The second real promise The Promisor ever made was seven years after the first. A vow made while standing at the altar of a small country church. An idyllic setting with sunlight pouring in through stained glass windows and flower votives lining the aisle.
Filling the pews was a collection of friends and family and witnesses on hand that were decidedly tilted toward the bride’s side. A lopsided representation that would have been laughable had The Promisor given a single care about such a thing.
To him, there were only two other people present that day. One was the woman standing opposite him, her hands grasped in his own. The one with lace draped over her dark curls and a smile on her face.
The other was the little old man in the ill-fitting suit there to recite the required rites to make everything official. Words that The Promisor felt no qualms, no hesitation, in repeating, his complete body and soul given over in commitment.
A promise that would never be broken, made to the only individual in the world worthy of such a thing. The person who saw through his faults and his bullshit and pulled him up to a state so much higher than he ever would have thought possible.
Certainly, higher than he ever deserved.
An oath he still carried on his left ring finger, no matter that his bride passed long ago. A vow that he would carry as long as his journey lasted and wherever it might take him.
A resolute devotion he would not forsake.
More than three hours and a hundred miles after first crawling his way back out of his hide on the hillside looking down on the house outside of Gallipolis, The Promisor stepped out of his truck. Swinging the door shut behind him, he balanced his hands on either hip and bent himself backward, working to alleviate some of the stiffness of the long day.
Hours spent lying completely prone on the hard earth followed by an equal number folded up behind the wheel of his truck. A stretch of time much longer than his body would prefer, his joints no longer enjoying the functional lubrication of youth.
A fact made clear by the series of pops and cracks emitted as he pushed his pelvis forward, showing his face and chest to the sky. Sounds like dried branches snapping that found his ears, far more than in recent years.
A number that promised to only increase in whatever time lay ahead.
Drawing himself up to full height, The Promisor stepped from the loose stone of the small gravel turnout. A span no more than ten yards across, barely large enough to be referred to as a parking lot.
Space for just a handful of cars lined up side by side. Something The Promisor had seen play out just twice in more than twenty years, the first occasion on the day his wife was laid to rest.
The second being the reason for what he is doing now. The mission he assigned himself, driving his every move the last couple of months.
The very same one that took a sizable step forward just hours before.
Carved from the corner of a field that alternated between corn and soybeans depending on the year, the small cemetery measured no more than twenty yards in either direction. A square chunk offset from the rest of the plot by a metal wrought iron fence rising to waist height.
An enclosure that was still visible for the time being above the tops of the corn stalks rising beside it, though within a month would be dwarfed by the growing plants.
Home to no more than a couple of dozen headstones, The Promisor found it as he so often did. Void of life, or even any sign that someone else had been by recently. No tire tracks through the gravel or footprints in the thick grass underfoot. No fresh flowers draped atop or at the base of any the grave markers.
A small country cemetery, forgotten by all but a small handful, the vast majority of its eternal residents put to rest the better part of a century before.
All, as far as The Promisor could tell, save one placed in the ground just shy of twenty-five years before.
And a second, laid alongside it only three months ago.
“Hey, honey,” The Promisor whispered. His focus fixed on the larger of the two headstones, he padded in elongated strides through the open gate of the enclosure.
A path he had walked innumerable times before, it was beaten out before him, the grass matted down in a serpentine pattern through the haphazard assortment of markers. Things ranging from pointed spires to simple tablets resting flat on the ground. Marble slabs with their lettering still clearly legible to granite chunks that had succumbed to the effects of time, crumbling from exposure to the elements and obscured by the onset of moss and lichens.
Items that The Promisor had studied many times over the years, but today gave not a thought. Barely even a glance as he made his way forward toward his destination.
A quick stop before returning home to begin preparing for what came next.
Raising the index and middle fingers of his right hand to lips, The Promisor kissed them softly before dropping them down atop the arched top of the stone. A polished piece of marble that had cost far more than he could afford at the time.
An expense he gladly undertook, growing increasingly so over the years since. An investment, not just in his wife’s forever home, but in his own as well. A headstone designed for two, already carved with his name to match hers, the only thing remaining to be completed the date of his passing.
A day that could very well be fast approaching.
“Love you. Miss you,” he whispered, intoning the same greeting he did every time he came to visit. A four-word mantra repeated quite often, though never had he allowed it to become rote.
Empty words said out of habit and nothing more.
“Just wanted to let you know, it’s started.”
Chapter Twelve
Sheriff Meigs had made it very clear she was not about to be left atop the hillside by herself, waiting for Wain and his team to make it up to the shooter’s nest. Telling Reed to wait before providing the scent to Billie, she’d pulled the two-way from her belt and called in, letting the crime scene crew below know that they had found what they were looking for.
From there, she’d pulled a spool of pink plastic tape from the bottom recesses of her bag, using it to mark a couple of trees in the area. Clear identifiers that could be easily spotted by Wain or Reed and herself should they need to return.
