Sanctuary Lost WITSEC Town Series Book 1

by Lisa Phillips

  “Okay, good.”

  “Pat?” Mrs. Pepper stood at the edge of the street, ready for him to go with her to the library.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Okay.” His dad pulled him close for a hug. Pat squeezed him and then ran to Mrs. Pepper, who made him hold her hand while they crossed the street like he was a baby.

  The library was cool, but it was small and they probably didn’t have any comics. Mrs. Pepper typed in his log-in and password and had him tell her what he wanted it to be for next time. He did the assignments he was supposed to while she sat on a chair and read a book on her tablet-thing, only looking at the teenagers every now and then to tell them to be quiet and get on with their work.

  One of his English assignments was to write a story about himself. Pat thought for a while and then typed the title.

  Lost in Sanctuary

  **

  The mayor’s house was on the east end of town, set aside from the rest of the residential streets to the north of the road which led out toward Dan Walden’s farm. The house was also twice as big as the row houses everyone else lived in.

  Both the outside and inside looked to have been repainted recently. The carpet was new, the fixtures were all modern and nothing looked anything like John’s aging apartment.

  John set the paper cup of coffee he’d gotten from Sam at the diner down on the coffee table. The mayor was in a suit, but it was creased like he’d been wearing it all night.

  “How are you doing?”

  The house was silent and John didn’t imagine the little pillows would have been on the floor instead of the couch before Betty’s death. He’d read up on the two of them before he came over. The mayor had been involved in an extortion ring involving a consortium and high-end money laundering. He’d turned on his partner in exchange for a new identity and a fresh start. Coming to Sanctuary had been their choice, and he’d been voted in as mayor only months later. He’d been in the position ever since, although Dotty had told John it was because no one saw much point in running against him.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Father Wilson asked that. Spouted all these platitudes about God’s plan, like this was supposed to happen.” The mayor’s face morphed into disgust.

  John knew plenty of people who believed that, even if it didn’t always get expressed eloquently. It had only helped ease the pain after his dad passed after he’d finally accepted he couldn’t have prevented the old man’s heart attack. He’d been out of state at school at the time, living above Grant’s garage.

  “No one knows what it feels like.” The mayor sat with his hands by his knees like a rag doll. “My wife is gone. Murdered by some heartless—” His voice dropped off into mumbled rambling.

  “Have you thought any more about who might have wanted to do this?”

  Collins snapped up straight. “I know exactly who did this!”

  John kept his tone measured. “Did Betty keep files anywhere? Notes from her work welcoming people, papers or a journal maybe? Anything like that?”

  The mayor hauled himself off the couch. John followed him upstairs to the end of the hall at the back of the house. The two doors at the other end were open, beyond which was an unmade king-size bed. “My office is on Main Street, but Betty worked from home.” He stopped at the door. “I haven’t been in here since—”

  “You don’t have to come in. You can wait in the hall.”

  John accepted the key, wondering why a wife would feel like she had to lock an office in her own home. What secrets had Betty Collins been trying to hide in here?

  The window was open and there were papers everywhere on the floor and the surface of her dainty white desk. Too much mess for the wind.

  “What on earth…” The mayor looked in behind him.

  “Stay in the hall.”

  John crouched and looked below the desk where he could see under the window. The chair had rolled aside and there was a dirt print which looked like the toe of a shoe on the wall. The computer monitor, one of those with the tower built into the screen, was on its side on the floor.

  John pulled the radio off his belt and called for Dotty to send Palmer over with their duffel bag of evidence collecting equipment.

  When Palmer showed up, John grabbed a pair of gloves and took a look at some of the papers. Descriptions of people from town. Some physical, some relating to their personalities. None of which appeared to be flattering. The woman had amassed files on everyone. “We’ll need to take all this back to the sheriff’s office and go through it.”

  “Yes, of course. Take whatever you need.” The mayor’s shoulders slumped like the fight had seeped out of him. His gaze flicked around the room. “Who could have done this? It’s unreal. I’ve been out of it, but still, someone broke into my home.”

  Now he wanted to claim ownership of the office? “Palmer, take Mr. Collins downstairs and get a statement on the break in.”

  “Let’s go talk.” Palmer motioned to the stairs and let the mayor go first.

  John crouched over a pile of papers. Could Betty Collins have had information on someone that they didn’t want to get out? This was certainly a community where secrets were kept. It was also a place where things could easily become common knowledge. Besides, the people he’d met so far had been way too pragmatic about their pasts. Even Andra had said she’d made peace with hers—not that she’d given him the details.

  Now was the time to read her file.

  Despite the scuff mark he’d have to photograph and the open window, this didn’t feel like anything but making a mess just for the sake of making it. A distraction designed to throw him off his end goal of finding the killer, or maybe even to paint Betty Collins in a bad light. John picked up one of the papers. There wasn’t much damage that has a bad attitude could do in a town like this. Unless there was something more incriminating here or on the woman’s computer. But the computer hadn’t been destroyed. Whatever was on there wasn’t the focus of this.

