“No, she doesn’t deal with the drivers or the deliveries. Either Will or one of her cooks handles that. Still, with Winston working for Booker Foods…what if his partner is a local?”
Utter dread ripped a hole inside of him. He’d figured Winston had pegged the perfect place to dump the bodies because he knew the route, and when and where the deputies would patrol. But what if the second killer
was
local? What if he knew of other obscure places to leave a body? The bigger question nagging him, why would two men kill together?
“Tell me more about this mill.”
“Tilden’s a small town, much like Wissota Falls. The mill is its biggest business. They get big rigs through there all the time. Winston could have parked his rig there. For some reason, the owner never put up gates. There’s no third shift. I think the place closes up around midnight, so no one would have noticed if he parked for a few hours during the night.”
John moved away from the map and slumped into the office chair, then rubbed his chin with the back of his hand. “Okay, let’s say Winston takes the victim, rapes and beats her, then waits for second guy to finish the job.”
“But Winston didn’t mention an accomplice in his confession.”
“Maybe because he killed those women alone?” Damn, the whole situation made zero sense. Was it possible they had two killers, who sometimes worked together, and at other times killed alone?
The sheriff moved to his chair. “I’m not so sure about that. Mitchell faxed this over this morning.” He waved a paper in the air. “The lighter they’d found at the dumpsite had Winston’s prints on it, the coat button revealed nothing, but the footprint they’d found was two sizes too small to be his.”
“Shit.” There had been no footprints near the bog to even match what had been found at the original dumpsite.
“Right.”
He blew out a breath. “None of this makes sense. Let’s say, hypothetically, that the coat button and boot print found at the dumpsite belongs to the other killer. Why would they be working together? Did this unknown killer somehow catch Winston in the act, wanted a piece of it and then blackmailed him into playing a role in the murder?”
“And for his silence Winston helps him kill the other girls? I’m not following. How does this help Winston? He’s sitting in county lock-up while the other guy is roaming free.”
“I’m not sure, but yesterday, Winston shouted that he knows something I don’t and that I’ll be back. That I needed him.” The hairs on his arms raised under his shirt sleeves as Winston’s eerie words ran through his mind. “Maybe it was just the ranting of a guilty man, but what if...?”
“Yeah, what if,” Roy echoed as the phone rang. He picked up the receiver. “Hey, honey. Uh-huh, you did what?” The sheriff glanced at him, then covered the receiver. “Mind giving me a minute? Bev has fresh coffee up front. I could use a cup, too.”
He masked his irritation as he rose from the chair. As he made his way to the reception area and poured coffee into Styrofoam cups, his irritation turned to anger. Tired of being dismissed, not only by Roy, but it seemed by Ian considering he wasn’t answering his calls, he decided it was time for answers. Starting with why Roy couldn’t talk to Celeste while he was in the office. And he knew she’d been the caller based on the way the sheriff had softened his tone along with his use of the term of endearment, one he’d heard him call Celeste several times.
By the time he’d returned to the office, the sheriff was off the phone, and leaning back in the chair. His hands were folded behind his head, as he kept a thoughtful gaze trained on the ceiling.
“Here you go.” He placed the coffee cup on Roy’s desk, then took a seat. “You want to tell me what Celeste had to say?”
The sheriff didn’t change his position, but he did release a deep sigh. “I do and I don’t.”
“Why’s that?” he asked, then blew on the coffee before taking a drink.
“Because I know you care about her.”
He froze. “Roy, I—”
The sheriff leaned forward. Resting his forearms on the desk, he shook his head. “I know it’s none of my business, but Celeste is. I made a promise to her mother, her father and to...well, the point is, she needs closure. She needs to be part of this investigation in order to gain some comfort from the nightmares she’s had, especially now that one of them has become a reality.”
“I’m well aware of that, Roy. Why do you think I let her talk me into doing the trance last night?”
