Wait for Dark Page 6

  But then he saw. Then he understood. That Perla Cross hadn’t climbed up in the big oak tree, and she hadn’t somehow climbed out of this window to reach it.

  He supposed she might have slipped, but even as the thought crossed his mind, he was dismissing it. Because it wasn’t a case of had she fallen or was she pushed.

  Perla had been hurled from the window into the tree.

  Because it would have taken that much force to impale her on at least six thick limbs, their ends deliberately sharpened into rough, now bloody wooden spears.

  —

  HE ARRANGED THE candles carefully, murmuring under his breath the Words he needed. He expected the FBI to arrive at any time, expected her to be one of them because he could feel her getting nearer, and he had to be ready, he knew that all too well. Ready for everything, but especially ready to protect himself. Ready to hide himself.

  She was powerful.

  She was more powerful than anyone realized.

  Especially her.

  So he had to be ready. He had to have power to spare, far more than he’d needed so far. And power of a different kind, really. Because she had a nose for Dark, and he couldn’t afford her figuring out what was really going on in Clarity before he was ready for her.

  She was the only one who might have the ability to stop him before he was finished. And he couldn’t have that.

  He could conjure a smokescreen or two, he knew that. He had discovered almost from the beginning that he could do that. It was, actually, easy to lay down smokescreens. To give himself more time. To keep them, to keep her occupied with . . . trifles. With unimportant things.

  Confusing, unimportant things.

  He lit the candles one by one, this time speaking the Words louder, the cadence of his voice rising and falling. Old, old words. Ancient words, in a language few if any would have understood.

  Here, at least.

  But even here, in this isolated little town with its modern technology and its dedicated sheriff, even here there was someone listening to the ancient words, someone who understood.

  Someone who offered him power, power few of the pitifully weak minds around him could even begin to imagine, much less comprehend. Power . . . and control. Everything he needed to achieve his goals.

  Of course, there was a price. There was always a price.

  Everything worthwhile has a price.

  Yes. Yes.

  Still chanting, but this time softly, he reached to his right and unwrapped folded silk to reveal a sheathed dagger. It was old, the symbols carved into its bronze handle worn almost smooth with much time and use, and cryptic to anyone who didn’t understand. He picked up the sheathed dagger and held it aloft, almost as an offering. He laid it down directly in front of him, then reached to his left and picked up a bronze goblet carved with similar cryptic symbols.

  He set the goblet carefully in the center of the design drawn in chalk, in the center of the circle of candles.

  He picked up and unsheathed the dagger slowly, laying aside the sheath. The blade revealed was gleaming silver, darting out sharp, bright little shafts of candlelight as he turned it this way and that.

  He closed his eyes, still chanting, gripped the handle in his right hand, and closed his left over the blade.

  In a single smooth movement, he drew the blade of the dagger from his fisted hand.

  Holding his still-closed fist above the goblet, he watched thick scarlet blood drip into its cup, his chanting still smooth and without interruption.

  In his right hand, the silver blade was bloody for only a few moments, and then seemed to absorb the viscous stuff, leaving the blade pristine and gleaming once more.

  He finished his chant, bowed his head, and closed his eyes in a few moments of reverent silence. When he lifted his head and opened his eyes again, it was to see that the goblet, too, had absorbed the blood offering.

  His offering had been accepted.

  He opened his fist and watched as the thin red line across his palm slowly disappeared.

  There was always a price for power. Always. This time, he was happy to pay it.

  Next time, it would be a price demanded of someone else.

  —

  “I SENT JOE back to the station with one of my deputies,” Mal told the four agents standing in the entrance hall of the Cross home. “It was all we could do to keep him from going up there and seeing for himself, but . . . That’s not a memory he needs.” He couldn’t help but eye the younger-looking of the two women, wondering if it was a memory she could do without as well.

  “It’s okay, Sheriff,” the little redhead said to him, clearly in response to his glance. She had been introduced as Agent Kirby Bell. “I’m tougher than I look. And I’ve seen more than you might expect.”

  He had a feeling that was true, despite her big, seemingly innocent eyes. But he also read tension in her face and in the slightly stiff way she held herself, so he doubted she was as calm as she otherwise appeared.

  “Well. I’m just sorry I had to call you all straight out to see this without even a hello. But since it’s the first . . . crime scene . . . that’s been undisturbed, I figured you’d want to look it over before it gets disturbed. I thought you’d have time to settle in tonight, but . . . all I know for sure is that this was no accident.”

  He drew a deep breath and let it out. “I’ve got the ME I’ve had in town—Dr. Jill Easton—finding out whatever she can without disturbing the body. She’s qualified as a crime scene tech as well as an ME, and brought all her equipment with her, so I got lucky there. We’ve never needed a CS unit. Her assistant and one of my deputies set up big work lights at that end of the house, and last I checked she was up a ladder to get as close as possible to the body. It’s . . . a pretty grisly scene.”

  “No doubt about the cause of death?” the other woman, who had introduced herself as Hollis Templeton, asked, her unusual blue eyes very intent.