A quick flurry of movement that had lasted just a couple of minutes before she had stowed everything back into place and hitched the pack up between her shoulder blades. Turning to Reed, she had given him the signal to proceed before falling in behind him.
A reshuffling of their previous order with her now bringing up the rear.
Whether it was curiosity as to what Billie was capable of or the same wanton anger roiling through Reed or even just the lack of desire to be left sitting in the woods alone for an unknown length of time that made her act as such, Reed didn’t know. Not in that moment, as he extended the evidence bag to Billie and let her take in deep pulls, getting the full scent of the person they were looking for, and not in the hour since.
A stretch of time that began with them hurtling themselves across the front of the hillside before dropping down on the opposite side. A headlong sprint across a loose network of trails, the scent so fresh that it allowed Billie to practically nab it out of the air.
A journey that lasted more than ten minutes before ending abruptly at the site where the shooter had ultimately made their exit. A narrow fold between two adjoining hills, the thick grass matted where a vehicle had been rolled back amid the trees, hidden from view.
A place reached only by a grassy two-lane path even more remote than the country road the Salems lived on. A spot making the likelihood of anybody seeing the shooter or even hearing the engine turn over before they drove away almost non-existent.
Using the remainder of the time marking the spot for Wain’s team and waiting for Deputy Brinkley to come and get them, Reed finally found himself back behind the steering wheel of his sedan. Retracing the route taken almost a full two hours earlier, the front grille was pointed tow
ard Gallipolis, the Ohio River rolling by outside the passenger window.
A sight Reed could only catch glimpses of, most of his view blocked by Meigs seated beside him. Her uniform shirt soaked through with sweat, she had stripped it off shortly after reaching the site where the getaway vehicle was parked. Donning only a damp ribbed tank top, her right elbow was propped on the windowsill, the tips of her fingers resting along the door frame.
Seated with his right wrist draped across the top of the steering wheel, Reed’s upper body was turned toward the open window beside him. Allowing the air passing through to wash over him, it picked at the damp cloth resting against his skin, an effective means of lowering his body temperature, if not the frustration underpinning it.
Far removed from anything he’d ever experienced, the entire afternoon resembled something closer to a wilderness survival exercise than any crime scene he and Billie had worked before.
A bad omen not only for this case, but for the sorts of things they might come to expect in this new role the governor had shoehorned them into.
Despite spending just shy of two hours at and around the scene of the crime, Reed knew only nominally more than he had upon first arriving. He had a visual schematic for what took place, including the bullet used and the place it was fired from. He had the spot where the killer had parked and the route they used to hike in.
And he had a tiny scrap of cloth that had been snagged on a thorny branch.
Otherwise, the perpetrator had been nearly flawless, committing a long-range attack in an area where there wasn’t even a neighbor within miles, let alone witnesses.
His thoughts still firmly entrenched in the scene behind him, it wasn’t until Meigs raised a finger, pointing to the sheriff’s department fast approaching on their left, that Reed pulled himself back into the moment. Blinking several times in order, he slid himself higher behind the wheel, repositioning himself before making the turn.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, letting the car roll forward before coming to a stop beside what he still just assumed to be her Bronco. “Was just...processing.”
“Don’t be,” Meigs replied. “If I hadn’t drove this route a thousand times, I’d have missed it too.”
Lifting his brows in concession, Reed conceded, “Hell of a thing.”
“Especially for a place like this.”
“For anywhere,” Reed said.
Nodding in agreement, Meigs turned her attention toward the window. Peering over her upraised bicep, she glanced toward town. “Can only imagine what they’re saying along Main Street right now.”
Flicking his gaze in the same direction, Reed smirked softly. “Hunting accident.”
“What’s that?” Meigs asked.
“They’re calling it a hunting accident,” Reed repeated. “At least, that’s what the damn officer at the police station told us when we first got into town earlier.”
A look of recognition passing over her features, Meigs asked, “Is that why you said that up on the hillside?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me guess, heavy guy, red cheeks, bag of food in hand?”
“That’s a lot nicer way of putting it than I would have,” Reed said, “but yeah, that’s him. Found him sitting in his car wolfing down his second lunch when we pulled up.”
As she shook her head to either side, Reed could hear a string of mutterings escape. Remarks a lot more caustic than what was just shared no doubt, laced with profanity or personal attacks or whatever else. A verbal assault Reed was certain was well deserved, even if he didn’t much feel like getting into it at the moment.
An ongoing rivalry between two neighboring departments might have landed on his radar a few hours ago, but after his trip out to the Salem home, his focus was on more pressing matters.
Glancing to the dashboard, Reed checked the time, seeing it to be nearly half past four in the afternoon. A jump ahead that did not seem possible, especially when considering that just six hours earlier, his focus was on getting the grass swept off his back porch.
