“Certainly, if I can.”
He passed her a piece of paper. “Just need you to make a phone call.”
She scanned the note quickly. “Have a pleasant day, Agent Winter.”
.......
As he’d expected, Director Bailey was not happy. It had been less than an hour since Jeremy’s meeting with Senator Morgans, and he’d been standing before his boss for the last ten minutes, silent and weathering the verbal storm. Finally, Bailey motioned to one of the burgundy leather armchairs and Jeremy sat.
The director made brief eye contact, then turned back to his computer monitor. “Now then, Agent Winter, would you care to share the details of your visit to the senator?”
“Sir, Senator Morgans made it very clear that our meeting was to remain confidential. I can’t discuss it.”
“So you go behind my back and—”
“I wasn’t trying to circumvent you, sir. It’s just that—”
“Don’t interrupt me again. You went behind my back. Plopped me right in the middle of your little firestorm.”
Jeremy shifted in his seat. “That wasn’t my intention, sir. I wanted to find a solution that worked for everyone.”
“Really? The most important senator on the Appropriations Committee calls and tells me what I’m going to do, and you think that works for me?”
“Well, I’m no longer your problem, sir. You’ve got a free pass on me. Anything goes wrong, you can tell everyone you had no choice. Just doing what you were told.”
“Agent Winter, you still report to me. That means no matter what, you’re my problem. Just so we’re on the same page here, let me clarify a few things. First, you will remain an FBI employee until your serial killer theory is resolved. Second, I’m the one who will determine when that is. No progress means no case. Lastly, you work alone. No support from the Bureau.”
“Fair enough. When I do confirm we’ve got a killer on the loose, can I assume I’ll get some assistance at that point?”
Bailey’s lips formed a thin line. “I wouldn’t assume anything if I were you.”
Great. “Understood. I did want to let you know that we’ve come across a new disappearance at a state park in Illinois two months ago.”
“Physical evidence of a connection to the other cases?”
“None.”
“Then I’m not interested.”
“Sir, I truly am sorry for putting you in this situation. If I’d thought there was any other way ...”
Bailey took a heavy breath and punched a few keys on his computer. “Three days ago, you were on the phone with a police officer in Indiana. Care to tell me what that call was about?”
Jeremy stretched his legs and wiggled his feet. “You’re monitoring my phone calls?”
Bailey shrugged. “We monitor all calls going in and out. You know that.”
“I’ve been with the Bureau for more than two decades and it’s never come up before. The timing seems odd.”
The Director walked over and sat in the chair next to Jeremy. “You know, there are days I wish I was back on this side of the desk. Then I think about your paycheck and remember why I put up with the politics. You were—are—a good agent. Finish strong and I’ll do what I can for you.”
Jeremy held back a smile. “There’s one more thing, sir.”
“Don’t press your luck.”
“It’s not for me. I’ve got a friend who’d make an excellent agent. I was hoping you could arrange an interview for him.”
“Let me guess. Your police officer buddy in Indiana?”
“Yes, sir. You’d be doing the Bureau a favor if you took a look at him.”
Bailey stood and moved back to his desk. “Uh-huh. Send me his resume. No promises, though. You know how tight the budget is these days.”
Jeremy nodded. “Yes, sir, but I also know there’ll be an opening soon.”
The director held out his hand and Jeremy took it. “Yes, there will be, Agent Winter. For better or worse, there will be.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mason’s boys walked with him through the corn maze to check that everything was ready. The crop looked good and thick. He’d planted twice, first north-south, then east-west. This was the fourth year for the maze, and each time the design became more intricate. GPS units allowed him to stake out the paths and then mow through when the corn was less than a foot tall. From that point, regular cutting and trimming was all the upkeep needed. Shouldn’t be any problem maintaining the six-acre attraction until Halloween.
