Not a crime, that, and all had boasted fine credentials and recommendations, to say nothing of experience to spare.
Still.
Returning to his comfortable chair behind the desk, Ethan unlocked and opened the center drawer and drew out a dull brown folder. Inside were copies of three reports his office had submitted, as required, to the district-court prosecutor.
The report of the first death was straightforward enough. Peter Lynch, fifty, had died suddenly, appar-entry of a heart attack. Only at the insistence of a hysterical wife had an autopsy been performed, resulting in the unexpected finding of poison. Since the house hadn't been treated as the scene of a crime at the time, going back to search later had turned up nothing useful in proving what had happened, but the medical examiner believed someone might have slipped a few capsules of nitroglycerin into one of the vitamin bottles. Lynch had been known to take vitamins by the handful, and no other drugs, prescription or recreational, had been found, so there was certainly a possibility the ME was right.
The really interesting thing was that once they began seriously searching his house to find out if Lynch had kept and used any drugs, they had discovered in the bottom of his closet a concealed cubbyhole hiding a stash of truly sick porn.
Little girls dressed up and painted up to look like whores, then photographed with men who might have been their fathers. Or grandfathers. Doing things that still made Ethan's stomach churn just to think about.
"Sick bastard," he muttered under his breath.
Lynch's wife had been understandably appalled and mortified, especially when that first discovery had led to others, including evidence of trips Lynch had taken out of town that had nothing to do with business and everything to do with his abnormal pleasures. Not only had he frequently visited a house down in New Orleans that catered to men with his particular sexual proclivities, he had also kept a mistress in that city. A girl younger than his own youngest daughter.
Frowning, Ethan turned to the second report, which, again, had seemed straightforward in the beginning. Luke Ferrier, thirty-eight, had apparently committed suicide by driving his car into a bayou. Water in his lungs proved he'd drowned, and the conclusion of suicide seemed accurate enough. But a coworker insisted—loudly—that he hadn't been suicidal, so Ethan's people had taken a closer look.
Figuring money was the most likely reason a young and healthy man without many family ties would choose to kill himself, they had looked into his financial records and those of the company he worked for. Again, what they found had surprised them—not because they discovered evidence of embezzlement, but because it appeared Ferrier had repaid every penny he had "borrowed" months before his supposed suicide.
No one had suspected him, and he'd been home-free.
So why commit suicide?
The ME had allowed as how there were certainly barbiturates and muscle relaxers that didn't linger in the body; Ferrier might have been doped and his car pointed at that bayou while he was out cold, with nothing to show up in the autopsy afterward. It was possible.
But the real clincher had come when they dug a little deeper—and discovered not only an apparently chronic gambling habit but also a fat bank account in Baton Rouge and a lockbox containing, among other things, a plane ticket to the south of France dated a month after Ferrier's death. More paperwork in the box further indicated he'd been just about ready to pull up stakes and leave Silence.
So why commit suicide?
"Not suicide," Ethan said, again half under his breath. "Goddammit."
The third report concerned the death of Randal Patterson, forty-six, which had occurred just two months
WHISPER OF EVIL
ago. By that point, with uneasiness in the town palpable and gossip running rampant, Ethan's deputies and detectives hadn't made the mistake of assuming anything—except the worst. Finding a relatively young, seemingly healthy adult male dead of any cause would have been enough to alert them; finding said adult male electrocuted in his Jacuzzi courtesy of a live wire dropped into the tub from a nearby window sent up a huge red flag.
And the flag was fairly waved in their faces when the subsequent investigation uncovered Randal Patterson's dirty little secret: a well-equipped room in his basement containing a number of sadomasochistic apparatus and devices, and a great deal of rubber and black leather. Whips. Masks. Chains.
So far they hadn't been able to find out who Patterson had played his little games with, but it was only a matter of time.
Only a matter of time.
"Shit," Ethan muttered softly.
There was, of course, no complete report on George Caldwell as yet. It had been only a few days, after all, since he'd been found. Shot through the head, with no gun in sight. Hard to call that anything but murder.
But, so far, nothing obscene or illegal had turned up.
So far.
Ethan closed the folder and stared rather grimly across his office. He didn't like this.
He didn't like this one little bit.
Nell got out of her Jeep and stood gazing at the big white clapboard house that was set back from the road and surrounded by towering oak trees. The house sprawled without much architectural integrity, which wasn't surprising considering that the original hundred-year-old building had been remodeled and expanded several times in the past decades as the family within it had also grown.
Ironic, Nell thought, that here she stood, a century after the first Gallaghers had put down roots in this place, presumably with high hopes and determination to build a family. Here she stood. Alone. Last of the line, at least in Silence.
And stood reluctantly, at that.
Nell sighed and went around to open the Jeep's cargo hatch. The space was full, holding her suitcase and laptop case, as well as several bags of groceries she'd stopped off in town to buy. She was just about to grab a couple of the bags and head for the house when a sense other than hearing made her turn and look toward the road.
A sheriff's department cruiser was turning into the driveway.
Not really surprised, Nell leaned back against the floor of the open hatch and waited.
The cruiser pulled up behind her Jeep, and two deputies got out. The taller of the two, unexpectedly, was the woman; she had to be close to six feet tall, Nell judged, and boasted centerfold measurements that had undoubtedly been more of a bane than a blessing in her chosen profession. She was also lovely in a darkly exotic way that spoke of a Creole heritage very common in the area.
Her older partner was probably five-nine or -ten, blond, and good-looking in a boyish way, with a wide and welcoming smile. He was one of those men who would look almost exactly the same between twenty and sixty, only then appearing to age.
