“Those are some harsh accusations.”
“You disagree?”
Rachel chuckled. “Even if I didn’t, the sheriff’s office is no longer on the case, which means neither am I.”
“Something tells me you could make do just fine without any help from the sheriff’s office.”
Rachel almost came out of her seat. “Are you suggesting that I continue the investigation on my own?”
“I was hoping you would consider it.”
She could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Look, Chief, as much as I’d love to stick around and see this thing through to the end, I’ve already been warned to stay away. Sanford made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near this case. Besides, Sheriff Pritchard isn’t going to pay me to satisfy my own curiosity.”
Miller seemed to consider that. He scratched his chin and asked, “Are you planning to leave town tonight?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she said.
“Good. Think it over. We’ll talk again in the morning. If money’s really an issue, then I’ll pay you to satisfy my curiosity.”
“And Sanford?”
“If what I’ve heard about you is true, I doubt you’ll let a guy like him scare you all the way back to Raleigh.”
44
Rachel went upstairs to her room and dropped onto the bed, closed her eyes, and allowed herself a short nap. When she woke, her stomach was growling. She took a shower and put on a fresh pair of jeans and a T-shirt, left the blazer lying on a chair in a corner, and went downstairs.
Shipley was in the kitchen, humming to herself and cutting vegetables for what looked like the makings of a stew. She sang, “Good evening,” when Rachel came through the door.
“Evening,” Rachel said. “I think I’m going to go out for a bit. Walk the town. Maybe grab some dinner.”
“Do you think you’ll be out late?”
“I doubt it, but I have the key you gave me if I change my mind.”
“Well, I sleep pretty soundly,” Shipley said, “so you come and go as you please, and don’t worry about waking me up whenever you decide to come in. But I do hope you won’t be out too late, Miss Rachel. It’s not safe out there.”
* * *
It was a quiet half-mile walk through town to get to Everett’s Diner. Rachel strolled past the storefronts on Everly and crossed the bridge. The sun was peering up the valley, setting the water alight with a swath of orange flame. It disappeared when she reached the southern bank and stepped in the shadow of an old pharmacy at the corner of Main. The temperature plummeted, and Rachel realized she had made a mistake leaving her jacket behind.
She walked into the diner rubbing her arms. The hostess said, “Welcome back,” and beckoned Rachel to follow her. Half of the tables were occupied. Eyes tracked them as they passed by. Rachel ignored the glances, settled into her seat, and examined the menu, which was easy to do with a hunger pang focusing her attention. When the server arrived, she ordered the meatloaf with mashed potatoes, collard greens, and a Mountain Dew. Then she sat back and played solitaire on her phone while she waited.
The bell rang on the door. Rachel looked up to see Carly standing next to the hostess stand, scanning the tables. When their eyes met, Carly marched over and dropped into the booth facing her. “I hear you’re leaving,” she said.
Rachel put her phone down. She decided not to mention the fact that she was considering Miller’s offer. “There’s not much more I can do here, Carly.”
“Really? ’Cause I also heard you’ve been asked to stay.”
“There really aren’t any secrets in this town, are there?”
“So?” Carly was agitated. She sat stiffly with her arms crossed. “Are you going to stay here and help solve this thing? Or are you just going to tuck your tail between your legs and run?”
“And who exactly would I be helping?” Rachel asked, letting irritation sneak into her voice. “As far as I can tell, I’d be working alone.”
Carly looked away, thought for a second, and said, “I’d help you.”
The server dropped off Rachel’s food and asked them if they wanted to order anything else. Carly shook her head quickly, and the woman shuffled off for the kitchen.
Rachel looked at the mound of gravy-covered food and said, “You want some of this? I probably won’t be able to eat it all.”
“No, thanks. I can’t eat right now.”
“Seems like all I can do lately,” she said, driving a fork into the mass. After several bites, she took a break and said, “You have a job, Carly. If the sheriff or Danny finds out you’re working with me on a case they’ve handed over to the state, you’d lose it. Simple as that.”
“You say that like you’re actually thinking about it.”
She swallowed a mouthful of mashed potatoes and said, “I haven’t decided yet.”
Carly was quiet while Rachel ate the rest of her meal. After the server brought the check, she said, “I hear you like to have a drink every now and then.”
“Is there anything you haven’t heard about me?” Rachel asked.
“Let me buy you one.”
Rachel opened her phone case and took out a credit card, but Carly snatched the check, stood up, and walked over to pay the server with cash. She came back and said, “Come on. You at least owe me a little time for buying you dinner.”
“I was just going to bill the sheriff’s office for it.”
Carly glanced back at the kitchen. “Oh . . . Whatever, let’s go.”
* * *
A country singer strummed an acoustic guitar in a corner of the Riverside Pub. His tiny PA system could barely contend with the boisterous crowd of bikers in bandanas and leather vests. Rachel and Carly squeezed into a space at the bar and waved Smiley over for a round of drinks.
“You look a lot better,” Rachel said. She repeated herself when he turned his ear toward her.
