d all worked together for years. “What’s your problem with Archie all
of a sudden?” he asked.
She set the mug back on the table and looked at him. “I love you,” she said. “And Archie does, too.” She exhaled a long, troubled-sounding breath. “But . .
.”
Henry saw, then, where she was headed. “She gets in his head,” he said. “But he comes out of it when it counts.”
Claire lifted her knees in front of her stomach and wrapped her arms around them. “If he gets you killed because of her, I’ll shoot him,” she said. “I seriously
will.”
Henry had been with Archie after Heil’s funeral. When it was all over and they were back at his apartment, Archie had let the mask drop.
“If he ever gets me killed,” Henry said, “he’ll do it himself.”
Claire put her hands over her face. “What is wrong with me?” she said. She peeked through her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s hormones.”
Henry held the Beaton file off the side of the bed and dropped it. It hit the wood floor with a thud. Then he opened his bedside table drawer and pulled out a folded catalogue page and handed it
to Claire.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I ordered it,” Henry said.
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment and then slowly unfolded the paper. Her eyes widened and brightened when she saw the catalogue picture of a king-sized bed.
“You’re giving up the futon?” she asked.
Henry nodded.
She climbed on top of him, straddling his waist, and threw her arms around him. For Claire Masland, he could get used to sleeping on a mattress. He kissed her hair. “Will you be my
domestic partner?” he asked.
She lifted her head and looked at him and beamed. And then she nodded, her eyes glassy with tears. “But the dream catcher has to go,” she said.
Henry looked over at the far corner of the ceiling, where his twenty-two-inch diameter authentic Native American, Alaskan birch, mink-fur-lined dream catcher hung, dripping with beads and eagle
feathers. He patted her shoulder. “Baby steps,” he said.
CHAPTER
A
rchie had been
the last person to leave the office. It was late, but he didn’t want to go home.
Instead, he got out of the elevator on the fifth floor and walked down the plum hallway to Rachel’s apartment. He had barely knocked when she answered the door.
“Hi,” he said. “I was wondering if I could borrow an Allen wrench.” She looked back into her apartment. “I think I might actually have an Allen wrench,” she
said. “Well, that would be awkward, because I was just using that as an excuse to knock on your door.” She was wearing a short black cotton dress. She smiled at him. “Have you
come to interrogate me some more?”
“No,” Archie said.
Rachel looked up at him intently. “I’m starting over,” she said. “That’s my story. That’s all I’m going to tell you. Can you handle that? Or do you need
to figure me out?”