"Hey, Miss Gallagher. I'm Kyle Venable, and this is Lauren Champagne."
Nell couldn't help lifting a brow at the woman, who responded with a dry, "One of my many crosses."
"Nice to meet you both," Nell said with a faint smile. "I think. Did I run a stop sign or something?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," Deputy Venable assured her hastily. "Sheriff just wanted us to come out and check the place over for you. It's stood empty awhile, you know, and careful as we are to keep an eye on things, there are still vagrants about—especially out this far. If you'll let us have the key, we'll make sure everything checks out before you move in."
Nell didn't hesitate to reach into the pocket of her jacket and produce a key. "Thanks, I appreciate it," she said.
"It won't take long, ma'am," Venable said, accepting the key and touching his hat brim politely before he and his partner strode up the flagstone walkway to the front door.
Remaining where she was, Nell watched them disappear into the house. Useless to pretend even to herself that she wasn't incredibly tense; all she could do was try not to look it. She felt an all-too-familiar twinge in her left temple and massaged the area in a soothing circular motion with three fingers.
"Not now," she whispered. "Christ, not now." She rubbed harder, willing her body and mind to obey the desperate command.
It was probably no more than ten minutes before the deputies reappeared, though it seemed longer.
"Clear," Venable said cheerfully as they rejoined Nell at the vehicles. "Looks like all the windows and doors have pretty solid locks, but you might want to consider installing a good security system, Miss Gallagher. That or get yourself a big dog."
"Thanks, Deputy." She included them both in her smile and nod of gratitude as he returned the key, adding, "I probably won't be here long enough to do anything permanent, but I'll certainly keep the house locked up while I'm here."
"We'll be passing by pretty often on regular patrols, so we'll keep an eye on the place." Venable gestured toward the packed cargo area. "In the meantime, we'd be happy to help you carry some of this stuff inside."
"Oh, no, thanks, I can manage. I do appreciate the offer, though."
He touched his hat brim again, smiling. "Okay, but don't hesitate to holler if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I won't."
The two deputies got back in their cruiser, and Nell deliberately turned to unload the Jeep rather than watch them leave. By the time she reached the front porch with an armful of groceries, she was aware that the cruiser and its deputies had reached the end of the long drive and pulled out onto the road heading back toward town.
She didn't look after them.
They had left the front door standing open, guarded only by the old screen door, and for just a moment she stood there trying to brace herself both mentally and emotionally.
Another twinge in her temple urged her into the house before she was entirely ready to go, which was probably just as well. Without some sort of spur, she wasn't at all sure she would have been able to do it.
She stepped into an open foyer that was disconcertingly familiar with its polished wooden floor and round, pedestal-leg table. There should have been flowers on the table, of course, and hadn't there been a rug underneath?
Shaking off the vague musings, Nell moved purposefully past the stairs toward the kitchen, deliberately not looking through any doorways she passed. Formal dining room on one side, living room on the other, half bath under the stairs—and no need to check out any of those rooms.
Not yet. Not yet.
She put the grocery bags on the kitchen counter and spared only one quick look around the bright yellow-and-white kitchen, then immediately headed back out to the Jeep. She needed to get everything inside, and as soon as possible; the twinges in her temple had become a painful throbbing as rhythmic and inevitable as her heartbeat.
She barely made it, dumping her luggage in the foyer and locking the front door before moving unsteadily back to the kitchen. She fumbled through the bags for the few perishables that needed to go into the refrigerator, fighting the dizziness grimly even as she told herself she should at least find a chair before
—
Blackness washed over her, and Nell crumpled silently to the dusty tile floor.
CHAPTER TWO
It was a bit like meditation, he had decided. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, really concentrated, his body seemed to grow very light, almost weightless, and some part of him was able to float away for a while. Sometimes he just floated without direction, not really caring where he went, enjoying the sensations of drifting along without any ties of the flesh.
True freedom. He'd had no idea.
Sometimes, however, he focused all his energy and will on controlling his direction, concentrated on reaching a particular place, because there was someone special he had to find.
Like her. She was easy to find. The effortless connection established so long ago led him to her quickly.
She was moving about the kitchen, putting groceries away. Preoccupied, maybe even upset or unnerved by the storms rumbling all around on this restless spring night. She looked a little pale, he thought, and there was a square of adhesive bandage on her forehead just above her right eyebrow.
He wondered if she had fallen. Wondered what would happen if he reached out and touched her.
He nearly did reach out but stopped himself. No. Not now. Not yet.
There were things he had to do first. A job he had to finish. He wasn't the sort of man to avoid his responsibilities, after all. That was not the way he'd been raised, and not his character. A man finished what he started.
Besides, there was plenty of time for Nell. Time to find out the truth about why she'd come home. Time to find out how much she remembered.
She walked past him, intent on placing a couple of boxes into an upper cabinet, and he was almost certain he could smell her hair, a clean scent like sunshine.
He almost reached out and touched her.
Almost.
WEDNESDAY, MARCH
Nell woke so abruptly that she heard the broken-off ending of her own strange, muffled cry. She sat there in her bed, staring at the hands that were still raised and stretched out before her as though she had been reaching for something. Her hands were shaking visibly. She felt stiff, so tense her muscles protested with sharp twinges. Her fingers curled slowly, and she made herself relax her arms, lower them. Stop reaching.
The bedroom was flooded with morning light, the previous night's storms long gone, and through her slightly open window a cool, moist breeze fluttered the curtains. It smelled damp and earthy, like spring.
She didn't have to try to remember the dream. It was always the same one. Little details varied, but the basic framework of the dream had never changed. And even though it wasn't an every-night occurrence, it happened often enough to be all too familiar to Nell.