“Good question, Detective Friday. Care to wager on some answers?”
Cameron looked at Frank for a few seconds, thinking before he spoke. “Two kids, five murders.”
“Huh?”
“Thinking about a connection between the two boys again. They’re both juvies.”
“Okay. ‘Cept they were two years apart, and eleven-year-old boys don’t hang out with thirteen-year-olds. Strictly against code,” Frank said. “There might as well have been twenty years between them. We’re talking about two different worlds.”
“True, but still, two kids committing murder in the same town—especially in this town—it’s enough to make you think.”
“There’s that,” Frank conceded, ripping the top off a sugar packet and dumping it into his coffee. “How ‘bout the teacher? What’d she think?”
“The same thing everybody else has: Ben was a nice kid, not violent, everyone’s shocked, it’s the same story at every turn.” He paused. “There was one other thing. She said Ben was sick the day of the murders.”
“Sick how?”
“With the flu.”
Frank shook his head. “I’m not making the connection.”
Cameron shrugged. “It’s the middle of May. Flu season ended months ago.”
Frank considered it for a moment. “Coulda just been a cold.”
“No, she said he had classic flu symptoms. Fever, sore throat, chills.”
“The M.E. report mention anything about it?”
Cameron shook his head. “Not standard procedure.”
“Can’t they go back and check now?”
“Missed the boat, I’m afraid. Have to do it within twenty-four hours after death. Beyond that, the virus is undetectable.”
“So basically, we’re screwed,” Frank said.
“Could be.”
“We know for sure you can’t get the flu this time of year?”
“I’ve never heard of it. Gonna see Doctor Grayson over at Faith Community just to be sure, though. And I’ll also see if there’s been any other reported cases in town.”
Frank nodded noncommittally. “So what do you think it means, this flu?”
“Not sure, but Ben’s teacher mentioned something before I left the school, something that made me think. She said he wasn’t capable of pulling off something like this, acted like there was some other outside factor.”
“Outside factor? Like what?”
Cameron shrugged. “Don’t think she even knew, other than he didn’t have it in him, and that he lacked the motivation or know-how to pull off something this extreme …except maybe with the help of another person.”
“Back to the idea of Ben and Ryan working together?”
“Not completely. Not yet, anyway. We need something more definitive to connect them, something more concrete.”
Frank sighed. “Okay, so suppose Ben was working with someone—and not necessarily Ryan—how do you pursue it?”
Cameron leaned back in his chair and stared at his boss for a few seconds, his confidence on the rise. “Ever study geometry, Frank?”
“Sure, a long time ago.” He waved a hand. “Longer than I care to think about.”
“Getting back to your original question, the one about how to get from point A to point C—the most essential rule in geometry is also the most basic: the shortest distance between two points is a straight line.”
“So where’s our straight line leading us?”
“To the most obvious.” He stared at Frank for a few seconds before speaking again. “To the Foley house.”
Chapter Twenty
45687 Monument Path Way
Albuquerque, New Mexico
“Quite a dream,” Joshua said, looking down at the steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “Heavy on the weird, though. What do you think it means?”
“Not really sure,” replied Kyle. She was gazing through her kitchen window. The heat outside was unbearable, especially for May, but from inside her comfortable, climate-controlled house, one would hardly know it. “Somewhere, there’s a message. I just have to figure out what it is.”
“A message,” he replied, thinking about it before raising the cup to his lips. He tried to take a sip, winced, and decided against it. “How about this for a message: stay away from creepy hospitals with empty gurneys?”
Kyle tried to laugh, but all she could manage was a weak groan. This was no laughing matter. Not now. That voice and those eyes—they still haunted her. Her mind trailed off for a few seconds, then came back. “Empty hearts, empty souls …what do you suppose that means?”
“Got me there, Sis.” The best he could offer was a shrug and his patented smile, the lopsided one that through the years, had been his get out-of-jail-free card for parents, girlfriends, and just about everyone else in-between.
It hardly mattered the two were only half-brother and sister. They were just as close as any full-blooded siblings could be. Joshua had been only three when his father married her mother, and Kyle was born two years later.
Like her mother’s, Kyle’s gift was common knowledge among family members. It revealed itself at a young age, and for Joshua it wasn’t anything unusual.
Kyle always used it to help others, even him.
When he was sixteen, Josh had planned a much-anticipated deep-sea fishing trip in California. He’d been looking forward to the week-long excursion for months, but just a day before he was supposed to leave, Kyle started to get a bad feeling about it that she couldn’t explain.
Hesitant to cancel a trip he’d been long looking forward to, Joshua didn’t take her warning seriously; but Kyle begged him not to go, telling him flat-out that if he didn’t, he would die. He cancelled the trip.
The following week when he turned on the television, Josh learned of a collision between two fishing boats off the coast of La Jolla, killing seven people. Josh was supposed to have been on one of them.
It was the last time he ever doubted one of Kyle’s warnings.