“Got a friend been slippin’ me some fexo-somethin’-or-other,” he said. “Ain’t sneezed one time all day. Momma thinks it’s the damn tea finally kickin’ in.”
He gave them a pair of Bud Lights in bottles and moved down the bar. Carly drained half of hers in her first gulp.
“Woah,” Rachel said. “Take it easy. I don’t want to have to carry you out of here.”
“Better get him to come back. I’m going to need another one in a minute.”
By the time she was near the bottom of her third beer, Carly’s eyes looked glassy. She leaned in close and said, “I slept with him once.”
Rachel was shocked. “Smiley?”
“What . . . ? No. Shane.”
“Oh.” She didn’t know what else to say.
“He was sweet. Didn’t always show it, but . . .” Her eyes welled. “I miss him. I miss them both. I didn’t even know Melissa hardly . . .” She upended the bottle, set it down, and slid off her stool. “I gotta pee.”
Carly wiped her eyes and disappeared into the crowd. Rachel took out her phone and opened her e-mail. She scrolled down until she found the message from Bryce Parker, the reporter. She had ignored it long enough, she decided. At the bottom, there was an attachment. It was a scan of the SBI’s report on the Lauren Bailey investigation. She opened it and started reading.
Carly came back and hopped up on her stool, waved Smiley down for another beer. She wanted a shot too. Tequila. The good kind. Something clear. “You want one?” she asked.
Rachel shook her head, kept her eyes on the screen as she scanned the document. There were photos and pages of interview transcripts, a summary. It found no fault with any of the officials involved. The sheriff. The detectives. The deputy. Rachel . . . all in the clear. The investigation had been proper and thorough, conducted in accordance with standard practices and procedures. A four-month-long review, and they had found nothing new. Case closed.
“On second thought,” Rachel said, “I will take one of those.”
45
Bishop watched the routine through his sco
pe.
It had been another long day for the man who owned a tree nursery on the edge of town. He got home after dark, exhausted, having just finished his last delivery. He took a shower, which got most of the dirt off, then went to the kitchen to make a pair of roast beef sandwiches. He wrapped them in a paper towel and went out to the family room and fell into his plush recliner where he ate dinner every night. He sipped on a Miller High Life and flipped through satellite TV channels. Usually, he looked for a boxing match. Tonight, he got as far as a rerun of an old college basketball game before he fell asleep.
Caleb Rucker. Target number four.
Perched on a ridge behind Rucker’s house, on the other side of a narrow valley, Bishop was at just the right elevation to see through the window. The perfect spot to execute the latest version of his plan. But it wouldn’t happen tonight. There was still work to be done.
If the task had fallen to Gifford, the plan would have been for him to pick the lock on the back door, to be inside when Rucker came home. He would have hidden in the spare bedroom, waited until he heard Rucker snoring, which happened every evening. Sometimes Rucker would sleep there through the night. Sometimes he would wake shortly after midnight and relocate to his bed. Gifford would have caught him still in the recliner. Would have hit him with the baseball bat, then gone to work on him with a kitchen knife.
But Gifford was no longer part of the equation. And that method now came with too much risk. When thinking about his plan of attack, Bishop had considered it. The bat and the knife had proven to be such an effective combination. But the SBI crime scene tech had found a hair on Coughlan. Gifford’s hair. Bishop wouldn’t chance that. If it was just that amateur Cherokee girl at the sheriff’s office, he’d walk over there now and sneak in. He’d take care of Rucker tonight. It just wasn’t that easy anymore.
There was too much heat on this case now that the SBI had taken over. They weren’t looking for Bishop, and they hadn’t bothered to connect the victims yet, but they would be all over another murder. Especially one with the same MO. Bishop didn’t want to get within a hundred yards of Rucker’s house. So he had spent the day searching for the right spot. The perfect vantage point with a level trajectory. And not very far away for someone who was a decent shot with a rifle.
Bishop slid the scope into his backpack and went over the ridge. He worked his way downhill until he reached the trail that led to his car, then turned on his flashlight. He strolled along happily, satisfied that he had settled on a good plan. It was almost over. He would finish the job tomorrow night. If he were being less careful, he might have hummed a tune to match his mood. Something upbeat. Like “Piece of Mind” or “More Than a Feeling.” He always liked Boston.
46
Standing in the parking lot outside the pub, Rachel said, “You’re in no shape to be driving.”
Carly looked at her silver Civic, then at the keys in her hand. She held them out and said, “You drive.”
Rachel chuckled. “I’m not much better.”
“Shit.”
“Can you walk home?”
“Too far,” Carly said.
“Want me to call a cab?”
“You really think we have taxis in this town?”
Rachel looked around. “Didn’t think about that.”
Carly took a deep breath and steadied herself. Her eyelids were half closed. “You’re staying at Shipley’s, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I just sleep with you?”
“Uh . . .”
Carly laughed, lost her balance, and fell against her car. She slid down to the pavement, gasping and hiccupping. Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried to stifle the giggling. “I . . . I meant . . . can I . . . can I stay in your room . . . ?”
Rachel was getting annoyed. “Come on,” she said, helping Carly to her feet. “It’s cold out here, and we’ve got like a mile walk ahead of us.”
