by C. J. Sears
“Sounds good to me,” she said, guiding him back to their vehicles. His limp was fading though still noticeable. He seated himself in the Jeep, revved the engine. The sheriff hollered as he started to pull out of the driveway.
“I’m glad you liked the coffee, by the way.”
* * *
Mason acted less standoffish than usual as they let him in on their findings. He appeared grateful for the opportunity to share what he’d come across on his own. Of the five books he’d borrowed from the library, two of them were written by the same man: Patrick Rhinehold.
The deputy told Finch that the man was a local musician who’d turned to gospel singing and preaching in his later years. In his youth his family had feuded with another Mormon clan over land ownership. Tensions escalated until his parents were found guilty of poisoning the other family’s crops, killing the livestock in the process. After that things quieted and Rhinehold disappeared.
Rumors circulated that he’d become something of an explorer; gossip rags sighted him in countries around the world. He returned to Lone Oak ten years after he’d left and took up a choir position in a Presbyterian church. Before long, he became its most valued pastor.
The two books combined memoirs of his adventures and accounts of his conversion to Protestantism. The first, entitled Man Out of Town: Seeing the Universe Through Divine Eyes, chronicled eight years of his exile, detailing his exploits throughout the world before ending with his decision to change his faith. The second, Privileged Sight: The Universe Gets Smaller, described his final two years abroad, his love of Christianity, and his decision to return to his hometown.
It was a remarkable tale. Finch questioned whether Rhinehold had anything to do with the cult if he’d become as devout as his books claimed.
Coroner Kruger had dropped by and presented Deputy Mason with his full analysis and autopsy of Jane Harley. He deduced that the lethal dose of heroin and cocaine had in fact been what killed her. The fire had been conducted post-mortem via undisclosed means. Finch presumed that the body had been burnt elsewhere; Kruger confirmed that the damage done to her body was so extensive that the flames couldn’t have been contained to the room where the killer drew the symbol. She’d been moved there.
As for the parasite, Kruger had packaged it and sent it to a colleague’s biology lab for proper examination and study. A part of Finch had wanted to commandeer the creature himself, but he knew no one with the savvy necessary to study it. No one at headquarters would be familiar with it; he likely understood, or at least thought he did, as much about the parasite as anyone without a doctorate. He trusted that it was in the hands of an expert.
“So, this Rhinehold? Does he still live in this area?” Finch asked, leaning sideways in his seat in the conference room. The books were published in the late 1990s. Patrick Rhinehold had to be in his fifties by now.
“As a matter of fact,” said Donahue, “he still performs every Sunday. We can arrange an interview though I expect you don’t want to wait until then.”
“Make it happen.” She left to make the call.
His attention returned to Kruger’s report, though he suspected the coroner had learned nothing further than what he’d described to Mason. The report hazarded a guess that the parasite might have been injecting its own bodily fluids into Harley to sustain its host, but the speculation ended there. Sighing, Finch decided it was best to let the poor girl get her rest; her corpse had no more secrets to reveal.
“Deputy, do you know any Jebs that might be involved in the moonshine trade?” He felt foolish asking such a pedestrian question, but it was worth a shot.
Mason snorted back laughter. “About ten of them. It’s a popular name in the redneck population around here.”
Yeah, he figured. The Jeb mentioned in the note didn’t seem like a local yokel. It could be a code name, but bootlegging on the scale he’d seen wouldn’t exhibit that level of clandestine operation. Finch was positive that Jeb was the middleman in that setup, not the head honcho.
Donahue reentered the room with a smile on her face. “Rhinehold has agreed to see us at the diner tomorrow around noon,” she said. “He seemed particularly interested in talking to you. Normally, I’d find that suspicious, but we don’t get federal agents in here often, or at all. I’d guess he wants to include meeting a federal agent in his next book.”
“Word travels fast, I suppose,” said Finch. “I must admit I find his story inspiring. I’m not much of a religious man, but faith, real faith, fascinates me.” With a tilt of his head, he added, “Plus this gives me the chance to see Susan again. Maybe I should call her when we’re done here?”
