Paradox

by Catherine Coulter

Ty agreed. A serial killer, or a Serial, as the agents referred to the kind of monster who’d murdered people and thrown their bodies into Lake Massey, dusted off his hands and walked away smiling.

  She looked again at the bones. “I wonder how many people he dumped in the lake we’ll never find? They’re simply gone, forever.” She looked at Agents Savich and Royal. “I’ve read there are hundreds of serial killers running loose around the United States, killing and getting away with it, sliding seamlessly back into their everyday lives, and no one ever seeing what they really are. Cops in Seattle, where I’m from, still talk about Gary Ridgway, the Green River Killer.”

  They stepped out of Dr. Staunton’s office and nearly ran into a panting Charlie. “Chief! Congo called me. They found Bick’s missing rowboat, the Green Gaiter!”

  Ty said, “Where?”

  “Sunk right off the Gatewood dock. Actually, it was Buzzard.” He added to Savich and Flynn, “Buzzard is Davie Coursey’s nickname. He’s a snot-nosed little teenager, always causing trouble. He was busting around with a couple of friends up at Gatewood, probably daring each other to go inside and settle in and talk to the ghosts. Buzzard said he saw something in the water, and sure enough, it was the Green Gaiter, sunk in sixteen feet right off the dock.”

  “Good,” Ty said. “We’ll go winch it out of the water. Charlie, did you tell Hanger I’d authorize the additional hours and his costs for another lake drag?”

  Charlie said, “Yeah, and he said if he’s to do a bigger search, he’ll need his sons, and they’ll want time and a half.”

  Ty thought of her straining budget. The city council was covering all the expenses for the additional deputies for the book festival, but only an idiot would think that as important as finding the bones of murdered people in Lake Massey. “We’ll have to do it, Charlie. If he’s got his sons, he won’t need you. You can stay with me.”

  Flynn pulled out his cell, turned away. A couple of minutes later, he turned back and said, “I’ve called it in. An FBI forensic team will be here in a couple of hours. They don’t want anything touched, including the boat. They want to be the ones to bring it up.”

  Ty said, “Not a problem. Octavia Ryan’s killer must have known only kids go near Gatewood, to scare themselves silly, so he wouldn’t expect anyone to find the rowboat, at least for a while.”

  Savich said, “What do you mean the boys would dare each other to go inside the house and talk with ghosts?”

  Ty rolled her eyes. “Gatewood is supposedly haunted, and of course a big-time draw for both kids and teenagers. They prowl around the house and yes, make their dares—spending the night inside. From what I hear, none of them have.”

  Savich remembered clear as day that long-ago winter night in the Poconos when he’d searched the Bannister house, empty for nearly thirty years—only it hadn’t been. “Why is it haunted? What happened there?”

  Ty nodded. “It’s quite a story. Since we’ve got lots of time until the forensics team gets to Gatewood, everyone, come to the station with me. Charlie can tell you what happened at Gatewood, then we can go out there and look around. You were a kid when it happened, right?”

  Charlie gave a little shudder. “I’ll never forget.”

  6

  * * *

  The station house door opened into a long, narrow room, a high desk sitting squarely in the middle, benches lined up against the wall. Behind the desk sat a large gray-haired woman wearing a bright red flowered muumuu, rhinestone glasses sitting on her nose. She was well north of sixty, and she had a great smile. Ty said, “Agent Royal, Agent Savich, this is Marla Able, my dispatcher, my 911 operator, and my enforcer. Any citizen of this fine town runs afoul of the law, they have to deal with her first. Marla, our murdered man wasn’t a man. He was a woman, and her name was Octavia Ryan, a federal prosecutor. It’s no longer our case, but we’ll be assisting the FBI.” She shot Savich a look that told him she wasn’t backing away from this. He understood: a murder in her town, a murder she’d witnessed. It had to burn her to her toes not to lead the investigation.

  Marla shoved up her glasses and gave Savich and Flynn a thorough study. “I hate to hear it was a woman, Chief. But these two sure look tough enough to lasso the bad guys.”

  “Thank you,” Flynn said and cracked his knuckles.