The sheriff smiled. “You’re a good man, logical, perceptive.”
“And you’re buttering me up. What gives?”
“Celeste did a little of her own detective work this morning and found our hairstylist, Judy.”
He swore he could literally feel the blood drain from his face. Fear came with a cold sweat along his forehead. “She’s supposed to be at the diner,” he said through clenched teeth as anger and anxiety tensed his body. “And according to Lloyd, Will was keeping an eye on her. What the fuck happened?”
The sheriff raised his hands. “It’s not that big of a deal. She’s fine and besides, she gave us a helluva lead.”
Shoving out of his chair, he leaned into the desk. “I don’t give a shit,” he shouted. “I don’t want her involved anymore than she already is. You heard the recording. She could be in danger.” Hell, even the Viking understood that point. He shoved off the desk, then stomped to the wall and stared at one of Will’s paintings. When he’d first seen the painting, the colors had soothed him, calmed him, but they didn’t now. All he could picture was the girl from the bog. Her face and torso sliced. Her lifeless eyes staring back at him.
“Look,” Roy began as he rose and moved next to him. “I love Celeste like a daughter, but I can’t control her, and I wouldn’t even try. I don’t know if she’s told you this, but she moved back to Wissota Falls to take of her sick mother. When her mom passed, she’d been ready to move back to Madison. To her job, and the life she’d had there. Her dad talked her into running the diner while he went off to deal with his own grief instead, despite her own dreams. Like I said though, she’s a fixer. She wants everyone happy and hunky-dory, and puts others before herself.”
His chest burned. Not with the chronic heartburn, but with sympathy for Celeste. She’d given up her dreams—dreams he had yet to learn about—to take care of her mom. Then, she remained in this small town, shoving her own agenda aside to help her dad.
As pissed as he was considering she’d potentially placed herself in danger, he couldn’t help admiring her. She’d stepped up to the plate when her sister hadn’t, keeping her career in Chicago her main focus. Will was around, but from what he understood, the brunt of the family business rested on Celeste’s shoulders. Now she had the nightmares, the trances and the accumulating dead bodies to contend with, but not alone. He wanted to be there for her, but after yesterday he wasn’t sure if she wanted him around, period.
“Did she mention last night?”
“No. She didn’t. Celeste’s not like that.”
Relief and hope slipped passed the edge of fear coursing though him. She might be mad at him, but she’d kept their personal business, personal. “How’d she find the hairstylist?”
Roy grabbed the keys to his cruiser. “I’ll explain along the way.”
Five hours later, the sheriff dropped him off at his car. Although bone weary, mentally and emotionally drained, he started the ignition and headed for The Sugar Shack. While it was only three in the afternoon, he swore it seemed more like three in the morning.
Thanks again to Celeste they’d tracked down the hairstylist, Judy Frank, at the Slinging Scissors Salon located in Altoona. From a photo, Judy had ID’d the girl from the bog as Courtney Harrison. From there everything went to shit. They’d contacted Harrison’s parents, who had just returned from an all-inclusive trip to Mexico this morning, only to inform them that their daughter was likely in the morgue.
Having parents ID their child’s body was never easy. The Chicago case he’d been assigned to before coming to Wissota Falls had been tough, but still not enough to prepare him for any of this. Courtney Harrison was an only child. A seventeen-year-old beauty queen, with a potential full ride to Harvard, she had more opportunity than most. But now she was dead, and the grief he’d witnessed from her parents had left him hollow and aching.
Carl had confirmed that Courtney had been sodomized. Cause of death, a sharp object, likely a long, serrated knife, had damaged major organs as it ripped through her torso causing her to bleed out. She’d been dead before she’d hit the water.
With this knowledge, coupled with Celeste’s trance, he tried to come up with a profile for Courtney’s killer. Winston had been easy. He appeared to be a true sociopath. He’d charmed the women he’d killed and had felt no remorse. The man who’d killed Courtney? Something didn’t settle well with him as he tried to dissect him on the drive over to The Sugar Shack.
