Unmasking the Shadow Man

by Debbie Herbert

  “I’m a cop. It’s my job to investigate this.” Liam took a grim satisfaction at Allen’s widened eyes and the sudden slump of his shoulders. He stepped forward, his face within inches of Allen’s—close enough to smell his sweat, even through the mentholated scent of the man’s aftershave.

  “But I haven’t done anything wrong,” he protested, clear blue eyes awash with barely contained panic. “You can’t make me go.”

  “Get in the car.”

  Allen’s shoulders slumped as he complied with the order. Liam caught up to Harper and pulled her aside from Emily. “Just wait with Emily in an empty room and don’t discuss anything with her about what just happened. I’m calling in an officer who specializes in this kind of possible crime, and she’ll talk to Emily about the matter.”

  Harper nodded. “I understand. Don’t worry.”

  Liam called in to the station and arranged for an officer to come over and speak with Emily at once. He returned to his car and confronted Allen. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said shortly. “An expert officer in the field is going to interview Emily. Whatever was going on in there, it’s all going to come out. I suggest you tell the truth. Now. It might go easier on you that way.”

  “I was counseling that girl. How dare you! What will my parishioners think? You’ll ruin my reputation.”

  Liam continued. “Didn’t you hear me? Admit to everything now.”

  Allen shook his head, as though dazed. “This can’t be happening. Please. I was counseling Emily. Nothing inappropriate happened.”

  “Really? And that’s why you were in a dimly lit room with her behind closed doors?”

  “I can assure you that—”

  “We practically caught you in the act.”

  “You have no proof,” he insisted. Allen’s skin looked ashen, and he licked his thin lips. “Okay, I’ll admit that my behavior has been somewhat inappropriate, but I’ve never crossed a certain line—”

  Disgust filled Liam. “She’s a minor. You admit to having physical contact with her of a sexual nature?”

  “Yeah, but like I said, we never actually—”

  “You’re under arrest,” Liam interrupted. “I’m taking you to the station.”

  Allen started to tremble. “My reputation will be in ruins. I’ll lose my job.”

  “Should have thought about that before you crossed the line with a minor. Now stay in here a minute until I return.”

  Liam made his way into the church and followed the sound of low murmurs coming from Allen’s office. Harper and Emily glanced up at him as he entered. Emily’s face was tearstained, and her hands shook as she swiped a tissue at her eyes. Harper stood, patting the girl’s shoulder as she exited the room and slipped beside him in the hallway.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Did you arrest Allen?”

  “I did. How’s Emily?”

  “She’s seems scared to death and called her parents, who, by the way, are on their way over.”

  “Good. You didn’t speak to her about anything that happened?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Excellent. I’m taking Spencer to the station. An officer should be arriving here momentarily. We’ll make arrangements to get you a ride home.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Harper crossed her arms and glanced at Emily. “What happens next? I find it hard to believe Emily is his only victim. Maybe Kristen needs to be interviewed as well.”

  “We’ll thoroughly investigate.”

  “Thank heavens. That man needs to be stopped.”

  “I agree. Did you get to question him about your sister?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t learn anything. You just do what you have to do tonight, and I’ll see you later.”

  He nodded and returned to his vehicle, his mind teeming with questions. Could there really be a connection between Presley’s pregnancy and her death? He wished he could talk it over with a colleague, but that was way too risky. Word could get back to Bryce and his boss would have yet another reason to dislike him. Already, he probably skated on thin ice with tonight’s arrest of a prominent citizen. Bryce would worry about how his department looked if the charges against Spencer didn’t stick. The Baysville police chief was hung up on public image, his officers following a strict chain of command, and he exerted control over every facet of the department. So far, Liam hadn’t been able to uncover whether this was due to the man’s insecure personality or whether it was an attempt to cover up wrongdoing.

  As always, the reminder of why he was really in Baysville set him on edge. Did he really want to get involved in Harper’s need to poke around in her past? After all, how serious could she be about finding the truth when she was only going to be in town such a short time?

  Yet every time he saw Harper, the more he liked her, the more he wanted to be close to her—and not just for official business. She was kind and intelligent and cared about people in the community. He’d just have to keep a tight rein on his emotions until the questions surrounding her sister’s death and the truck that had tried to run her down were either resolved or dismissed. Spending more time with her was probably not a good idea—personally or professionally.

  But he’d never been one to shy away from trouble. It was obvious Bryce had no interest in looking into Presley Catlett’s death or the truck incident, and he felt like both deserved an investigation. Wherever his attraction to Harper might lead, it would have to be put on hold for now. Which might be easier said than done.

  Chapter Six

  Harper smiled with pleasure at the sight of Liam on her doorstep the next morning. “I was hoping you’d come by today,” she said, gesturing him inside.

  He held up a hand. “Sorry, I can’t stay. I was in the area and just wanted to ask what, in particular, Spencer said to you about your sister when you questioned him last night.”

  “I didn’t get much of anything out of him.” She strode to the porch swing and patted the seat beside her. After a moment of hesitation, Liam sat beside her.