  John got to work photographing the scene. This case was turning up little-to-nothing of any use in catching the killer. Someone in town had stabbed Betty Collins repeatedly in the stomach and John was no closer to finding out who had done it.

  When he was done with the scuff mark he looked out the window. A portion of roof jutted out over the kitchen window below, which could have been the entry point. The yard was open land merging into the trees, which curved up the mountain past where early snow speckled the grass in spots.

  All green, except one spot where the grass had been spread apart. It almost looked like an arrow pointing at whatever was there. Anyone looking outside would have seen it.

  John locked up the office and found the back door. He crossed the grass to where the object lay between two trees. It was a navy cloth, rolled up but long—as long as his forearm. John lifted it with his still-gloved hand and unrolled the cloth. The blade of the knife was covered with dark stains no longer blood red. He glanced around but saw nothing, save trees…and the path that led up to Andra’s house.

  Chapter 12

  John sat back in his desk chair, his eyes on the blade. He couldn’t help thinking he was meant to find the knife. Even as he took a picture of the latent partial fingerprint he’d found on the handle, the thought wouldn’t leave him.

  He stowed the blade in the container, then in its paper evidence bag and locked it in his safe. He downloaded the picture to the computer and emailed it off to Grant. His brother would be able to run it through IAFIS and see if he could match it anywhere else. Interpol wasn’t out of the question, given some of the pasts Sanctuary residents likely had.

  John cleaned up and pulled out the papers he’d found in Betty’s office. The first one he looked for was Andra’s, not that John was going to think overly long on it. He would read all of them in turn. He just happened to be starting with hers.

  Short hair—apparently she’d grown it since she came here—surly, quiet. The description was of
a younger woman who said next to nothing and seemed averse to physical touch, even something as innocuous as shaking hands. John tried to remember if they shook hands when they’d met. He didn’t think so. She hadn’t even touched Pat. Their fingers hadn’t brushed when they’d eaten together, like they tended to when something was passed, person-to-person.

  The comments section of Betty’s welcome form on Andra said, Loner. Did not answer any questions about past. Did not accept recommended accommodations. Ms. Caleri took her backpack and walked away. A copy of this report was given to Sheriff Chandler. Maybe he can find out where she disappeared to.

  John hadn’t figured the cabin was her designated residence, since no one else had been provided one. It wasn’t unheard of for WITSEC to grant certain concessions, as was probably done with the mayor’s house. But the previous sheriff hadn’t forced her to move into town and the cabin had gotten there somehow. Had she built it herself, or did she have help constructing the place? Most of Sanctuary’s residents seemed content to leave her to her quiet life—which begged the question of who, aside from Harriet, wanted John to think Andra was a murderer?

  John grabbed the key off his belt. The town’s files were in the row of file cabinets, drawer after drawer of the dark secrets and terrifying events that brought them all here. It also contained a copy of the “Memorandum of Understanding” each one of them had signed.

  He pulled out the first drawer and found the C’s, files for Sheriff Chandler, Betty and Samuel Collins. Each one was packed with an inch-thick collection of papers. In the drawer below, the file for Bolton Farrera was one paper, a page of personal information he’d filled out and signed.

  John went back to the first drawer. Andra’s file was just as thick as Betty and Samuel’s. John slid it out and set it on the desk. The first page was a file photo of a much younger Andra, her hair cropped close to her head but longer on one side, and her eyes dark with makeup.

  The radio buzzed, signaling an incoming call. John keyed the unit and looked at the clock. 23:34. “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Someone’s behind my house.” The man’s voice was gruff. Shaky. “In the trees.”

  John shut the file cabinet door and grabbed his notepad. “Your name?”

  “Peter Nelson.”

  “Address?”

  “You don’t know where I live?” The man sighed and rattled off the address.

  John looked it up on the map. He scribbled a note to Pat and ran upstairs, shoving the collection of cups and books back from the edge of the kitchen counter so he could leave the note in a clear spot. They should probably clean up.

  John sprinted out to his Jeep and drove to the north side of town. At some point he might even get to use his lights and sirens. Despite the dead body, there hadn’t been an actual emergency yet. If it didn’t happen before their month trial was out, he’d have to take his son for a drive before they left and have him turn it on. Pat would probably get a big kick out of that.

  The house lights were on and it looked the same as every other house on both sides of the street.

  The middle residences on every street were two stories, two bedrooms one bathroom and a square front yard the same size as the back yard. The houses on both sides of Peter Nelson’s residence had flowerbeds either side of the door. Bigger houses were at the end of each street, those having four bedrooms and an extra bathroom. All of them had a minimal amount of space. He knew from Betty’s welcome speech that there were only one or two open houses.

  The older man had the door open before John got up the front walk. “Peter Nelson?” When the man nodded John said, “Sheriff John Mason. You said someone is behind your house?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  They crossed grimy carpet in the living room through the old seventies kitchen. It looked a lot like the counters and cabinets John had, although this guy had a newer fridge. He unlocked the back and John stepped onto a square slab of concrete with two fraying deck chairs. Beyond the square of grass was a six-foot chain-link fence and beyond that, nothing but trees. The kids’ park was closer to the north-east end of town.

