Waking Evil

by Brant, Kylie

  “She was last seen at three A.M. on June fifth. For our records, can you tell us where you were between the fifth and sixth of this month?”

  The woman stopped wiping ineffectually at her ruined makeup and shot a sharp look at Ramsey. “What are you askin’? Are you suggestin’ that I . . .”

  “I’m suggesting that you want to help us solve your sister’s murder,” Ramsey put in smoothly, cutting through the woman’s outrage. “We’ll ask everyone who knew her well the same question. We’ll check their stories. And when we find the person whose story doesn’t hold up, we’ll look closer. That’s how it’s done, Sarah.”

  Her throat worked for a moment, and she glanced down at the hands she had tightly knotted in her lap. “Quinn and I . . . we were at our engagement party that weekend. A bunch of us booked a place on Pine Lake for a few days.” Her voice trailed off as if the thought just struck her. And Ramsey could read the abject misery in her expression. “Are you tellin’ me . . . that my sister was killed while we were celebratin’ our engagement?”

  “Well, that’s karma coming back to bite you in the ass.” Glenn Matthews broke the silence that had stretched after Ramsey had relayed her earlier conversation with Frost to him and Warden Powell.

  It was nearing ten o’clock. They’d returned to the motel only a couple hours earlier. After the scene at the ME’s office, Ramsey had driven to Kordoba to join the agents in interviewing locals about Cassie Frost, to a noticeable lack of success.

  “I got a list of the other people attending the engagement party and compiled their names and addresses, as well as that of the operators of the resort Frost says they were at.” Ramsey batted Matthews’s hand out of the way as he moved to snag the last piece of pizza. She hadn’t eaten that day, and the agent had practically inhaled the whole thing himself.

  “We’ll need to look at the ex-fiancé,” Powell put in. He was chomping morosely on a deli sandwich. “Husbands and boyfriends are always at the head of the list for a homicide like this.”

  Ramsey nodded. But she was betting they were going to find that Quinn Sanders was tightly alibied for the time in question. Kordoba was across the state from Pine Lake. “That’s what Rollins said. But it doesn’t sound like Cassie had much to do with either Sanders or her sister after he called off their wedding. Of course, we don’t have her cell phone, so we can’t be sure. But it shouldn’t be much longer before we get the Local Usage Details for it.”

  “Couple days,” Powell agreed. They’d put in a request the day before and had had no difficulty obtaining a judge’s signature for it. Wadding up the wrapper to his sandwich, he tossed it into the nearby trash. “What’s the latest on the test results your guy is runnin’?”

  She finished chewing before answering, and moved her slice of pizza farther from Matthews’s reach. She didn’t like the avaricious look in the man’s eye. “Jonesy was able to tell that the substance in her stomach came from some sort of plant root. Plenty of people experiment with plant parts that give you a buzz. But whatever she digested didn’t show up in her blood under any of the tox screens that were run, so apparently it doesn’t act as a stimulant.”

  Taking another bite, she chewed reflectively. “Might be worth it to pursue a line of questioning with local healers. When I was with TBI, I heard plenty of stories about people who claimed to heal all sorts of disease and illnesses with herbs and plants and stuff.”

  “The autopsy report didn’t show any signs of disease,” Matthews pointed out.

  “But people self diagnose all the time. Try holistic remedies for anything from headaches to menstrual cramps. If we can get a list of things used in the area by these people, we can get samples for Jonesy to compare to the stomach contents.” She thought of something else the scientist had mentioned. “He’s more specific than the ME was in his report about when the plant root was ingested. There are no signs of digestive acids mixed with the root. He believes it was eaten shortly before she was strangled. Maybe only minutes earlier.”

  “Meanin’ she almost had to have been given it by her attacker.”

  She finished off the pizza and wiped her fingers on a napkin, studying the wall postings that acted as a murder book of sorts. Their findings in the last twenty-four hours hadn’t been added yet. In the excitement of following up new leads, it was hard to take the time out to do the necessary information logging, but the task would have to be done to maintain a complete picture.

  “People are buzzing about that suicide in town.” Matthews stood and stretched. “Lots of hogwash about the legend and deaths in threes and all that.”

  “That’s all it is,” Powell said. He rose, as well. “Bunch of superstition. Just makes it harder for us to get answers from people in these parts.”

  “I got a quick lesson on the origins of the legend today.” Ramsey got up and threw away the pizza box, then wiped off the table with a spare napkin. “Figured it always helps to know what sort of superstition you’re dealing with.”

  “Who’d you get that from. Stryker?”

  She glanced at Matthews. Didn’t like the sly look in his eye. “He was there,” she said coolly. “Lady at the Historical Museum gave us both a rundown on local lore. I had to leave early for the ME’s office when Frost showed up, though.”

  “I’d have thought he could fill you in himself.” Matthews cut off as Powell announced he was going to bed and left the room. Resuming, he said, “In a roundabout way, he’s sort of linked to the last so-called red mist murder. Way I heard it, Stryker’s father went to prison for committing it.”