The sheriff rolled her eyes. “You do that. In the meantime, let’s figure out what else we need to do besides celebrity get-togethers and lunch dates.”
After some debate, they narrowed their focus to three specific leads. Mason argued that they should be focused on the victim’s last days, not getting sidetracked by moonshiners and parasites. He said that they should get to know where she worked, what she was like beyond her death.
It was the most rudimentary route to take, but Finch knew they had to pursue it at some point. Since the deputy was so forthcoming with his enthusiasm, he left the task to him. Sheriff Donahue fixated on the bootleggers, suggesting that it was a problem that demanded her full attention regardless of their connection to Harley’s death or the cult. She decided to arrange a drop using one of the department’s informants.
A fly buzzed in Finch’s ear as he described where he was leaning with the case. Swatting it aside with some irritation, he said, “We have already decided to keep it simple, so I think the first thing I’ll do is go back to the scene of the crime, dig around in the woods a bit.” He pointed to a spot on the Lone Oak town map. “There’s not much distance between the house the victim was found in and the church Rhinehold sings at. Maybe I find something to connect the two; maybe it’s just proximity in a small town. Either way, I intend to educate myself a bit before the interview.”
Rapping his knuckles on the conference table, Mason stared wistfully out the window. Odd. Finch followed his gaze, anxious to see what had made the deputy’s mood turn sour. The steady bombardment of water against the glass answered his question. “If there’s anything left in the woods, Agent Finch, I think you just lost your chance,” said Mason.
He’d hoped to find the actual site of the fire somewhere in those woods, but if the rain kept up he was out of luck. There’d be nothing left but mud and tree limbs. The ritual could have been conducted indoors elsewhere, but he didn’t think that likely. Flames as massive and consuming as the kind that had scorched Harley would’ve been controlled in the same manner as a brush fire.
SMACK! The slap of the fly being squished between the sheriff’s palms jarred him out of his thoughts. He watched as she wiped her hands on her pants, smearing them with bug juice. He waited, but she pulled no handkerchief from her pocket, no tissues, no hand sanitizer. She resumed drinking her soda, insect-drenched hands and all. “Sheriff, I think I’m in love.”
She blushed. “You’re a laugh riot, Agent Finch. I can have a temper when the need calls for it, so watch yourself. Next time, someone else might have to pull your keester out of the parasite mine.”
“Duly noted,” he replied. Finch checked his watch, noticed that it was about to strike the witching hour. “Think I’ll turn in for the night, drudge through the muck tomorrow.”
Yawning, the sheriff said, “Understood. Just make sure you’re there for the interview; I don’t look forward to being stuck with Rhinehold by myself, especially if he starts going off on a tangent like he did on the phone.”
In the hallway, he took a moment to stretch his limbs. The injured leg was stiff but he would manage. He expected to be healed up by the morning. The trek to the rec room could be finished in about five seconds, but the phone was in the opposite direction. He intended to make good on his word.
He started to dial Susan’s phone numbe
r.
The phone rang. He answered it. The voice on the other end of the line was a man’s, one of the other officers he’d met the day before.
“Sheriff? Is this the sheriff? This is Officer Wilkins. My radio’s out. Can you hear me?” The urgency in the man’s tone was palpable.
“Calm down, officer. This is Agent Finch. What’s the matter?”
He sounded relieved. “Agent Finch, this concerns you too. There’s been another murder.”
Alert, Finch said, “Where? When?” He yelled for the sheriff and the deputy, heard them open the door of the conference room and barge out.
“At the Economy Lodge. Weren’t you staying there? Anyway, it’s another dead girl. You and the sheriff need to get down here.”
“Damn it.” Had the cult struck again? Bold to kill again so soon. “Any identification on the body?”
The words uttered to him were like ice in his veins. He felt his arms fall to his sides. The phone dropped from his hands, the officer still talking on the line. He cursed again, warmth returning to his insides. He picked the receiver back up. “Yeah. Yeah. We’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Finch hung up the phone as the sheriff stood behind him.
“What’s happening? What body?”