This year they’d gone all out and purchased two hundred flashlights so they could operate well past dark. Paula thought they should charge extra at night, but he hadn’t decided yet. This was as much a project for the community as it was a way to generate additional income for the farm. Still, his wife had a point. It would be mostly teenagers at night, and if they spooked the maze up a bit, an extra dollar or two per person would be justified.
“Probably ought to put a stack of hay bales there,” Lucas said. “Add a ghost or scarecrow.”
The boy would be eleven in another month and had a knack for life around the farm. His younger brother worshiped the ground he walked on, so no doubt he’d develop the same traits. Good boys make good farmers. “Agreed,” Mason said as he made a note on his sketch. “We can put a guide there too.”
Each year, half a dozen of the local kids signed up to work in the maze as helpers for lost wanderers. Most people took a little over an hour to get through the whole thing, but it wasn’t unusual for some folks to spend twice that long in there. Especially the teenagers who sought out dark corners to pursue other activities, though the guides were told not to let things get too serious. Mason didn’t mind since the longer people wandered about, the more it increased business at the cold drink stand set up at the maze’s exit.
“Dad,” Andy said. “We shouldn’t call them scarecrows.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh,” the boy said. “They’re skelcrows.”
Skelcrow. Part scarecrow. Part skeleton. “I love it. Skelcrows it is. Now, let’s get finished out here. I’m about to get hungry and your mom’s fixing—”
“Betcha can’t find me!”
Andy had run ahead—again—and hidden himself somewhere around a corner.
Mason squatted next to Lucas and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Shhh. Let’s just stay quiet and wait here.”
His son grinned, nodded, and loud-whispered. “How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Couple of minutes. Probably less.”
A gust of wind, still quite warm for early September, rustled the corn stalks and caused their long shadows to dance along the path.
Andy hollered from up ahead. “Are y’all looking for me?”
Lucas stifled a giggle, and Mason winked at him.
“Guys?”
A cloud passed in front of the low sun and its shadow covered the fields.
Lucas cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ooooo. Aaandy. Ooooo.”
Two seconds later, the younger boy barreled around the corner. “I knew it was you.”
“Did not.”
“Uh-huh,” Andy said. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Is there, Dad?”
Mason stood and tapped a finger on his chin. “Well, that’s a good question. I think—” He grabbed his youngest son and scooped him up, planting kisses on his neck and cheeks. The boy’s ever-present camouflage ball cap tumbled to the ground. “I think we need to get finished before the sun sets. Your mama’s not going to be real happy if we’re late for dinner.”
The trek through the maze took another hour. A few more areas would need hay bales and additional cutting. Mason agreed to let Lucas use the tractor tomorrow to move the straw to the attraction’s entrance before using the small mower to place them in the final positions. His younger brother begged to help, but distractions were dangerous when heavy equipment was involved. Safety first. Instead, Andy would spend the day with his mother at the thrift s
tore shopping for clothes.
Four new skelcrows would make their debut this Halloween. The bigger the maze, the more decorations were needed. Each had to be dressed just right, though Paula had kidded him—once—about the time he spent primping them. Back then, she hadn’t understood yet.
It wouldn’t do to have his friends hanging out all month without proper attire.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The old storm cellar had a bit of a chill, and Mason cranked up the space heater. Normally, he’d leave it off so things didn’t rot too fast, but the warmth wouldn’t be a problem now. Blue Shirt was done, the beetles fat and happy. The only bad thing about this time of year was how busy he got. No time to gather more decorations.
Most of the insects would die off before they’d be fed again, and he’d need to replace them. Cost of doing business. Besides, he had enough skelcrows for this year. Didn’t want to be like the neighbor who already had up half a dozen Christmas trees in her home. Overkill.
Such a great word.
He and Paula had already decided to expand the maze by a couple of acres next Halloween, so he’d need to increase the inventory before then. But not now. Have to wait until Halloween is over. The sacrifices one makes.