  “And you,” she said, looking at Savich. She cocked her head at him. “You’ve got something else going on, too, don’t you? Pretty smart, aren’t you?”

  Something else going on? He wasn’t about to ask. Savich said only, “Some would agree, some wouldn’t.”

  She laughed, a hacking smoker’s laugh. “Ty, now I’ve got to state the obvious. Both of these boys are young and good-looking, and that could be a problem if the Cougar Club gets a whiff of them.”

  Flynn stared down at this amazing woman, her plump hands loaded down with rings his mom would really like. “Cougar Club, ma’am?”

  “Our town’s finest,” Marla said. “I’m a longtime member myself. Ty here is what we call a cub cougar, far too young to break loose and run wild with us, but she’ll be a fine addition someday. Our motto is ‘Cougars Forever.’ ”

  Ty said, “I heard the motto is ‘Feed the Cougars.’ ”

  “That’s the naughty submotto,” Marla said. “Now, what about all the bones Charlie found? Some yahoo using our lake as a dumping ground?”

  Ty said, “I’ll fill you in soon, Marla. We’ll be working with Agent Royal on that situation. We’re all heading out to Gatewood in a few minutes.” She herded them into her office, paused a moment. “Marla, is everything going all right at the book festival?”

  “A couple of loud arguments with a political author in Tent C, but Willie shut it down fast, said he’d put them all in jail unless they piped down. They did.”

  “That’s good,” Ty said. “We’ve only got two cells. That’s the only problem reported? All the deputies are doing what you tell them to?”

  “They’d better,” Marla said. She cracked her own knuckles, watching the diamonds in three of the rings glitter and sparkle. “Don’t you worry, Chief, I’ve got it covered. I’ll get you special agents some coffee, all right? Tea for you, Chief?”

  “Yes, thank you, Marla.”

  “And for me, too, please,” Savich said.

  “A tough guy who drinks tea, now isn’t that a kick? You can get yourself a Diet Coke, Charlie.” Marla waved the hand sporting those three big diamond rings toward Savich and Flynn. “You take care of those boys, Chief.”

  Ty closed the door of her good-size office, rectangular with two small windows that gave onto the civic parking lot in the back. A battle-scarred wooden desk of ancient lineage stood in the middle, three institutional wooden chairs with cushions in front of it. The cushions looked new. On the desktop sat a telephone, a printer, and a computer about five years old, which made it ancient. Behind the desk was an IKEA credenza with a coffeepot on top and a framed photo showing a younger Ty, her arms around a teenage boy, a man, and a woman—presumably her parents and her brother. An iPad with a banged-up red cover and a new MacBook Air lay beside it, looking like a sleek greyhound next to a grandfatherly bulldog. A beautiful Christmas cactus sat on the windowsill, blooming wildly in July.

  When everyone was seated, Ty said, “Okay, Charlie, while we’re waiting for the tea and coffee, tell Agents Savich and Royal about Gatewood.”

  Charlie sat forward and clasped his hands between his knees, readying himself to tell a story he’d told many times. “My mom told me all about it. Since she’s the smartest person I know, I believe her. She told me it all started way back in 1965 when an oil tycoon, a Major Samson Gatewood, built this huge house and named it after himself. Word was he wanted it to look like the nineteenth-century houses in Newport built by those New York magnates.

  “Gatewood died suddenly in the late eighties, and local folk suspected the wife killed him. But it didn’t go anywhere. The wife lived alone at Gatewood until she died in the early part of thi
s century. Their only son didn’t want the place and sold it to a Methodist minister from Boston, Reverend McCluen, and his wife and three kids. My mom said Reverend McCluen told everybody the General Conference—that’s the governing body of the Methodist Church—was paying to fix up the house, but she didn’t believe him because the contractor let slip over beers at the Timberline Bar that the price to restore the place was several hundred thousand dollars, and what church had that kind of money to give to a single minister to fix up his house? So there was lots of gossip about where the money came from, rumors he had to be stealing from the church, or even the collection plates.