  Chapter 9

  “Your light was on.”

  It wasn’t much of an excuse, Ramsey reflected uncomfortably, for knocking on someone’s door at eleven P.M. But the urgency she felt to talk to Devlin Stryker wouldn’t be assuaged.

  And the irony of that was hard to ignore.

  If he was surprised to see her, it didn’t show in his expression. He regarded her somberly with one hand propped against the doorjamb. And she had the fleeting thought that he already knew what had brought her here.

  “Light’s on because I’m still up.” He reached forward to push open the screen door, and with only a second’s hesitation, Ramsey walked into the house.

  It wasn’t his. She would have known that even if she hadn’t been told as much when the man walking his dog down the street had directed her here. There was no stamp of Stryker’s personality in the worn leather furniture or the wildlife prints on the walls. But there were plenty of photos framing his famed grin. A computer on a desk in the corner of the dining room had notes and piles of books next to it. And a familiar looking heap of cases and tripods were stacked neatly on the floor a few feet away.

  She eyed them, searched for something to say that wouldn’t sound sarcastic.

  “Ah . . . you’re working tonight?”

  “Planned on it. Jotted down names and dates from Donnelle. Wondered if recent events would result in any activity ’round the cemetery this time.”

  Ramsey was not often at a loss for words. But she was struggling now not to blurt out what was on her mind. Especially knowing that it would undoubtedly be a painful subject for him.

  His mouth curved slightly, but the smile wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Don’t know as I’ve ever seen you look so uncomfortable. So I reckon you heard some talk ’bout the last time the red mist occurred here.”

  Her gaze fixed on his. “You have to realize what a conflict of interest this is for you.”

  Brows raised in real surprise, he folded his arms across his chest. “Really? Don’t see how. I’m not the media or the police. It doesn’t really matter what my bias may be. That’s the nice thing ’bout chasin’ ghosts. They don’t much care one way or ’nother.”

  She didn’t rise to the verbal bait. “If I hadn’t gotten called away today from the museum, you would have let Donnelle start in about the last murder in Buffalo Springs? Even as it implicates your father?”

  He crouched down
and began zipping up the cases of equipment he had piled on the floor. “She wouldn’t have done that. A true Southern gentlewoman would never discuss somethin’ so indelicate in front of the murderer’s son.”

  It was difficult to say which of them was more surprised when she placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Dev.”

  He stilled, staring up at her, and it occurred to her that was the first time she’d called him by name. Embarrassed, she withdrew her hand and clasped both of them in back of her.

  Heaving a breath, he rose. “I was going to tell you at lunch. Been half waitin’ for you to question me ’bout it up to now. With the murder first then Simpson’s suicide, there’s no shortage of talk ’bout the deaths back then.”

  “I’m sure.” Even if none of it had reached her ears until an hour ago, she was intimately acquainted with small-town memories. No single event could ever be lived down. Very little was forgiven. Nothing forgotten. And each time the gossip raged again, the retelling took another step further from facts and became the new truth. And living with that, in that, was the cruelest life imaginable.

  “I’m gonna have a beer. Do you want anythin’?” Before she could answer, he was striding through the small dining room to the kitchen. Slowly, she trailed along in his wake, lingering over the collection of photos that covered walls and shelves. If they were put in order, one could see Stryker’s development over the years from a towheaded toddler to a gap-toothed schoolboy, then to a young teen, already showing promise of those fallen angel looks, to a college grad. The sheer number of images astonished her. Ramsey couldn’t recall seeing more than three pictures of her that had been taken during her entire childhood.

  He came back from the kitchen, shoved a beer she didn’t want into her hand.

  “This is your grandfather’s house?”

  “Yep, it is. Put him in assisted livin’ last winter, but he won’t hear of sellin’ the place. Gives him the feelin’ he still has a choice about his last years. I guess that’s important.”

  She sipped from her bottle. “I guess.”

  Reaching behind her, he pulled out a dining room chair. After she sank into it, he sat down as well. “I was two the last time the red mist was sighted in Buffalo Springs. Don’t remember anythin’ ’bout that night, of course. But the facts I’ve heard in the time since stay pretty true. Seems a gal by the name of Sally Ann Porter disappeared one day. Her mother—Jessalyn—was pretty upset. Sally Ann’s daddy was out of the picture—messy divorce years earlier—and Jessalyn was convinced Sally Ann had fallen victim to foul play.”

  He’d shifted into the role of storyteller, she realized, as if that eliminated a bit of the sting from relaying a tale that held such a personal punch.

  Tilting his bottle to his lips, Dev took a drink before continuing. “The sheriff at that time was my daddy’s brother, Richard Rollins.”

  Jolted at the news, she interrupted. “But your name isn’t Rollins.”