Carly was quiet on the way back to Shipley’s, looked like she might have been fighting nausea. Rachel was thinking about her conversation with Miller. About Jones and Sanford steering the investigation toward Kevin and his little ring of meth-making friends.
Politics, she thought. The same reason she had been forced to give up the Lauren Bailey case. It had been easier than admitting the truth. That Bailey was probably innocent of killing her boyfriend, but she had pointed a gun at a deputy, forcing Rachel to shoot her. How could Bailey’s family ever accept that?
They couldn’t. But that was a poor justification for closing the case. For letting the real killer go unpunished. Rachel had never wanted to drop it—she had been forced to. Now she found herself in the same situation again.
Jones and Sanford had made up their minds about what, and who, was behind the murders. To them, drugs made the most sense, regardless of the victimology. The hit on Gifford, taking out two cops, seemed too brazen to be anything less than organized crime. And in this part of the country, crank-dealing biker gangs were the most likely candidates.
Like Miller, Rachel didn’t buy it. Not without a connection to Gifford’s victims. She wished she could convince Braddock and Pritchard, but they wouldn’t listen. Not yet. Braddock was racked with guilt, and Pritchard was happy to be rid of the case. She didn’t blame him for wanting to wash his hands of it. He was in over his head. Had been from the moment McGrath had turned up dead. Rachel understood that, but it didn’t mean she had to walk away.
Fisher and Howard. Coughlan and McGrath. They deserved better. And Rachel owed it to herself to see it through to the end. To finish what she had started, even if it meant doing it alone.
When they got to Shipley’s, it was quiet inside, and most of the lights were out. They tiptoed upstairs to Rachel’s room. Carly dropped spread-eagle across the bed and asked, “Where are you gonna sleep?”
“It’s a king,” Rachel said.
“Yeah, but I don’t feel like moving.”
“You know, Carly, it’d be a shame if I had to choke you out and drag your ass downstairs to sleep on the front porch. It’s mighty chilly out there.”
“Good point.”
Carly pushed herself back to her feet. She approached Rachel, leaned in, and kissed her gently on the corner of her mouth.
Warm breath swept across Rachel’s cheek. She closed her eyes and wished for just a moment that she could change who she was long enough to enjoy the sensation. It felt good to be desired.
Carly pressed forward for another kiss, but Rachel stepped back and said, “I’m sorry, but I—”
“Oh . . . don’t be.” Carly backed away, her face turning red. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I just . . . I’m gonna go.”
“Wait,” Rachel said. “You don’t have to leave. I’m not upset.”
Carly had her hand on the doorknob. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m really flattered, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And I want you to stay, if you want. But as a friend.” Rachel thought for a second and said, “You know, I’ve never said that to a woman before.”
Carly laughed. “That’s okay. I’ve never done this before either.”
“What, sleep with a woman?”
“Oh, no. I do that all the time. I’ve just never gotten drunk and hit on a straight woman before. Not that I’m trying to make excuses, but this whole thing with Shane and Melissa . . . it’s got me pretty messed up. My plan tonight was to try to talk you into staying, not get drunk and make a pass at you.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve decided to stay.”
“Yeah?”
Rachel nodded.
“In that case . . .” Carly looked at the bed. “I think I’m gonna pass out now.”
47
Sunday
Rachel and Carly crept down the stairs, hoping Shipley wouldn’t hear them. When they hit the last step, a voice called from the salon, “Good morning.” It was Miller, seated in one of the armchairs
next to the fireplace. Shipley was at one end of a sofa, dressed in what looked like her best church clothes. A white blouse with a purple skirt suit and matching hat. She leaned forward to look Carly up and down, sat back, and said, “My word . . .”
Rachel realized she had been hunched over, as if that had somehow made her quieter. She straightened, cleared her throat, and said, “Good morning, Chief. Mrs. Shipley.”
She walked into the room with Carly trailing a few paces behind. “I should go,” she whispered.
Rachel shook her head. “It’s okay.”
“Is it?” Miller asked. “Considering what we’re here to talk about?”
“It’s fine,” Rachel said.
“Mmm-hmph,” Shipley said with a thin smile. “Well, I believe that coffee should be just about ready by now. Would either of you like some?”
“Sure,” Carly said. “Thank you.”
Rachel smiled and shook her head. They sat down on a love seat as Shipley stood and went to the kitchen.
Miller asked, “Have you given any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?”
“I’m staying,” Rachel said. “I’m going to keep working it. At least until I run out of ideas.”
“So you have some?” Miller asked. “Ideas, I mean.”
“A couple.”
Shipley came back in the room carrying a tray with three cups of coffee, four spoons, a creamer, and a bowl of sugar cubes. She set the tray on the table and said, “You all help yourselves now. Fix it up however you like. That’s half-and-half in there, but I have milk if anyone wants some.”
After they each got a cup and sat back down, Rachel said, “McGrath and Coughlan were friends in high school. So far, it’s the only thing I know of that connects them. That’s where I’m going to start.”
Among the Dead Page 19