  “I can’t stop thinking about poor Emily. Hope she’s the only victim.”

  “That would surprise me if she was. Sexual predators rarely fixate on one person.”

  Harper still couldn’t get her head around Allen as a criminal. Maybe sexual misconduct wasn’t the only violent secret in his closet. She shook her head. “At any rate, while you were out of the room, I told Allen about the autopsy report revealing Presley was pregnant. He claimed they were never intimate, even saying they had broken up a good two or three weeks before Presley died and that they’d never been serious.”

  “Do you believe him?” Liam asked.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore. Mom always insisted on meeting Presley’s dates, not that she dated that much. Matter of fact, Allen was one of only three guys I can recall Presley introducing to us.”

  “If you ask me, it sounds like his complete denial was too quick.”

  “Guess we’ll never know for sure.” She drummed her fingers on her lap a moment and then admitted in a rush of breath, “I’ve never mentioned it to anyone before, but I used to hear Presley sneaking out of the house after Mom went to bed at night.”

  “Think she was meeting Allen?”

  “It’s what I always assumed. I asked her about it, but she claimed she was just hanging out with a couple girlfriends. I never believed her story.”

  “How often did this happen?”

  Harper cocked her head to the side, thinking. “As far as I know, only a few times. All occurring in the weeks right before her death.”

  “What—”

  The two-way radio crackled and spit out a message.

  “Duty calls,” Liam said. “Let’s put our heads together later and figure out our next step.”

  “Sure. Was that an emergency call?”

  “No.” />
  He didn’t volunteer any more information, and she regarded him quizzically. She imagined having a serious relationship with a cop would be filled with moments such as this—worry every time they were called out to a scene.

  “Hope everything’s routine on the call.”

  He nodded, and she watched as he returned to his vehicle and sped off. Mrs. Henley waved her over, and Harper walked to her neighbor’s house, chatting with her for over an hour before finally returning home.

  That smell.

  The stench wafted through the foyer—putrid and acrid, a mixture of something rotten mixed with sweat and urine. But the worst part? She’d smelled it before. That horrible night. Even over the acrid tinge of smoke, when whoever or whatever had been there brushed against her to escape into the shadows, an odor had momentarily pervaded. A very distinctive miasma of stink that triggered a gag instinct.

  Harper lifted the hem of her T-shirt and covered her mouth and nose, blinking against the insistent tang. She tentatively entered the kitchen, scanning the room to determine the cause of the smell. Had something crawled in the house and died? She could think of no other explanation. The floor and counter were as she’d left them earlier—clean and wiped down. No left-out food, spilled milk or dirty dishes in the sink. The day’s garbage had already been taken out. Pinching her nose, she thrust open the kitchen window. The chilly October air she could handle, not so much the smell.

  Her search continued room by room. Along the way, she flung open windows and kept breathing through her mouth. And still no explanation to account for it. Upstairs, the smell dwindled to a tolerable level. In her bedroom, Harper wrapped herself in a fleece robe and opened every window before turning to the bed for the throw blanket she always kept neatly folded at the end of the mattress. Next step would be to light candles and spray every inch downstairs with air freshener. Huddling under the warm fleece blanket, she opened her night table drawer in search of a candle and matches. It was then that she noticed it—a yellowed sheet of paper scribbled with her mother’s handwriting. How did it get here? Forgetting everything else, Harper sank on the bed and began reading. The letter was addressed to her mother’s sister and dated three months after Presley’s death.

  Dear Ana,

  Every day, just as I begin to believe things couldn’t possibly get worse, they do. The autopsy record arrived in the mail today. It held one whopper of a surprise. Presley was pregnant. I hardly know what to think. It makes it all the more sad. Lately, it feels like I’m holding on by a thread. I’m unraveling inside. Maybe...maybe it’s even affecting my mind? I’m hearing things, sis. Strange noises in the night that keep me awake. I tell myself it’s because of what Harper claimed she saw that night, but I don’t have the strength to figure it out.

  I wish I could just pick up and move out of this place. Go somewhere like Florida where the sun always shines and the beaches glisten with white sand. My hope is that someday Harper will have a better life, far from this town with all its bittersweet memories. But I can’t afford to leave. Instead, I work my butt off at the diner and dread coming home in the evenings to my mostly empty house, where the only other person there cries nearly as much as I do. I know what you’ll say—to be strong for the only daughter I have left. I’m trying. I really am. But I’m a shell with nothing more to give, and I suspect Harper picks up on that.

  The letter ended there. Unfinished, unsigned and undelivered. Her mom hadn’t written anything Harper didn’t already know, but still. Anger and hurt warred within her heart. Twin emotions both caused by the pain of realizing that her mom had no love left to give once her husband and oldest child had died. It was as though she’d grown up in a foster home with no parents to provide love or security.

  She crumpled the aging paper in her fist and flung it on the floor. Anger won out over sorrow and she marched downstairs, sprayed air freshener and then gathered candles and lit them in every room.