  “Someone was out there.”

  “You see who it was?”

  He shook his head, looking perturbed that he hadn’t. “I know what I heard. There’s a murderer running around town. What if I get stabbed next? I’m not dying here, no way.”

  Right. John nodded as though that was a perfectly understandable train of thought, even though there was little chance of a kill-happy stabber running around town looking for their next victim.

  “I’ll go take a look. You stay inside.”

  The guy shut his door.

  “Okay, then.”

  John climbed the fence and jumped down on the other side. The ground was uneven, as though the town had just been set down in the middle of nowhere—which, in a sense, it had.

  The trees were close together over dirt carpeted with pine needles. John swept his flashlight from side to side but didn’t see anything. There was barely any noise aside from his footsteps and a house a few doors down blaring their TV. How had the old guy heard someone over that?

  John checked for shoeprints by the fence and then walked a circle further out. Something rustled behind him. He pulled his gun and spun around, half expecting the killer to be standing there brandishing his knife even though the weapon was locked up in his office.

  A twig snapped. John swiveled left and a deer stepped between two trees. The whites of its eyes reflected in the beam of the flashlight. He lowered it, but not all the way.

  “Put your hands up.”

  The deer walked on.

  John smiled to the dark. This was what he’d been called out for? Murder aside, was this what a career as the Sanctuary sheriff would entail?

  Chasing deer and calming everyone’s nerves wasn’t a bad calling. Better than getting shot at every day, or going undercover and sticking his neck out. Even if it was the middle of the night and not yet the middle of what had already been a long week, John didn’t have much to complain about. His son was safe and they had the space to spend time with each other.

  He glanced around. At the end of the row of houses was a separate building, on top of which was a metal tower. The radio station? He’d heard about Hal’s business but hadn’t seen it yet.

  John hopped the fence and knocked on the old man’s back door. “Mr. Nelson?”

  The old man had donned a threadbare checkered robe. “Did you catch the killer?”

  “Uh no, just a deer I’m happy to say.”

  His eyebrows dipped and disappointment reigned on his face. “Shame. You could’ve had this all wrapped up.”

  “Well, I appreciate your diligence.”

  “Didn’t help though. You haven’t caught her yet.”

  “Her?” John wanted to cross his arms on his chest and let the guy know he was mad. But he was trying to be diplomatic. “What makes you think it was a woman?”

  “Pshaw. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  Peter Nelson closed his mouth. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”

  Music was playing from a radio on the counter. The low sound might have been The Eagles but John couldn’t be sure. “Is that Hal’s music?”

  “It’s just noise. But he also does public announcements.” Nelson’s eyes brightened. “Hey, you should have him broadcast a message for you. Can the killer please come forward, or something like that. Might help you figure out who it is.”

  “You’re right, I could do that.”

  Apparently the consensus in town was John seemed to be having trouble figuring out who killed Betty. Did they think it was easy to catch a killer? The residents of Sanctuary might be eager for him to make an arrest but that didn’t mean Andra had done anything. It was like they would do whatever it took to make this drama run its course so they could get back to their normal, murder-free lives.

  John excused himself and drove to Hal’s radio
station. The building was the same design as the schoolhouse. As if whoever designed this place had absolutely no imagination whatsoever—which sounded like the government.

  He knocked and let himself in. If Hal was DJ-ing he probably wouldn’t hear it anyway. A buzzer rang at his entry. The hall was dark but for low yellow lights. The Eagles song had changed to Charlie Daniels, coming from the end of the hall where there was a red light above the door. He started for it when the door opened and Andra stepped out.

  “What do—oh, John?”

  He froze. “Uh, hey. You’re here.” Great. He sounded like an idiot.

  “Where’s Pat?”

  “In bed.”

  She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s late. Is…there a problem?”

  “You’re running the radio station?”

  Andra flattened her hands on the legs of her pants, ones that cut off below the knee. She looked so young. “Hal had a dinner date with his lady-friend.”

  John grinned. Andra’s lips twitched and then she grinned too.

  “And he asked you to cover?”

  She shrugged. “Usually once a week.”

  “Oh.”

  She motioned to the room. “Want to see?”

  John expected a computer and not much else. Wasn’t that how it was done these days? Instead there was a board with a million buttons, a mic that dangled from above in front of the chair, bulky military-style headphones and what looked like an 8-track tape deck with slots for four cassettes.

  “Wow. This place is ancient.”

  Andra laughed; a rusty sound that stopped when he turned to her. She cleared her throat, pulled over a second chair and motioned for him to sit. “That it is.”

  John stood. “I’m going to need you to provide the sheriff’s office with a set of your fingerprints.” She just looked at him. “Can you come in tomorrow?”

  Andra’s mouth moved back and forth. “Why now?”

  “I found a possible match to the murder weapon. I’ll need to take probably everyone in town’s prints eventually, unless we get a match. But I’m starting with a core group.”