The Peace Haven Murders

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Whatever you need to do, just do it quietly,” I whispered to him.

  He moved away and I could no longer see him. I suspected he was answering the call of nature somewhere off in the shrubs below us. Always considerate.

  The night sounds were somewhat subdued despite the warm evening. There was nevertheless a chill in the air and I moved closer to Rosey to share some of his warmth. It only helped my left side. I could have used Sam for the other side. He was still gone on his necessary excursion.

  I rehearsed over and over what we knew about the case in an effort to stay awake. I plotted each step, each small item that was providing us with some kind of clue, but nothing was clicking. We had no word yet on what substance was found in that broken syringe, if any. We had a connection between Saunders and Henry and the preacher, but it was tenuous at best. Everything was circumstantial in tying Robert Lee Rowland to the murders. I had nothing on tying Saunders or Henry to the murders that took place inside Peace Haven. In fact, I had no real evidence that those deaths inside the nursing facility were murders. My mother believed them to be unnatural, and I was following her lead. In fact, I actually agreed with her. At present it was nothing more than a feeling, an intuition, a high degree of suspicion. The evidence was sparse and leading us nowhere. The only thing that truly convinced me of this whole ghastly ordeal being planned and executed was the presence of the hired gunman who was trying to eliminate me and Rosey. If she had not come along, I would have practically nothing to go on. At least for the poor souls who died at Peace Haven. The hit and run did give us more evidence, but so far there was little more than rumors abounding to tie some of the players to the crime. It was frustrating. A game of watching and waiting.

  Such is the life of an investigator. We spend most of our hours investigating and hoping to string together some clues in order to keep from being clueless. It’s a funny job, and sometimes deadly. Some days I wish that my father had been able to warn me against such a profession, but then, he had no idea that his baby girl would enter into such work because of him. I learned from the best, but he had no idea he was teaching me such skills.

  I took out my cell phone and pushed a button on the side to light up my dial. It was nearly five o’clock, so I awakened Rosey. He came to fully awake and alert, as if he had only closed his eyes for a moment. Amazing.

  Dawn was creeping onto the scene as the mansion nearby became silhouetted in front of us. The sun would be coming up in the direction of Rosey’s Jag. It would be a while before that would happen.

  “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

  I looked around and realized that I had not seen him since he asked to be excused a few hours ago. He didn’t come back.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I thought you could depend on him,” Rosey said.

  “I can. And I do. He’ll be back.”

  56

  Sarah Jones was sitting up in the bed with three pillows behind her. The light on her bedside table was still on, but Sarah was asleep. Rachel was sleeping in the rocking chair across from Sarah, which was in the corner of the room between the front window and the side window. The fully loaded 30.06 was resting dangerously across her lap with her right hand resting on the stock. Her left hand was lying across the barrel in an uncomfortable position.

  The two ladies had been reliving some past experiences until a few moments ago. Rachel had been rocking to the rhythm of the some vague memory when she had fallen asleep. Sarah was chattering away about some crazy escapade that Clancy and her brother Scott had gotten themselves involved in without noticing that her conversation partner had dozed off. Before she could finish the tale to her own satisfying conclusion, she had succumbed to the silence of the night in her upright position in the bed.

  A distant sound awakened Rachel in the corner. She held her breath while she waited to see if the sound would come again. She was slowly coming to her senses and hoping that she could tell from where in the house the noise was coming. It came again. She could tell that it had come from downstairs. The pace of her heartbeat increased.

  Cautiously, she stood up from the rocking chair with both hands firmly gripping the rifle. She quickly and silently exited the open door of Sarah’s room without awakening her, and walked to the hallway rail where she could look down and see a portion of the dining room downstairs. She had left a light on in the kitchen so that there was something below her to aid her eyes as she waited to see if any familiar face would emerge. She was expecting Clancy and Rosey and Sam to return from wherever they had gone; however, she had little idea of when that might be.

  Rachel was in the shadows by the balcony rail not far from the head of the stairs when she first saw the man approach the steps at the bottom. It was not Rosey, nor anyone else she recognized. He was coming upstairs. Her heart began to pound even more rapidly. She glided back into the darker shadows towards her own room which was down the hallway from Sarah’s. She was now completely out of sight in the small corner of the hallway leaning against the door that led to the attic which was just to the right of her own bedroom door. She tried to inhale in order to control the rapid pace of her pounding heart. She feared that the man might hear her heart beating. Breathing was difficult.

  The man slowly ascended the stairs and moved to his right towards Clancy’s old room and the guest room where Rosey was sleeping when he slept. He passed the bathroom which was directly in front of him after he emerged from the stairs. He checked both bedrooms without apparently finding whatever it was he was searching for. Or whoever. He briefly stopped and looked into the small bathroom as he moved around to Rachel’s side of the hallway.

  Rachel exhaled gently and felt some better, but her heart was still pounding much too rapidly to suit her. Her right index finger was now resting on the front of the trigger guard for her weapon. Her left hand was holding onto the barrel of the rifle waiting for the approaching danger to come towards her room.