  “Anyway, Deacon Pitter went over there one day, found the entryway of the house splattered with blood, and called Chief Dickerson. They found the whole family murdered, dumped in Lake Massey, right off the end of the Gatewood dock, all of them stabbed to death. Come to find out there were two violent escaped prisoners from Springville in the area at the time—that’s an institution for the criminally insane, about fifty miles from here—and everyone believed they’d killed the McCluens. They found the escaped prisoners and locked them back up. Mom didn’t know if the prisoners really did kill the McCluen family, but maybe they were too crazy to even remember if they’d done it.”

  Charlie paused for effect, and Savich nudged him along. “What happened at Gatewood after the McCluens were killed?”

  7

  * * *

  Before Charlie could continue, Marla knocked and came into Ty’s office, carrying a tray with tea and coffee and exactly four lovely big chocolate chip cookies.

  Once everyone had their drink and their single cookie, Charlie said, “Well, now, Reverend McCluen’s younger brother inherited Gatewood and sold it the next year despite the scary stories about McCluen family ghosts. This was the Pierson family, and they were rich. Mr. Pierson was some sort of venture capitalist, my mom said. They had two kids, teenagers, the older one a boy, a popular jock, good student, and a younger girl, also very smart, pretty, good grades, every bit as popular as her brother. Mrs. Pierson was active in local politics for the short period of time they lived here—before they were killed, too.”

  “The Piersons were killed at Gatewood?” Savich asked.

  “Yes, maybe six months after they moved in. Mom said the Piersons thought the whole ghost and haunting thing was funny, though. The son, his name was Robert, he liked to tease people about hearing screams when he was alone in the house. But that was it. Everything seemed fine, the family fit into life here in Willicott. Everything was normal.

  “Then a UPS man delivered a package and found the front door open. There was blood in the entry hall and in the living room.

  “Chief Dickerson found their bodies thrown off the end of the dock like the McCluens, and stabbed like the McCluens, all except for the daughter, Albie Pierson. They couldn’t find her body. They dragged the lake, but there was no sign of her. Then the rumors started, like gossip does, that the father and brother were sexually abusing her and the mom only wrung her hands and did nothing. The idea was that Albie must have snapped and killed them, dragged their bodies to the dock and kicked them into the lake, and ran.

  “No one wanted to believe that, I mean, everyone liked the Piersons, thought they were nice. But there weren’t any other leads and no word about Albie Pierson, so Chief Dickerson put out a BOLO on her, sent her photo out everywhere, asking for information about her as a person of interest in the Pierson murder case. But no one ever saw her again. She was only fifteen years old when all this happened. The case is still open.”

  Ty said, “Charlie, is this what your mom believes?”

  “My mom said she didn’t believe there was any sexual abuse going on. She said the family were nice people, Mr. Pierson sort of standoffish, but he was smart, worked mainly from home. She told me Albie wouldn’t hurt a fly. It was obvious to her Albie was terrified the killer would come back for her, so she took the money out of her dad’s safe and ran. There was some talk that the killer took her—who knows?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Imagine, everyone was looking for her, and she was only fifteen years old.” There was admiration in his voice. “She sure had to be smart, like her dad, to stay out of sight like that.”

  Ty said, “Gatewood has been empty since the Piersons’ murder, fifteen years ago.”

  Charlie swallowed, showing a prominent Adam’s apple. “That’s right. Mr. Pierson had a sister. She and her husband tried to unload Gatewood, but couldn’t. Its reputation had spread far and wide. They even tried to donate it to Willicott, but the city council turned them down. There’ve been some ghost hunters from out of town here over the years, and they reported out what you’d expect—cold spots and odd noises, doors opening and closing on their own, stuff like that. So it’s stayed empty for fifteen years.”

  Savich rose. “So now we know what’s out there. Are we ready to take a look at the boat and the house?”

  They all piled into Ty’s official police car, a five-year-old mud-brown Crown Vic. Savich called Sherlock, told her where he was headed. “I’m hoping we’ll find something to lead us to Sala. Take care of yourself and the kids.” He paused, then, a smile in his voice, added, “I’ll give you whatever your heart desires tonight.”

  Flynn heard Sherlock’s laughter. He said, “Yeah, I used to make promises like that to Beth.”

  Ty looked at him in the rearview. “Your wife?”