There was something diabolical in the way he’d cut Courtney’s face and torso. Something John couldn’t quite grasp. Normally, he’d peg a killer for what he was, but this time he couldn’t put his finger on it. Because he’d allowed his emotions for Celeste to cloud his judgment? Or maybe because this was just one fucked up case?
He had hoped Harrison’s autopsy would have revealed more, but it hadn’t. He’d also hoped Lloyd would discover something in Tilden that could help their case. That end came up empty as well. Not that he wanted another dead body on their hands, but another lead would have been nice.
He parked the sedan in the street outside of The Sugar Shack. While apprehensive about how Celeste might react to seeing him, he also couldn’t suppress the anticipation. Being in the same room with her gave him a calming effect. He just hoped to God she’d at least talk to him, give him a chance to explain why he’d reacted the way he had yesterday.
As he entered the diner, he immediately searched for Celeste. When he didn’t see her, he settled into the same stool he’d sat in just two days before. How things had changed in a matter of forty-eight hours. She’d turned his world upside down, and had made him think long and hard about his life, his career. She’d made him realize he didn’t
have
a life outside of his career. She made him want more. Did she?
“What can I get for you?” a forty-something woman, with a pinched expression asked as she walked toward him.
“Is Celeste around?”
She eyed him with skepticism. “No, she’s left for the day.”
“What about Will?”
“Will’s out back dealing with inventory, but if you’re a salesman, you could talk to me. I’m Karen, the assistant manager,” she finished with a raise of a haughty, penciled eyebrow.
He drew some cash from his wallet, then laid a five dollar bill on the counter. “Thanks for your time,” he said, then left before he searched out Will and rearranged his face. Why the hell wasn’t he watching Celeste? According to that fucking Viking, they’d had her covered. Bullshit. And from here on out, the only one covering her would be him. He’d prefer naked, but at this point fully clothed would work so long as she was protected.
He sped down Main Street, ignoring every traffic law until he reached Celeste’s driveway. With Courtney Harrison’s autopsy came the confirmation that they were dealing with another killer. Celeste could be in danger, especially if the killer was local, as Roy had suggested. He might know about her gift and suspect she’d been working with them on the investigation.
With the ignition off, he sat in Celeste’s driveway gripping the door handle tight enough his palms started to sweat. During the drive over to The Sugar Shack, and again to her house, he’d done a mental play of how things could go down when he confronted her. Although he’d appreciated the leads she’d given them, he was still pissed at her total disregard for her own safety.
Maybe you should have given her a reason to worry last night.
Shit. He hadn’t. He’d channeled his fear into anger, and laid down an almighty decree. She couldn’t, wouldn’t play a part in the investigation. Regret punched a hole in his stomach as Roy’s words filtered through his memory. Celeste liked control, but held little over her life thanks to her mother’s death, her dad’s grief, and her siblings’ lack of involvement. She’d lost control of her visions, the trances, and he’d done what everyone else around her had done—he’d tried to take more control away from her.
He hadn’t meant to. Protecting her had been his first priority. But she deserved more than just his protection. She deserved to know what happened during her trances. She deserved to be his partner in every sense.
Determined to set things right between them, he climbed out of the sedan, then walked up the brick pathway leading to her front door. A dozen wide-eyed gnomes grinned at him with menace, reminding him of her vindictive streak. The story she’d told him about her neighbor, coupled with the temper he’d encountered last night, had his gut clenching as he knocked on the door.
Would she see him? Probably. Would the sparkle of desire heat her eyes? Or would she kick his ass straight to the curb again?
The door opened.
Time to find out.
*
Running a hand through his hair, Dr. Alex Trumane paced his living room. Every few seconds, he stupidly glared at his silent phone, waiting for the call that might lead to his final atonement.
Number Twenty-two. Miranda Gates.