Sarah Goldman got dibs on the clothes. First come, first served. He pulled the box containing her skull from a shelf, brushed the dust from the lid, and opened it. Sarah looked good. Hadn’t aged a bit. His design process was holding up well. He’d stumbled across a video on the Internet, made a few adaptations, and voila! An actual skeleton that looked like a fake plastic one from Dollar General.
Simple, really. After the dermestid beetles finished their work, he sprayed the skull with several thin coats of polyurethane. The resin gave the bone a sheen but, more importantly, it offered some protection. Next, he wrapped the skull in cheap, wafer-thin plastic drop cloths from the hardware store. A heat gun shrunk the plastic onto the bone. He’d debated using stains to spook up the appearance, but in the end decided to leave it bleached white. So much purer. The result was a plasticky-looking skull that looked fake but real enough, and it was protected from the weather.
He toted the box upstairs and placed it on the workbench. Sarah had been a petite girl. Last year they’d actually used junior misses’ clothes for her skelcrow. She needed to grow up this Halloween. He glanced at the skull and shook his head. Five teeth missing. He’d had no choice. Store- bought skeletons didn’t have fillings in their teeth.
Paula had left the boxes from the thrift store shopping expedition by the barn door, and he ruffled through them. Couldn’t throw any old thing on his Sarah. She wouldn’t like that. He pieced several outfits together before settling on one. A black long-sleeved T-shirt with some sort of Asian design on the back, ripped jeans, and an Atlanta Braves cap.
He tied the bottoms of the pants legs, cut a hole in the seat, and fed a ten-foot piece of 2x2 pressure-treated lumber through the jeans. He partially stuffed the pants with hay, making sure not to overdo it so she wouldn’t look fat. About a foot down from the top of the pole, he nailed a crossbeam and pulled the T-shirt over it. Safety pins attached the jeans to the shirt. This was easier with the men, but his girls didn’t wear suspenders. He stuffed her to chest-high, propped the skelcrow against the barn wall, and stepped back to admire his work.
So far, so good. Her outfit looked appropriately youthful, like something she’d really wear to school if she was still alive. Years of displaying them and no one had shown any concern that they might be real. Nor would they. Still, he had his answer ready if the question ever came up. A chuckle, then explain his skeletons are a little pricier than the ones you get at the dollar store. Had to order them off the Internet from a specialty Halloween supplier. Maybe even let the curious guest touch one of them just to feel the plastic. That would satisfy anyone.
He’d keep his friends’ heads out of reach, around eight feet off the ground. The posts would set in concrete about a foot deep, then he’d yank them up with the tractor when the season ended. Until then, he’d make sure the guides kept an eye on the decorations. No vandalism would be tolerated.
He finished stuffing the shirt and looped a piece of wire at the end of each sleeve, being sure to leave some hay sticking out. Back at the bench, he measured the hole at the base of Sarah’s skull. Funny how that opening on everybody’s head was different. Wonder if they’re like fingerprints? Have to look that up.
After trimming the top of the 2x2 with a jigsaw, he wrapped the wood with a generous amount of duct tape. This was always the trickiest part. The fit had to be tight enough that the wind wouldn’t move the skull and possibly crack it, but loose enough that he could get it off as needed. They were trying something new this year. Battery-operated LEDs inside the skull would light it up from the inside, and the batteries would need to be replaced each morning. They’d briefly considered getting red lights but decided to just use white. Red seemed too demonic.
Once he got the fit right, he placed the Braves hat on Sarah and tilted it so the brim was a bit cockeyed. Mason tightened the cap as best he could, but if the wind blew it off, so be it. Hats were cheap. Skulls were not. No way was he going to risk damaging Sarah by gluing, taping, or stapling it to her.
All-in-all, she looked good. The shirt was iffy, but he’d let Paula make the final call on that. He headed back to the storm cellar for the next box. Less than two weeks until the pumpkin patch officially opened. Had to pick up the pace.