The words he spoke were hollow, dead things, devoid of pleasure. “There’s been another murder. I didn’t get the details. It’s at the motel. The victim is Susan Edwick.”
CROSSROADS
The rain slowed to a dull sprinkle by the time he arrived. The sight of flashing red and blue lights obscured what Finch could see of the crime scene from the seat of his Jeep. Sheriff Donahue and Deputy Mason parked ahead of him outside the front office of the Economy Lodge. Reluctant to step out of the car, Finch fidgeted in his seat. He checked the glove box. Inside was his back-up gun, a Browning nine-millimeter. It lacked the shine of his Desert Eagle, but it would get the job done just the same.
Finch slid the weapon into his belt loop, jerked open the car door. He slammed it shut and marched over to the manager of the motel. He didn’t need to see the body, didn’t want to right now. Questions first, results later. He had to know what kind of screw-up allowed a murder to take place on his own door-step without trying to stop it.
The manager was a reserved man in his early twenties. He was balding on top though the horseshoe pattern hadn’t quite settled in yet. He wore contacts, but Finch noticed the man couldn’t bring himself to meet eye-to-eye as he approached. Easy to intimidate. That made this simpler.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, faking politeness. “But are you the dumbass who was on duty when the crime took place?”
Startled, he mumbled, “Y-yes I am. Are you…are you here to ask questions? The other officers already talked to me and I told them everything I could.”
“I’m not them, I’m Special Agent Llewyn Finch. We’re going to go through the entire night’s events and we’re going to start with how a murder could have happened without you being aware of it.”
He stuttered. “I, uh, wasn’t, uh, here when it happened. Well, I was, but I was distracted.” Sheepish, he started to backpedal into the office.
Finch caught him by the shirt, drug him back outside and held him against the wall. “Look, a woman is dead. On your watch. If you don’t tell me what you were doing at the time that was so distracting I’m going to have to take you in for questioning.”
The manager tried to push his hand away. Finch held firm. “I, uh, might have been watching the security feeds.”
Finch could see where this was going. He tightened his grip. “Let me guess, you have these security feeds in some questionable places? Like inside the bathrooms, for instance?”
Ashamed, the man nodded. Finch growled. “So you had a little private show that took your attention? Tell me: was your voyeurism worth the cost of a woman’s life?” The manager shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” Finch said, letting go of his shirt.
So the man hadn’t seen anything involving the murder. But the cameras had to have caught something, inside or out. He told the man to deliver all of his tapes to the police. “And get a new hobby, pervert,” he added as he turned toward the scene of the crime and put on a pair of gloves.
The first responder met him as he ducked under the yellow tape, filled him in. “She was found just outside this room.” He pointed to the vacancy Finch had occupied the previous night. “Witnesses say they heard a scream, then a gunshot. They didn’t see the killer, just heard his footsteps as he ran away. It sounds like a hit if you ask me.” Gunfire meant no cult involvement. This wasn’t a ritual killing. It was an execution.
Susan’s body was splayed out on the cement less than five feet from the door of the motel room. She’d dressed herself in jean shorts and a tank top, must have preferred the freedom of movement over protection from the elements. In her right hand, she clutched a pink coin purse. In her left, a piece of paper with his room number on it. Her eyes were wide, the shock of her attacker etched into her face. A round had gone clean through her forehead, severing brown tufts of hair tied into a ponytail. Blood trickled out of the hole, running down her cheek.
Bending down, he examined the victim. Her maroon lipstick glistened despite the bright cacophony of police lights. She’d applied too much eye shadow, nervous about the night ahead. Her nails were painted a light blue that matched her eyes. Her skin reminded him of a porcelain doll, so unaffected by the passage of time. Now it was tainted. Scarred. Lifeless. He straightened up, forced himself to look away from the haunting image of Susan Edwick’s corpse.
The shot had impacted the wall inches from the window. His hand traced the cracked surface, cheap drywall that had been a wholesale bargain. The bullet hadn’t shattered. He extracted it, placed it in the bag, and handed the evidence off to one of the officers to take back to the forensics lab. With their money troubles, he couldn’t believe the department could afford it. Eyes closed, he strode past the body once more, met with the sheriff.