  The man turned down the short hallway that led to Rachel’s bedroom. The room where Sarah was sleeping was on his immediate right. The lighted room beckoned him. As he was about to enter through the open doorway, the hardwood floor cracked just in front of Rachel. No doubt the man’s own weight had caused the noise, but it stopped him from entering the room. He paused and peered into the darkness of that end of the hallway. He was staring directly at Rachel without seeing her. The light from Sarah’s bedroom allowed her to now see that the man held a small gun in his left hand. Rachel held her breath in hopes that she could stop whatever sound she would make in the natural process of breathing. She prayed he would turn away from her soon so that she could exhale and breathe naturally once more. She was running out of time. Her breath would explode from her mouth and lungs any moment.

  The man finally turned away from Rachel’s corner and entered Sarah’s bedroom. Since the light was still on it would be easy for him to see the woman lying in bed asleep, propped up by the pillows. He disappeared from Rachel’s sight.

  Rachel eased carefully along the wall towards Sarah’s doorway. She first heard Sarah’s voice after she arrived at the threshold.

  “Henry Smith,” Sarah said, “what in the world are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t know it wuz you, Misrez Jones. Maybe I got the wrong room,” he said.

  “What in the world you doin’ sneakin’ around this old house so late at night? What you lookin’ for, boy? And what’s that you got in your hand there, Henry?”

  He lowered the gun which had been pointing directly at her.

  “I got a job to do, Misrez Jones.”

  “And what would that be, Henry?”

  “I got to kill someone.”

  “Not much of job, Henry. Who you gonna kill?”

  “I was told that the person I wuz to kill was stayin’ in this house. You alone, Misrez Jones?”

  “What if I am? Did you come here to kill me, Henry Smith?”

  “I don’t rightly know, ma’am.”

  “Well, wha
t if I am the one, Henry? Are you still gonna kill me?”

  Henry was holding the gun, but it was simply hanging there on his left side. He became aware of just how heavy the small gun was. His head was down. His eyes simply could not meet hers on any level. He was thinking.

  “I needs to kill the last one, Misrez Jones.”

  “The last what, Henry?” She continued to say his name as if to connect with some faded past memory that the two of them shared. She could remember him as a teenager, wandering around the streets of Clancyville, mostly alone, acting as if he had no home. Truth was, Henry never had much of home. He was the outcast, even in his own family. That she knew right well.

  “I think it’s the last person who served on a jury long time ago.”

  “Who told you to do this, Henry?”

  “I better not tell you that. I might get some folks in trouble if I talks too much. It’s a job, Misrez Jones. You understand that?”

  “But what kind of job? This is bad stuff you’re into, Henry. You gonna take my life?”

  “Are you the last one?”

  “I certainly am, Henry. I’m the last one alive. And you’re gonna kill me, for what? Money?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I took the job for money.”

  At that moment Henry Smith became aware that someone was standing in the doorway of the room. Perhaps Rachel had made some sound as she moved through the threshold and into the room. He slowly turned his head to the right and saw a woman standing there holding a large rifle which was pointed directly at him. He was still holding the small, heavy handgun in his left hand, and it was pointed downward, towards his feet. He dare not take his eyes off of the woman with the rifle.

  “I can’t allow you to shoot my friend,” Rachel said. “If you think for a moment that I will not pull this trigger, then you will be making a terrible mistake.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Henry said without moving anything but his lips.

  “Now don’t even flinch or you’re a dead man. This is a game rifle and it will make a hole in you too large to sew up. I don’t want to shoot you. You understand me? The last thing I want to do is to shoot you. But, I will. Do not doubt me for a second.”

  Rachel was calmer than she had ever imagined being in such a situation, not that she ever imagined a situation like this. She was calm and frightened to death. Her great fear was that this man standing only a few feet from her would lift his left hand and try to shoot her. Bill had always told her that if you are in a situation with another person and they have a gun and the likelihood is that they intend you harm, you cannot hesitate. It is fatal if you do. Bill must have told her that a hundred times. She now knew why. She stood resolute, but with great fear.

  Henry let his eyes fall to the floor in front of him. This was a terrible position to be in. He never thought of anything like this. He simply believed it would be easy to break into the house and kill whoever it was he was supposed to kill. He never thought about it being someone he knew. And he certainly never thought about having to decide whether or not he could move fast enough to shoot a person aiming a rifle at him.

  He really did need that money. For him, it was a lot of money. Maybe he could get away with it, shoot both of them and leave town. His mind was racing, as fast as Henry’s mind could race. He had to decide.

  He slowly turned his head to the right and looked at the woman holding the rifle. She seemed to be calm, as if she had done this before. For Henry, it was all about the money. He knew what he had to do.

  57

  The tall, thin woman pushed the button on her wrist watch to check the time in the dark. It was close to four o’clock. She was growing impatient waiting on the sunrise. She wanted to break in and get it over with, but she knew that the preacher had alarms everywhere on the property. So, she waited for the morning, for his breakfast time. She had come calling at that early hour before. He would not be surprised at her presence. That could be her advantage.