That trust grew, and eventually, he was able to use it to his professional advantage. Once he became a police detective, Josh began enlisting her help in solving some of his most difficult cases, making her his unofficial consultant, a secret weapon of sorts. And it started paying off. His track record solving cases began to improve.
But using a psychic to solve cases wasn’t just taboo in the department; for most, it was pure nonsense, pure and simple. Joshua decided early on that nobody could know Kyle was helping him solve cases; her work had to remain a secret, just between the two of them. Often, when people asked how he caught a break, he’d tell them either an anonymous source had come through, or that he’d just followed a hunch. That seemed to take care of it.
Kyle turned her head away from the window and looked at her brother. “What happened at my office was awful. Something, or someone, took control of my mind, like they were trying to show me things, leading me somewhere. Josh, I lost complete control. That’s never happened before.”
“What do you think’s going on?” he asked.
“Not really sure.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “This girl–at least I think it’s a girl–she’s trying to reach me, to tell me something.”
“Are we talking about something that’s already happened, or about to?”
“A combination of both, I think. Nothing concrete, just a feeling.”
Joshua grinned. “Well, we know about your feelings. They’ve been right a time or two.”
“But the girl … such a mystery to me. She’s dead—I know that much. What I can’t figure out is why. I’m thinking maybe all this has to do with her death. After all, one of the places she took me to looked like a hospital.”
“She could have died there, right? Or even been killed?”
“Could be, yeah.” She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, and I won’t—not until she tells me more.”
“And when do you suppose that’ll be?”
Kyle laughed humorlessly. “It’s
anyone’s guess. I’ll tell you one thing though—her timing really sucks. She comes at the worst times.”
“She’s in a different time zone. Cut her some slack.”
“Well, she’s in Albuquerque now. She needs to adjust her watch accordingly.”
He chuckled. “Make sure you tell her that next time.”
“I would, except she never gives me the chance. Doesn’t like to stick around for long enough.”
“What’s her hurry?””
Kyle shook her head. “Don’t know yet. I get the feeling she’s scared.”
“Scared of you?”
“Scared of something. Just don’t know what. Not yet, anyway. I think that’s why she only shows herself in brief spurts. It’s like she’s on the run.”
Joshua was tracing the pattern on the tablecloth with his finger. “Look, I know I don’t have to tell you this …”
“But you will anyway.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on top of his. “It’s okay. You don’t have to worry.”
“You’ll forgive me if I do.”
“Of course. You wouldn’t be Josh if you didn’t.”
“Just tell me you’ll be careful. This stuff … sometimes I think you take it too far.”
“You know I will.”
“Promise?”
Kyle nodded once and smiled. “Promise.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Old Route 15
Faith, New Mexico
There were several things Cameron knew.
One, Ben’s behavior had appeared unchanged right up until the murders—or at least until he left school that day.
Two, he had not been under the influence of any kind of mind-altering substances when he murdered his family.
Three, he appeared to display symptoms associated with the influenza virus, even though flu season had already come and gone. He also had stomach ulcers.
Then there were the other two murders to consider. Alma was dead, and the only plausible suspect, Ryan Churchill, had vanished. But most troubling to Cameron, and weighing heavily on his mind, was Bradley Witherspoon. Still no viable suspect in that case, other than Ryan, Ben, or possibly both working together. Certainly, they’d each proven themselves capable of committing gruesome killings, but hard as Cameron tried, he couldn’t find a common link between any of the three.
He had no evidence. All he had was a tremendous headache.
And a lot of anxiety. Cameron may have been back in Small-Town USA, but he was no longer the person he’d been when he left. A lot had happened since then, and now he had years of solid police work under his belt. Whatever was going on in Faith, Cameron knew he had the skill and know-how to get to the bottom of it. It was time to kick this thing into high gear.
He just needed more time and a few more leads.
And while he couldn’t talk to Ben, he could try the next best thing: go back to where the boy had lived and see if he could dig up something, anything, that might provide an answer. Just as he’d told Frank, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. He knew that line moved through the Foley house. What he didn’t know yet was where it started, or, ultimately, where it ended.
It was time to find out.
The place sat just off the Old Route 15—which in Faith was a flat, narrow blacktop flanked by farmland on either side. Modest but adequate, it was an old two-story farmhouse with wood siding, a shake roof, and a sufficient amount of land surrounding it.
Everything seemed different to Cameron now as he parked in front of the house. It was daytime and minus all the people who had earlier converged on the scene. Peace seemed to be settling in. It almost felt as if nothing had ever happened.
Except, that is, for the few telltale signs still standing as a reminder. The yellow tape had been torn down, but not all of it: a few loose strips hung from shrubs and fences, flapping in the wind like tiny bird’s wings. In addition to that, the place had begun taking on a vacant, abandoned quality. Every window was shut tightly, every shade pulled down. Envelopes spilled out the front of the mailbox, stuffed to its limit with unclaimed mail, and in the yard, weeds were starting to sprout.
As he stepped out of his car, Cameron spotted the next-door neighbor near her driveway raking weeds. She gazed over at him with narrowed eyes, then quickly dropped her head and continued working.