Interviewing the witnesses turned up nothing of value. They told the sheriff what Finch had already heard from the first responder. There was a scream, a gunshot, and retreating footsteps. Nobody saw a face. Nobody could describe the firearm used in the crime. The perpetrator had been a ghost, for all intents and purposes.
Except he’d been sloppy, had used rounds that didn’t break on impact. Enough was intact that a partial fingerprint could be lifted though Finch wouldn’t hedge his bets yet. Barring that, the round might be traced back to the gun, given time. It was an execution, yes, but a messy one.
He relayed his thoughts to Donahue. “We’ll get this guy, though with this whole cult thing I’m not sure we have anyone to spare,” she said as she watched the body get loaded into the ambulance. She cocked her head in his direction.
“Sheriff, much as I’d like to be involved, I can’t let the job get personal. It would throw me off my game, and I can’t get distracted.” He pulled out chewing gum, shoved it into his mouth. Juicy spearmint taste swished between his teeth. His outburst with the manager had been uncalled for. Seeing her body, it had sobered him. She was an innocent girl caught in the crosshairs of some lunatic in a town that seemed to breed them.
“Yeah, I noticed the fit you threw a couple of minutes ago. It’s a good thing I like you; otherwise I’d have thrown you in the lockup for the night, flying off the handle like that.” She cast a glance at the manager. “Still, the creep deserved it. We’re going to run him down for unlawful surveillance and voyeurism.”
“Good.” At least one scumbag was getting his just desserts.
He noticed the sheriff wasn’t done with him. She rooted around in her pocket, found an index card with what appeared to be letters cut from magazines pasted onto it. How cliché. “As for getting personal, you have less choice than you think. This was on the body. I made sure none of the other officers saw it.” She handed the card to him.
He read it to himself: Hello Agent Finch. You don’t know me but I know you. She wasn
’t the first. She won’t be the last. If you want to stop this, then you’ll have to play along. Your first clue will be at the crossroads. Brave nature, flora and fauna. Come alone or not at all.
Whoever had done this was targeting him. Susan hadn’t been a hit job; she was the first piece of a puzzle in a game he wasn’t sure he wanted to play. He flipped the card over. Nothing written on the back. He hadn’t thought there would be.
The sheriff watched him, trying to gage his reaction. He said nothing. His heart thudded inside his chest. She snatched the card from his hand. He let her and walked back to his Jeep, her following close behind. When he reached the car, she grabbed his shoulder. He stopped. She turned him around to face her.
“Surely you’re not stupid enough to walk into an ambush as blatant as that.” Her hands were on her hips, a disapproving look in her eyes.
He shook his head. “No. Come along if you want. I have a feeling that this particular threat is empty anyhow. The game’s just started; he won’t want to take any pieces off the board yet.” He sat in the driver’s seat, shut the door.
She hopped in on the passenger’s side. “How do you know? Another one of your cases come back to stalk you or something?”
Backing out of the parking lot, he said, “No, I have no idea who this is. But I know the type. This was a message he wanted to deliver. He didn’t savor the kill; he just wants to take me down a few pegs, get me to crack. He’s a narcissist, feeding his ego is what he’s after.”
“I know what a narcissist is, Agent Finch,” she said. He raised an eyebrow. “We’re not country bumpkins.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know.” He dropped the subject.
Entrenched in silence, the remainder of the ride passed with an undercurrent of unspoken apprehension. Finch might’ve turned on the radio, but a few days in Lone Oak had taught him that this town didn’t have a proper radio station. The silence would have to do, suited him fine, would give him to time to collect his thoughts. In his mind’s eye, he pictured the bustling diner from the previous night. For the killer to know about their brief relationship, he had to have been there that same evening. He could see Susan in her apron, teetering on the brink of collapse as she balanced a tray of food and carried it to customers at a nearby booth. He remembered the sheriff sat across from him, eyes intent on the false sigil of the cult. Rows behind him he recalled the hit-and-run criminal, blathering his story to his friends, careless to mask the volume of his voice. Not a narcissist, just stupid. He ruled him out.