  “No, I don’t think so. The doc wanted to check to see if she’d been knocked out or something first, but since her eyes are open, I’m betting she was wide awake and aware when she was thrown into that tree.”

  “Sheriff—”

  “Mal, please.”

  She nodded. “We’re all pretty informal too.” They looked it, casual in jeans and light jackets. They could have been just ordinary citizens—except for the guns three of them wore on their belts and a glimpse Mal had caught of a big silver gun in a shoulder holster worn by the larger of the two men. “First names suit us fine. And if anybody forgets, ‘Agent’ works too.”

  “Good enough.”

  “Are you sure she was thrown from inside the house into that tree?” He had briefly explained how he’d come to find this victim and where, as much to warn them as anything else.

  “You’ll see for yourselves when we go upstairs but, yeah, I don’t see how it could have been done any other way. At the same time, I don’t see how it could have been done at all. It’s almost like somebody had a catapult up there.”

  “But no signs there was anything like that?”

  “No. And I had two of my deputies search the entire attic just in case something had been hidden among the junk up there. No joy. There isn’t even a fucking scuff mark in front of the window. It’s like somebody incredibly strong just lifted her off her feet and threw her.” He frowned. “Left her shoes behind, but in two different places. I have no idea what that means.”

  Hollis said, “We should definitely see her before the body is moved. Oh—what about her cell phone?”

  “It was here, left on the kitchen island, but password protected. I sent it back to the station, where it can be examined a little better. I have a couple of deputies good at tech going over it now. And even if they don’t find anything, I’ve sent in a request for the cell records. We should have them by morning.”

&nbs
p; “You expect to find that text, same as before?” The question came from the very powerful blond man standing behind Agent Templeton, a man whom Mal had instantly recognized as another military veteran. The one carrying a very big silver gun in a shoulder holster barely concealed by his black leather jacket. Reese DeMarco.

  “Yeah, I do,” Mal admitted. “Even though there’s no way in hell anybody could mistake this for an accident. She was murdered. And while solving that and finding her killer is of course vital, I also need to know how this was done and what it means in relation to all the supposed accidents we’ve been having up till now.”

  “This could be a one-off,” DeMarco offered. “Somebody taking advantage of the string of apparent accidents and hoping this death would be lumped in with the rest. Have you cleared the husband?”

  “Well, technically no, there hasn’t been time. But aside from the fact that he wouldn’t have the physical strength to do it, Joe isn’t at all a violent man. In fact, the major problem Perla—his wife, our victim—seemed to have with him was his inability to even stand his ground when she felt like a fight.”

  He saw Hollis lift an eyebrow at him.

  “Look, I know how it sounds, but she was just . . . like that. Not mean or violent herself, but she came from a local family known to express themselves pretty much at the top of their lungs. I’ve been called out for domestic disputes to one Ferguson home or another by disturbed neighbors just to find two or three of them having a spirited political debate. It never escalated to violence, not even the milder sort.”

  “No chance he finally had enough and snapped?” That question came from the fourth agent, a tall but wiry, tough-looking man who had been introduced as Cullen Sheridan.

  Mal shook his head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think there’s anything in him to snap. He’s never shown any signs of violence, and I’ve pretty much known him his whole life. He works as a mechanic and he’s a good one, but he also runs bootleg whiskey and is rumored to have a still of his own somewhere on this property or up in the mountains.”

  “Wouldn’t that sort of lifestyle make him more volatile?” Hollis asked.

  “There used to be a lot of violence associated with running whiskey and making moonshine, but these days the ATF has too much on their plate to worry about a small-time lawbreaker like Joe, and it’s not like he has competition in the area, violent or otherwise. It’s mostly a lot of trouble with very little benefit, and as far as I’ve been able to determine, Joe is the only one still bothering. I’ve never been able to catch him red-handed but, honestly, I haven’t tried that hard. In the general scheme of things, it doesn’t seem much of a crime to me.”

  DeMarco said, “Did it seem much of a crime to Joe Cross?”

  “I’m guessing he considers it more of a sin than a crime, especially since his mother had him in church every time the doors opened for the first fifteen years of his life. When she died, he kept going, every Sunday at least, not that I can see any sign it’s changed him much.”

  Mal shrugged. “Bootlegging just isn’t exactly a booming business down here, and that’s even more true of making moonshine. The days of bootlegging being profitable enough for violence and territorial disputes are long past, like I said. I’m not even sure anybody who buys the shine from Joe is over twenty-one; it’s the sort of thing kids do on a dare or for a goof, but since you could use the stuff to strip paint, I doubt many are drinking it. At least not more than once.”

  “So he isn’t making much money,” Hollis ventured.

  “I seriously doubt it. His family used to be famous—or infamous—as bootleggers, but that was generations ago. He’s probably making no more than pocket change, if that. Earns more as a mechanic.” Mal shook his head. “I think Joe keeps it up because his family did, and he’s the last of them. More habit than anything else, just like going to church is habit. He has a paranoid streak, not surprisingly, but his response to that is flight, not fight.