  “Yes,” Flynn said, “back when.” He said nothing more.

  Everyone had baggage, Ty knew, herself included. She let it drop.

  Gatewood stood on Point Gulliver, a low promontory that stuck out into Lake Massey like a fat thumb. It was the perfect movie poster for the classic haunted house, made of unrelieved pale gray stone quarried from Scarletville, sixty miles east. There was a wide porte cochère along the side, a detached garage beside it. The driveway wound through the trees to a narrow two-lane road. There was a long, skinny beach of pebbled coarse brown sand dotted with tumbled piles of driftwood and rocks strewn about. A long dock looking ready to collapse stretched fifteen feet over the water.

  A half dozen oak trees faced the lake, stalwart sentinels, misshapen and bowed from years of winter storms. A wide gray stone path led from the dock to six deeply indented stone front steps. The porch was narrow, and Savich could see from twenty feet away that vandals had ripped up many of its dark wooden planks.

  Savich paused, stepped back, studied the house, and opened his mind. He felt nothing but the sun’s warmth on his face and a cool breeze off the lake. He’d bet the gray stone hadn’t looked this grim when people still lived here. He could picture colorful flowers in the beds and boxes hanging from the ceiling of the porch, a rich green lawn, a good-size boat tied up at the dock. He turned slowly and looked back over the lake. He pictured the murderer wearing a ball cap and dark jacket, rowing the Green Gaiter through the early morning fog away from the dock. Had he forced Ryan to hold still while he tied weights around her body to keep her under once he’d killed her? Why hadn’t she fought him? Had he parked a car in the porte cochère? Or hidden it in the garage? What did he do with the oar he’d struck her with? There had to be blood on his jacket. What did he do with it?

  Ty pointed. “That’s my house, directly across. See the dash of bright red? That’s rhododendron in one of my flower boxes.”

  Savich stowed the questions for the moment. “You’ve got quite a location.”

  “I was lucky. The lady who lived at Bluebell Cottage—no, there aren’t any bluebells around here—decided to move to Florida. She gave me a great deal. Let’s have a look at the Green Gaiter.”

  They walked the stone path down a slight incline covered with tall blue lobelias, pale purplish-pink Joe-Pye weed, swatches of black-eyed Susans, and other plants Ty couldn’t identify. Charlie walked to the end of the dock and pointed down. They saw the hazy outline of the Green Gaiter, sitting upright on the rocky bottom some fifteen feet down. A simple rowboat, its only distinctive f
eature the acid-green paint job. Charlie said, “I don’t see any oars. I guess they floated away.”

  Ty said, “Even if we did recover the oar he used to kill her, it wouldn’t help, the lake water would have washed it clean.”

  Savich said, “I gather you haven’t been inside the house?”

  Charlie shook his head. “No reason to since the teenagers found the rowboat in the water.”

  Savich could tell from Charlie’s face he wasn’t eager to go inside the house. The chief said in a cool voice, “Okay, sure, let’s take a look. I’ve only been downstairs. You’ll see it’s been trashed.”

  She paused on the first step and turned toward Charlie. “Charlie, would you stay here, keep a lookout for the FBI forensic team?” Since he’d been raised on the stories of Gatewood’s bloody history, she imagined the last thing Charlie wanted to do was go into Gatewood. Charlie looked relieved, but he tried to be cool about it. “Sure, not a problem, Chief, I’ll keep an eye on the Green Gaiter.”

  Savich followed the chief and Flynn up the steps onto the wide-oak planked porch and into the house through the double front door, once beautifully carved and now so battered it looked ready to fall off its hinges. It creaked when Flynn pushed it open.

  8

  * * *

  Ty laughed, hating that her voice sounded high and jumpy. She said, “I hope the script doesn’t have us going down the basement stairs.”

  Flynn said, “Hey, there are three of us, and we’re armed. No self-respecting ghost would want to take us on.”

  Savich stopped dead in his tracks when he stepped into the entrance hall. He felt a bone-numbing cold.

  Ty cocked her head at him. “Is something wrong?”

  He realized no one else felt it. Only him.

  She asked again, “Dillon, are you all right?”

  He drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Ty. You were right about the desecration.”