  The gun was lying on the passenger seat next to her. There was enough light from the lampposts strategically placed around the semi-circular driveway for her to see the weapon. She took it in her hand and felt the cold steel. She placed the gun against her cheek and it felt good. This was a solution. Maybe not the best one, she thought, but at least, it was a solution.

  She had loaded the gun earlier in the evening, long before Henry had arrived. She had made plans. Enough was enough. It was time to do something about the heavy weight around her. It was restricting, much too restricting.

  Her mind wandered to the aftermath, the time when it would be all over. Where would she go? What would she do with freedom, a new life? She smiled at the possibility of extreme joy. She had never known real joy, or, for that matter, satisfaction. She accomplished her tasks well enough, but they had been simply for him. She had found no fulfillment doing his bidding. It was a job, nothing more. But with him gone, out of the way, out of the picture, she would be seeking contentment for herself. It would be different.

  She played the scene over and over. She imagined what it would be like to stand in front of the man and force him to cower, make him do her bidding for once. Something surged inside of her. Excitement came to her for the first time in a long time. Perhaps the first time ever. She would have to be calm in order to do this, but the anticipation of it was thrilling indeed.

  It would all be such a surprise to the preacher. He would never dream of her doing anything like this. That was an advantage for her. She wondered how many shots it would take. How many bullets would she have to use or how many would she want to use? Maybe that was the real question.

  She located some anger stored deep within regarding the preacher. It was a long ago, far away memory of an event that occurred between them. She had buried it of course. She was forced to bury it. Life had to go on, and he seemed to be willing to make it up to her in his own sick sort of way. He had told her at the time that he was weak and that he meant no harm. He told her that he had cared for her, that she was special to him. Special.

  It was a lie. All of it was a lie. He simply found a way to use her to do his bidding whenever he wanted something done, something he didn’t have the courage to do.

  Something moved off to her right, some distance way, and she could not tell what it was. Perhaps it was an animal. Goodness knows he had enough land here for hundreds of wild animals. She wondered if he tried to control them, too.

  It was nearing five when she checked her watch again. Another hour or so and the dawn would be breaking upon her new world, new possibilities, new way of living. It was thrilling to entertain such thoughts. She regretted that she had not thought of this before. Maybe it was all of the killing that she had been connected with over the last few months that finally gave her the idea. She felt stupid, but worse than that, she felt used.

  Matters were now in her hand. She would do it. She would free herself from this despicable person who called himself a man of God. It would be over soon. She sighed and put the handgun back on the passenger seat next to her. It was a great comfort to have it so close.

  Sam magically appeared out of nowhere and startled me. He licked my face and sat down on his haunches as if to report in from his patrol.

  “I told you he would come back,” I whispered to Rosey who had been awake for the last half hour.

  “Ah, but what mischief has he been involved in since he left?”

  “You have no faith.”

  “That would be accurate. He’s a dog.”

  Sam walked over to Rosey and put a paw on his arm.

  “What does he want?” Rosey asked.

  “He wants to shake hands with you. It’s like a contract. He’ll do his part and you do yours.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Moi? No sir, I would not jest about so serious a matter. His word is binding.”

  “His word?” Rosey whispered incredulously.

  “Well, whatever approximation exists in the canine world. That would be his bond. Shake his paw
if you want him to trust you,” I said.

  Rosey shook Sam’s paw. Sam moved closer and licked Rosey’s face.

  “You’re in,” I said.

  “And you know this, how?”

  “He never licks anyone unless he trusts them. Never. No exceptions.”

  “He told you all of this?”

  “Observation. I’m a detective, you know.”

  “Yeah, I keep forgetting that. So where do you think Sam here has been roaming?”

  “Probably around the estate, the back side of the mansion, checking windows, stuff like that.”

  “And you have never trained this animal to do any of this?”

  “On my word as a lady. Don’t say it, just trust me.”

  Rosey was silent as he crossed his arms on his chest. Sam lay down next to him. It was another sign of relational posturing on his part. Sam seldom made mistakes in sizing up people. Of course I knew Rosey well enough to know that I certainly trusted him. Sam had to perform his own ritual to get to that point. Once there, he was there.

  “She’s definitely waiting on the light of day,” Rosey said.

  “Figured that. Wonder why she drove out here so early? Why not wait at home and then come out for breakfast or whatever?”

  “Don’t know. Suspect it to be a case of anxiousness.”

  “Or nerves,” I said.

  “That, too.”

  58

  Sarah Jones finally relaxed when she realized that the loud crash was the sound of the gun falling onto the hardwood floor at the end of her bed. Henry was not going to shoot her, and neither would Rachel shoot Henry. To her credit, Sarah felt sorry for Henry. So alone, so mistreated, so used, and so confused in his life. Perhaps if someone had only loved him, then maybe Henry would not have been involved in all of this mess.

  Rachel still held the rifle on the man standing at the end of the bed. She recalled that Bill had taught her to always be alert for another weapon when the first weapon was dislodged and taken. Most killers had a plan B. Henry was not like most killers. He barely had a plan A. He sat down in the rocker without asking for permission. He was a defeated man, and troubled. However one might describe Henry Smith at this moment in time, it would assuredly be understated.