  There had to be a rational explanation. Yes, the odor had been particularly strong the night Presley died, but every now and then the same mysterious stench of something rotten had appeared over the years, although very faint. Thank heavens the exterminators were arriving in the morning. She’d made the appointment after settling on a local business with great online reviews. Between that and getting rid of all the old possessions in the house, the problem would be removed—or at least, it wouldn’t be her problem to deal with anymore. If she had any sense, she’d call Kimber right now and accept her offer.

  I have nothing left to give.

  Her mom’s words echoed round and round in Harper’s mind until a tight knot of anger balled in her gut. Presley’s death had been tragic, and heartbreaking for Mom, but damn it, she was a victim in all this, too. Her childhood had sputtered to an end. If for no other reason than to satisfy her own questions, she was staying on in Baysville until she either figured out if foul play was involved in her sister’s death or accepted it as truly accidental.

  Decision made, Harper called her assistant in Atlanta and talked over taking an extended leave of absence. Muriel was understanding and more than capable of filling in for now. There was money in the budget to hire other designers on an as-needed, temporary basis if the workload became too heavy with existing staff. A twinge of guilt hit her as she hung up the phone, but she’d make it up to her assistant when everything returned to normal. Once all this was over, she’d offer Muriel a partnership in the firm.

  The house smelled habitable again, if not peachy keen. Harper closed all the windows, sat at the kitchen table and went to work making a game plan on how to proceed with her quest. So far, the only motive she had for foul play was a boyfriend murderously unhappy about the pregnancy.

  She drummed her pencil on the notebook but could think of no other lead to pursue. At least not for now. The unexplained noises and smell at home didn’t concern her as much as the message to “get out of the house” and the truck that had barreled down on her by the mailbox. Sure, it was possible that both were random, unconnected incidents—but it was also possible that someone did not want her in Baysville. If that were the case, it had to be related to Presley. She had no conflict with anyone in this town.

  Unease hammered her temples. From here on out, she’d have to be extra vigilant to ensure that all windows and doors stayed closed and tamperproof.

  The lockdown began now.

  * * *

  “YOU’VE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION. On right,” the disembodied voice of the GPS announced.

  Here? Liam frowned at the sight of an ugly cinder-block house that appeared to have been randomly dropped in the middle of a no-man’s-land of marsh. Weeds grew up the sides of the moldy structure. A rusted Chevy truck was parked haphazardly on the side of the windowless building. At the back of the property stood an old barn, its rotten roof half collapsing in on the building. The place looked forlorn and neglected, as though no one lived within miles.

  Unease lifted the tiny hairs on Liam’s arms and the nape of his neck. It was way too quiet out here. Someone had anonymously reported a break-in at the house and left an address, but no name or phone number. Liam got on the two-way radio and reported his location and findings to the dispatcher.

  “Want to wait on backup before approaching the house?” the dispatcher asked.

  He hesitated. They were chronically short staffed, and it was close to quitting time for the first-shift crew. Already, the October sky had darkened. Only a few dying rays of sunlight cut through the gray clouds.

  “No. The place appears deserted.”

  “Stay in radio contact,” the dispatcher advised.

  “Ten-four.” Liam pulled the cruiser near the front door and shut off the engine before easing out. The quiet was deafening, a heavy pressure that rang in his ears. A flock of starlings abruptly flew out of a sweetgum tree, their collective wings flapping as noisily and erratically as his heartbeat. The birds made t
heir way skyward, still in search of the perfect night’s roosting spot.

  Cautiously, Liam approached the house and knocked at the door. Complete silence greeted his overture; not even the whisper of movement could be detected from within. He knocked again. “Anyone home?” he called out. “It’s the police.”

  Nothing. Liam backed away and peered into the first front window. Through a thick layer of dust, he made out a single cot surrounded by trash. Did anyone even live in this place? At the second front window, he observed a small room that held an old couch that had stuffing bursting out of threadbare upholstery and more trash scattered on old carpeting. He made his way to the back of the house, which only had one door and window. Again, he looked through the window into a tiny kitchen, where dirty pots and pans overflowed from a sink, and more trash, mostly empty fast food containers, littered the counter and floor.

  There wasn’t anything even worth stealing from this place. If anyone had wanted in, it would be merely to seek temporary shelter from the coming night. Liam glanced over his shoulder at the decrepit old barn. Might as well search it to be thorough. He headed there then stopped, surprised to find a pattern of flattened weeds and grass. Someone had driven by recently. His gaze followed the tire tracks where they wound to the back of the barn.

  This didn’t feel right.

  Might be best to return to his vehicle and drive around back to check out the area. Liam switched on the two-way. “Nobody found at the residence,” he reported. “But I’m—”

  A loud pop cracked, and a whizzing torpedoed the air, invisible and swift. A crushing swath of fire radiated from the side of his left leg.

  “Officer Andrews? Are you all right?”

  On instinct, he dropped to the ground on his belly and withdrew his sidearm, flicking off the safety. The cold ground rumbled beneath him at the same moment he heard rustling from the barn. A large figure, clad all in black and wearing a knitted black ski cap, burst from the barn and ran, headed to a copse of pines not twenty feet away.