He grabbed one of the newer containers off the shelf, peeked inside, then climbed back into the barn. Catherine Mae Blackston. Let’s see. Her first Halloween at the farm. What to dress her in? She’d seemed a bit plain. Boring middle-aged woman. Couldn’t wear a dress. No way to stuff it properly. A nice pant suit, maybe some dark glasses, and, oh! a string of pearls. Perfect.
He could almost see the excitement in Catherine’s smile.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
No matter how long Jeremy stared at it, the calendar didn’t change things. Nothing new since he came to Memphis a month ago except the additional pressure on his belt, compliments of a few extra pounds from the local pulled pork barbecue. Troy had stopped by the last couple of weekends, but no progress was made. Maggie checked in at least twice a day to encourage him. On one especially bad day, she’d hung up on him after he mentioned a new job posting for a D.C.-based fixed surveillance specialist. He’d fretted for half an hour before calling her back to apologize.
At least Cronfeld had disappeared, and Bailey had left him alone, but that wouldn’t continue much longer. At some point, the FBI had to make the call. Case closed. Thanks for your service. Don’t let the door smack you on the way out.
He sighed and opened the vehicle database for the umpteenth time, more from habit than anything else. But at this point what—
His phone vibrated and he debated throwing it across the room. Not in the mood to talk this morning. He glanced at the caller ID. Maggie. After a deep breath, he put on his best happy face and answered the call.
“Hey, Maggie. What’s up?”
A male voice, high-pitched and angry, responded. “Oh, not much. What’s up with you, Agent Winter?”
Cronfeld. Was he with Maggie? Why was he on her cell? Jeremy bit his lip and gripped the phone. “Colonel.”
“Wasn’t sure you’d answer if you saw who was calling so I spoofed your girlfriend’s number. Neat little trick. Telemarketers do it all the time.”
“What do you want?”
“For starters, answers. Been a while since you met with my wife. A meeting I do not approve of, by the way. I played nice. Figured I’d let you two work it out. But here we are and nothing’s changed. You’re still collecting a government paycheck for doing ... what, exactly? Doesn’t seem like much is happening down there. Don’t you feel guilty? Ripping off the taxpayers like that? I swear. I don’t know how you sleep at night.”
“Again, what do you want?”
“Tell me what you discussed with my wife.”
His own spouse doesn’t trust him. No surprise there. “Have a good day, Colonel.”
“Listen to me, Winter. If I have to come to Memphis to deal with—”
“Uh, uh, uh! Play nice or I’ll have to call a certain senator again.”
“I don’t know what you think is going on here, but you’re in no position to make threats. You want to call my wife? Call her. Go ahead. I don’t care. Need her number?”
“Nope. Got it.”
“You have some sort of agreement with her. So what? One word from me, and I guarantee your deal would go straight into the trash. You’ve misread the situation rather badly.”
“If you say so.”
Cronfeld’s voice rose. “I do say so. Now listen closely. I’m going to spell out exactly what you’re going to do, starting with signing that confidentiality agreement.”
Jeremy yawned, making sure it could be heard over the phone. “Not happening.”
“No? I think it’s time I upped the ante. Your girlfriend ... Margaret Keeley, is it?”
He bolted upright and breathed hard. “Leave her out of this.”
“I hear she’s a fine agent. A real asset to the Bureau. In fact, I understand she’s being considered for a transfer somewhere out of state. Far out of state.”
“You son of a—”
A click ended the discussion, and Jeremy tossed the phone on his desk. Cronfeld had the ability to make good on his threats. Maggie would have to quit the FBI if they forced her to transfer. No way her ex would allow Rebecca to move out of state.
He needed to clear his thoughts, and nothing did that like some extended therapy at the shooting range. No aiming for center mass this time, though. Head shots fit his mood much better.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Mason stood in front of his house and pointed to an area off to the left and down a rise. “The boys need to get out there this weekend and bush hog all the way to the road. Don’t want to run out of parking again this year.”
Coming of Winter Page 17