  “My mother remarried two years later and my stepfather adopted me.” There was a flicker of distaste on his face, as if the memory gave him no pleasure. “As I was sayin’, Uncle Rich tried to soothe Jessalyn’s fears, as it was his supposition that Sally Ann had taken off for New York or California or some such. Seems Sally was a free spirit. Liked experimentin’ with drugs and men, usually in unison. She’d talked about leavin’ town for a couple years. Everyone, even her friends, believed she’d finally done it.”

  “But not her mother.”

  “Not Jessalyn. She became more and more distraught. Can’t blame her there. And maybe she felt a little bit of guilt, on account of she and Sally Ann hadn’t been getting on up to then. They’d had harsh words over Sally Ann’s lifestyle and her taste in men. And since Jessalyn was known for her ability to tear a strip off a person and wrap them up in it, people started sayin’ as how they could see the girl wantin’ to get away.”

  Maybe she was getting reacquainted with the roundabout way of speaking, but Ramsey felt no impatience creeping in as she listened. She had a feeling that this story would tell far more about Devlin Stryker than any of the words they’d exchanged so far.

  He rubbed his thumb over the condensation forming on the bottle. “Jessalyn grew more and more disenchanted with the investigation and the entire Rollins family. Said she was going to look into things herself. But mostly what that amounted to was a lot of trash talk. Got to where she was even tellin’ anyone who’d listen that my daddy and Sally Ann had been lovers. That of course upset my daddy, so he resolved to go talk some sense to her.” He drank deeply, eyeing her over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he continued, “Next mornin’ Jessalyn was found dead on the floor of her bedroom. Strangled. My daddy was passed out drunk next to her body.”

  A bolt of pity twisted through her. She couldn’t imagine willingly returning to this town every summer trailing that kind of background behind. She hadn’t been back to Mississippi for more than a few days total in fifteen years.

  “And that was enough to convict him?” It would have been more than enough, she imagined, nearly thirty years ago in a small southern town shaken by its first violent death in decades. Especially with the local legend thrown in to stir things up.

  “That and the fact that he couldn’t remember anythin’ to defend himself. Said he couldn’t recall a thing past the time he’d had a beer with his best friend Lon Chelsey at Suds right before headin’ to Jessalyn’s. Now this is where the facts stop and talk takes over. People sort of figured he’d faced Jessalyn, got a tearin’ into for his efforts, and slunk off to pick up some liquid courage. Drank enough to work up a good mad and went back over to her house, tried again. This time with different results.”

  “But there was nothing in the police report validating that? Interviewing people who might have seen him during that time? Someplace who sold him the beer? Neighbors who saw him come back? Heard something?” She broke off at the smile curling one side of his mouth. “What?”

  “Nothin’. Just . . . you think like a cop.”

  “What would you expect me to think like, a trapeze artist?” It would be interesting to see if that police report still existed. To track the course of the investigation and draw her own conclusions about its findings. “Your father was killed in prison?”

  “Three weeks inside and he was stuck with a shiv during a prison riot. By that time, my mama had taken me to go live with her grandparents in Knoxville.”

  Because her throat felt tight, Ramsey took a long swallow of beer. “That had to be rough on you.”

  “Rougher on my mama, I ’spect. At any rate, she found husband number two quick enough. Later on it became a real good idea to separate the two of us for the summer each year, so she’d send me back to stay with my granddaddy.”

  Her mind backed up to what he’d said earlier. “That’s only two deaths. With your father and Jessalyn, I mean.”

  “Figured you’d key in on that. ’Bout eight months later some boys were hookin’ school and hangin’ ’round Ashton’s Pond, lookin’ for bull snakes. They saw somethin’ in the bushes and investigated. Found human hair. Took four days, but Uncle Richard and his deputies finally fished the body that belonged to it out of the water. Near as they could figure, it was Sally Ann Porter.”

  Instinct flickered to life. “Ashton’s Pond again.”

  He shook his head. “Nothin’ like this last time. There was barely enough left of her to autopsy after the fish had feasted on her for so long. They figured she’d been hangin’ out down there, doin’ some speed, puttin’ some space ’tween her and Jessalyn, and fell in. Too doped up to swim to the edge and pull herself out.”

  Maybe. Any pond or lake was bound to have a death or two reported within a thirty-year period. But Ramsey was more determined than ever to look up the old case files, if they still existed.

  Every town had its share of tragedy, regardless of its size. But as Leanne had mentioned, there was definitely a pattern in Buffalo Springs. And she was becoming more and
more interested to discover if there was any tangible link between the deaths she’d heard about. Not one that depended on ghosts and red mist and all that rot. But one that laid the blame for each death squarely where it was due—at some human’s feet.

  And three decades ago that human had been Dev’s father.

  Absently, she ran her thumbnail under the bottle’s label to loosen it, surveying Dev soberly. “I can understand that you have questions. But I don’t see how coming back here now, with all that”—she jerked her head toward his mound of equipment—“is going to provide you any further information about what happened with your father.”

  “See, that’s where I figure you’re wrong.” He drained the bottle and sat it on the table in front of him. “I know you’re one of those types who don’t believe anythin’ you can’t see and feel and examine.”