“What now?” Meigs asked, giving up on her muted tirade for the time being.
“I was just running through that,” Reed replied. His gaze still resting on the clock, his eyes narrowed, his vision blurring as he considered his next steps. A mental checklist juxtaposing how most investigations go compared to what had already played out on this one.
“Have to assume that anything more from Wain and his crew will be morning, at best,” he said. “I mean, maybe they’ll get lucky and find something big that we didn’t spot, but I doubt it.”
“Right,” Meigs agreed.
“Which means we move on to Cara Salem,” Reed said.
Chapter Thirteen
The name of the Gallia County Coroner was Joe Blumenthal. A man that Meigs had intimated was something of a local institution, having served as a physician for decades before taking over the coroner’s post as a part-time gig in retirement. Someone that was well-known and well-liked around town, referred to by most everybody as Doc Blum.
A backstory that certainly matched with the man standing in front of Reed.
Stopping just shy of six feet in height, the man sported a protruding stomach and matching face that seemed to have swallowed his neck. The human equivalent of a snowman, more or less formed from a series of circles stacked one atop the other.
In most any other setting, Reed could easily see the man as being gregarious to the point of almost jolly. The doctor with rosy cheeks and light blue eyes that was equally adept pacifying a child terrified of their first shot as an expectant mother going into labor.
An image that today was nowhere to be seen outside of the light blue scrubs and white coat he wore.
Standing on the opposite side of the stainless-steel examination table, he looked back at Reed with eyes rimmed red. His cheeks were puffy, as if he’d recently been crying. Deep furrows ran through his white-blonde hair, small tufts of it sticking up at odd angles.
Given that the majority of the Gallia County facilities were housed in one of the three neighboring buildings just outside of Gallipolis, the trip to visit the coroner’s office was a rather short one. After grabbing his duffel bag from the trunk, Reed had followed Meigs into the sheriff’s department, using the restroom there to splash some cold water on his face and change into the clothes Brandt had told him to bring along.
A bit of foresight that had not been intended, even if it did manage to work out well for the afternoon.
What Reed would do for clean clothes on the morrow he wasn’t sure, resigning himself to worrying about that when the time came.
Once he was cleaned and changed, he’d fed Billie a handful of treats and made sure she was hydrated before meeting a freshly changed Meigs by the front door. Bypassing the need to climb back into a vehicle, together the trio had walked the length of the sheriff’s department building and across the lawn to the matching structure next door.
A building Reed had correctly identified as the commissioner’s office on the way in, his mistake being in not realizing that while that was the main floor’s purpose, the basement was home to the county coroner.
A facility Reed couldn’t imagine getting a great deal of use, its placement and the fact that a retired former physician oversaw it both confirming as much.
Little more than a couple of rooms clustered around a small foyer entered from a rear stairwell, there was a single office that Meigs and Harrison Salem were now sequestered in. Beside it was an unmarked door standing open Reed assumed to be a restroom.
The final bit of space was dedicated to the morgue that he and the doctor were now standing in.
“As a physician, I’ve been around death all my life,” Blumenthal began. “Something like this, though...”
The sentiment was something similar to what Reed experienced while standing on the hillside a couple of hours before. The notion that while people in their respective professions might have seen things, may have even become a bit desensitized in
some regards, it still didn’t insulate them from the outliers.
The truly heinous or unexpected arrivals, serving as a shock to the system.
“Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean,” Reed replied. Making no effort to glance down at the young woman resting beneath a plain white sheet between them, he kept his gaze fixed on the man across from him. “I take it you knew Ms. Salem?”
His eyes sliding shut, Blumenthal bowed the top of his head slightly. “Few years now. First, as a physician. Later on, we sat on a couple of the same committees. Harvest Festival, library board, that sort of thing.”
Even if the information wasn’t entirely pertinent to the incident earlier in the day, Reed was not about to turn it away. Background data and impressions from somebody other than just Meigs. A fuller depiction of the deceased and the role she played in the community.
How well she was received. If there was any existing animosity.
Anything that might make someone carry a damned elephant gun up into the hills and wait all morning to take her out.
“I’ve heard good things,” Reed replied.
Again, Blumenthal bent his head forward. A nod of agreement that formed a crease along the roll of flesh just beneath his chin.
“Lovely girl,” he said. “Just, lovely. I think she was a little nervous when she first got here, took her a while to come out of her shell, but I tell you, this last year or so, she really blossomed.
“Everybody loved her.”
Rare was the occasion when Reed spoke to someone about the departed and got a bad report. There were the obvious exceptions of former rivals or those harboring a personal grudge, but by and large, people tried to speak well of the deceased.
This went further than that. A report that was far beyond glowing, Reed suspecting it couldn’t merely be attributed to the man’s nature alone. A general sentiment that he would receive from most people in town, making what he and Billie were tasked with doing that much more difficult.
The Promisor: A Suspense Thriller Page 6