  “Perla wasn’t happy in the marriage, she told anybody who’d stand still to listen that much, but she wasn’t the least bit afraid of Joe. And far as I know, she’s never been seen with any physical signs of abuse, certainly no hospital visits, and that was never a complaint she shared. Since she shared everything else . . .”

  “Everything?” Hollis asked wryly.

  “Oh, yeah. I know way more than I ever wanted to about what happened—or didn’t happen, as the case may be—in the matrimonial bed. I don’t think Perla even recognized that there were private areas of our lives most of us keep private. She sure as hell never seemed to have any boundaries of her own.” He shrugged. “You’re welcome to question Joe yourselves, of course, if you can get any sense out of him.”

  “He’s in shock?” Kirby asked.

  “Pretty much. In tears, and he wasn’t faking. However Perla felt about him, Joe pretty much worshiped the ground she walked on. That was a big part of why I made sure he didn’t see Perla and got him out of here quick as I could. Told my deputy to put him in the break room at the station and have somebody stay with him. He’s the last of his family—which, as you can see, was once a very large one to need this house—but I’m betting Perla’s kin will look after him, especially her sisters.”

  “Even though she wanted out of the marriage?” Hollis asked curiously.

  “They always liked Joe. I think most of them figured once she had a baby she’d settle down and probably be happy enough. At least, that’s the sense I got.”

  Hollis shook her head briefly, as though pushing aside something to be dealt with later. “At least one of us will probably want to talk to him. In the meantime, maybe we’d better see the crime scene so your ME can finish her work.”

  “This way.”

  The red high-heeled shoe at the top of the stairs caused the agents to pause briefly, studying its position and the small yellow crime scene marker that bore a number 1.

  “Like I said, Dr. Easton brought along her CSU markers and equipment,” Mal offered. “And her assistant seems to be her photographer. It’s pretty clear this is not their first rodeo; they both know what they’re doing and they seem to work well together.” He paused, then added, “For the record, the only prints on the shoes are Perla’s.”

  “You printed her . . . out there?” Kirby asked. “In the tree?”

  “No, her prints are on file. She works—worked—for one of our local banks, and they fingerprint employees as a matter of company policy.”

  Hollis, who was still leading the others, looked from the shoe near the stairs down the long hallwaylike space to the distant window. The work lights outside provided no more than a glare from this angle, but the distance was clear.

  “I see what you mean about the shoes,” Hollis said. “It’s like she just stepped out of this one and kept walking. Would she have done that? Chosen to go barefoot up here?”

  “I don’t know, maybe. The floorboards are old, but smooth, almost polished; she wouldn’t have worried about splinters. But I’d be more comfortable considering that as a possibility if both the shoes were together.”

  “Yeah, that would make more sense. But if her killer is the same one responsible for the texts to your accident victims, he might have placed the shoes deliberately. Maybe a sign to law enforcement. Or maybe he just likes games.”

  “If this is him being playful, I don’t want to see him being mean,” Mal said steadily.

  Hollis half nodded, her expression a bit wry, then gestured a clear invitation for the sheriff to keep leading the way, and all the agents followed him toward the window.

  The red high-heeled shoe in front of the window also had a crime scene marker beside it, numbered 2. The sheriff and agents all stopped rather than going past the shoe, studying that rather than looking at the window and what lay outside it.

  “It’s a good four feet from the window,” DeMarco said. “And close to twen
ty-five feet from the other shoe.”

  Hollis was studying that distance, but it was Cullen who said almost casually, “I think you were right, Hollis. The shoes were placed, very deliberately.”

  “Pointing the way to his victim?” Hollis said without looking at him.

  “That’s . . . what it feels like to me,” Cullen replied.

  “Mocking?”

  “I’d say so. Mocking law enforcement. And maybe mocking her vanity. I don’t know what she was like in the privacy of her home, but however much Mrs. Cross loved shoes, I think we can all agree these weren’t really the sort of shoes anyone would wear to clean out an attic.”

  “So he knew her.” It was almost a question, and Cullen replied to it in the same casual, matter-of-fact voice.

  “Pretty sure, yeah. Though maybe only well enough to know about shoes being her vanity.”

  “What she showed in public.”

  “Something so obvious, sure.”

  Mal had been more or less fixated on this whole scene since he’d first come up here to find Perla, not really seeing or thinking about the details so much as the overall extremely violent and grisly situation, but in that moment he had the sudden feeling that there was a conversation going on that he was no part of, that the words he was hearing meant things beyond what they seemed to mean.

  It was a very weird feeling.

  But the funny thing was that he couldn’t remember even mentioning to any of the agents anything about Perla Cross’s obsession with shoes.

  FIVE

  “He’s certainly stopped all pretense of these being accidents,” Hollis said thoughtfully.

  “Assuming it’s the same unsub,” DeMarco said.

  Hollis looked at the sheriff, her brows lifting. “From what we read on the jet, my impression was that Clarity had little if any violent crime in its history.” It was only partly a question.