For someone in law enforcement, that kind of obvious avoidance is a clear invitation.
With each step Cameron took toward her, the faster and more furious she seemed to rake, almost as if doing so would keep him away.
“Morning,” said Cameron. “Need to ask you a few questions about the Foleys.”
The woman spared him a glance and went back to her raking, poking violently at the ground as if it had done her wrong. Then, in a singsong voice, she said, “Already talked to a deputy the night of the murders. Got nothing else to add.”
“I need to talk to you again,” he insisted.
Silence.
Cameron sized her up: mid-to-late-fifties, bright red hair—a shade you find in the discount aisles, not growing naturally on heads—and skin seared by the sun, the color of a raw steak; it stretched across her face, a texture not unlike Saran Wrap.
“Ma’am?” Cameron persisted, pulling out his badge.
She stopped raking, let out a dramatic, bothered sigh, and inspected the badge as if questioning its authenticity. Unimpressed, she grunted, then turned back to her work.
He cleared his throat, loudly.
“I keep myself to myself,” she said with a hiss, as if scolding him, still raking, still avoiding. “Said I don’t know anything.”
“Did you know the Foleys, ma’am?”
“’Course I knew ‘em. They were my neighbors,” she said, stabbing at the ground, not looking up.
“How well did you know them?” he asked.
“Not very well.”
“But you knew them, maybe had some conversations with Mrs. Foley?”
She stopped raking, rested the palm of her hand on the top of the handle, and gave him the benefit of a full stare. Over-enunciating each word to show her displeasure, she replied, “Like … I … said … I … keep … myself … to … myself.”
Short of firing a shot his way, the woman was about as uncooperative as anyone could get. Cameron knew the only game she’d understand was hardball.
Batter up.
“Ma’am, the last thing I want to do is bother you, but I’m not here trying to sell broom handles. Three people have been murdered right next door to this house—your house. That makes you a material witness.”
He paused. “Now, we can do this the easy way, and you can take a few minutes to talk to me, or I can bring you down to the station and maybe get a warrant to search your home as well. It’s up to you. Which sounds better?”
The woman looked up into Cameron’s eyes. Her face was hard and stiff—except for lips that quivered almost undetectably. She jabbed her rake into the ground and sighed, then removed her gloves, picking them off one finger at a time, as if they were the cause of her annoyance.
Cameron clicked his pen and held it to his pad. “Your name?”
“Della. Della Schumacher,” she replied grudgingly.
“Last name is spelled?” He didn’t look up.
She spelled her last name.
“You said you knew the family. How well?”
“Not very. We were just neighbors.” Apparently that didn’t make for intimate relationships.
“What about Ben?”
“We talked occasionally,” she said, dismissing the notion as if irrelevant.
He looked up and met her eyes. “Define occasionally.”
Della spoke and sighed at the same time. “Ben took care of Snowball once or twice while I was away visiting my sister in Phoenix. It was no big deal.”
“Snowball?”
“Yeah, my cat. I paid him a few bucks to do it.”
Cameron looked around the property.
She followed his gaze. “She’s not here. Haven’t seen her since the murders. All that commotion—the bright lights, the reporters everywhere, they scared her away.”
Cameron shifted to another subject. “What kind of a kid was he?”
“Ben?”
No, the cat, he thought. “Yes, Ben.”
“Normal.” She stopped and snorted. “Or at least I thought so.”
“Thought?”
“Well, it’s obvious he wasn’t. He just seemed that way. It was all an act. The kid was a murderer. Probably killed all those others, too.”
“In what way did he seem normal?”
“Good lord!” she said. “I don’t know!”
“You just made the statement. You must know.”
She rolled her eyes, then thought about it, as if the act itself took great effort. “He was respectful of his elders—that’s rare these days. Kids don’t have manners no more.” Her face turned sour. “Of course, shooting his family kinda blows that theory all to hell, now, don’t it?”
Yeah, thought Cameron, it sure does. “Observe anything about Ben’s relationship with his family?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“You don’t sound very sure,” he prodded.
“Look. Like I said, I keep myself to—”
“Yeah, you keep yourself to yourself. I get that.”
Della narrowed her eyes and jutted out her lower jaw. “Is there anything else? I have work to do.”
So do I, thought Cameron. “What about on the day of the murders?”
“What about it?”
“See or hear anything unusual?”
“Like I said, I barely knew the kid. I only seen him coming and going to school … things like that. They seemed like okay kids—both of them.” Then she mumbled under her breath, “Never figured the boy for a cold-blooded killer.”
“So you only saw Ben coming and going to and from school? That was it?”
“Yeah. That and sometimes when he was doing his chores around the house.”
“What kind of chores did he do?”
She clamped her hands firmly to her hips and tilted her head almost completely sideways. “Now how in the world would I know that? It’s not like I stand there all day watching him. I only saw him ’cause I was making my tea. I’m not a nosy neighbor.”
While the Savage Sleeps Page 8
