While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  “Right. You keep yourself to yourself,” Cameron mumbled, still writing on his pad.

  “Exactly.” She angled her head, chin up, to see what he was writing.

  “Did you see him at all on the day of the murders?”

  She moved her gaze to the ground, scratched her head, mulling over the question. A spasm of cooperation flourished and then faded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  Cameron stopped writing and looked up at her. “Where did you see him?”

  “He was fumbling around. Over in that shed there.” She pointed past his shoulder to a rundown outbuilding.

  Cameron glanced in the direction she’d pointed. “That your shed?”

  “Yeah. It’s mine. I don’t have enough to fill it up. I let them use it …” She stopped herself. “Or I did.”

  Cameron flipped to a fresh page. “What did they use it for?”

  “Tools, lawn equipment, things like that.”

  “How often did you see him go in there?”

  “Every now and then, I suppose.”

  “How about you, Ms. Schumacher? You go in there?”

  “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Occasionally. I’ve got some canning supplies stored away.”

  “When’s the last time you were there?”

  Della shrugged. “Don’t know. A few days before the murders, maybe. Why?”

  “You see what he was doing in the shed around the time of the murders?”

  “I was making my tea?” she reminded him. “It’s not like I stand at the window watching everyone. I have better things to do.”

  “So you just saw him going inside? While you were making your tea?”

  She caught his sarcasm, narrowed her eyes, and glared at him. “Yes.”

  “And never saw him leave?”

  “Correct.”

  “What time of day was it?”

  “Dunno. Towards the evening, I guess.”

  “Anything else after that?”

  She eyed her rake. “Uh-uh.”

  Cameron closed his notepad. He wasn’t going to get much more out of her, not now. Della Schumacher knew a lot more about her neighbors than she cared to let on, regardless of how many times she repeated her worn-out mantra. Cameron also suspected something else: she was a lot closer to the Foleys than she let people think.

  “Thanks for your time, Ms. Schumacher,” he said, staring at the shed, eager to be there, eager to be finally sifting through clues. “Mind if I just go take a look in there?”

  She shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be in touch if I need anything else.”

  “Mmmm. Looking forward to that.”

  Cameron headed toward the shed, wondering just how much Della Schumacher had really seen the night Ben Foley killed his family.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Old Route 15

  Faith, New Mexico

  Cameron turned his attention to the storage shed. Someone should have checked it. He contained his frustration: it wasn’t on the Foley property, and nobody knew Ben had been using it.

  Now it had new significance: a place where he could have stored his belongings, maybe even hidden them.

  The shack was rundown, with wood the color of cigarette ash, and the slats appeared buckled in spots where one could peer inside.

  Cameron tried but saw nothing in the dark, formless shadows. He reached for the handle and pulled the door toward him. As he did, a thick ray of sunlight shot through the opening, filling the room with a glow and igniting airborne dust particles that glistened and flickered.

  Then, something else: a rancid stench, so strong that it made him dizzy. Cameron stepped back a pace and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and mouth. He moved into the shed, looking around as he did.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but once they did, a white, shapeless object caught his attention near the back wall. Cameron shifted his gaze toward it, squinting, allowing his focus to sharpen.

  Then his mind made the connection.

  It was Della Schumacher’s missing cat, Snowball.

  Dangling in midair. From the ceiling.

  Dead.

  Cameron moved cautiously into the room, careful not to touch anything. A rusty chain snaked its way around the animal’s neck, tied off with a hasty, rudimentary knot. In its mouth, a pair of pliers protruded, rammed down its throat and pulled apart as wide as they could go. Cameron grabbed the flashlight from his gun belt, aiming it at the hanging animal carcass. He examined its coat. Once pristine and white—as her name had suggested—it was now anything but, covered in a thick layer of dried, caked blood.

  Hung up, he thought, and dead.

  Again.

  Just like Witherspoon. Just like Alma.

  Trailing his flashlight down along the abdomen, Cameron looked closer. What had appeared to be gashes on the cat’s stomach were in fact words, carved directly into the skin.

  DIEFUCKING CUMSLUT

  A malicious, calculated act, and a message, no doubt meant for Della Schumacher. Christ, it had to be. She and Ben were the only ones who ever went in there. Cameron wondered if he’d planned to kill her, too.

  There was another side to Ben Foley—that much now seemed obvious—one of which nobody had been aware.

  Except for his family—they’d found out in the worst possible way.

  As had Della’s cat.

  How could I have not seen it? he wondered. How, with all my years of training, my exposure to Ben during the summer, could I have missed it?

  Another thing now seemed very clear. Ben had passed over to the dark side at least several hours before killing his family. But how much longer? Hours? Days? Weeks, even? Most important, did that now make him a more viable suspect in the Witherspoon murder?

  Then there was still the matter of Ryan Churchill. Were the two boys working in tandem?

  One of them was dead, the other, still out there. Somewhere.

  Something was starting to stink, Cameron thought, really stink.

  And it wasn’t just the cat.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  49 Old Route 15

  Faith, New Mexico

  Della Schumacher was inconsolable.

  Her only companion had been mutilated and butchered, and if that wasn’t enough, the sheriff’s department was holding its body as evidence in a murder case. That didn’t sit well with Della. She stood behind the yellow crime tape wringing a tattered tissue, one that had long outlived its usefulness. With eyes rimmed in red and bottom lip quivering, she listened as Cameron tried to explain why she could not have Snowball back—at least not yet.

  “Who does this? Who kills a helpless animal?” She stopped for a moment, glared at him, her eyes squinting, her voice biting and accusatory. “And why won’t you let me see her?”

  Cameron hadn’t told Della the exact manner in which Ben had killed Snowball. He also didn’t tell her that she might have been Ben’s next intended target. He didn’t see any point in getting her any more upset. Ben was dead, and the threat no longer existed.

  She continued her tirade, lapsing into sobs and speaking through tears. “I want my Snowball! I need to bury her!”

  “Ms. Schumacher—listen to me—I’m sorry. She’s part of the investigation. We’ll try and get her to you as soon as we can.”

  Cameron placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder, but she rejected the gesture, flicking at it, as if shooing away a bug.

  Back in the shed, Snowball’s mutilated corpse lay splayed out on a sheet of white paper, with Jim Avello processing it.

  “Do me a favor,” Cameron said, glancing back at Della. “Get the cat wrapped and out of here.”

  Avello look over at the sobbing Della Schumacher, shrugged, then covered the carcass with the paper.

  Outside, a car door slammed.

  “Great,” muttered Cameron, looking out from the shed.

  “What?” Avello asked.

  “Frank.”

 
; The sheriff wasted no time as he approached, walking directly up to Cameron. “What now?”

  “We’ve got a mutilated cat and an obscene message written across its chest—carved across it.” Cameron nodded to Avello, who opened the paper, exposing the body.

  Frank looked at it, then shook his head with disgust. “Left by our current young citizen of the week.”

  “Looks that way,” Cameron replied.

  Frank put a palm on the back of his neck, rubbing it as he looked around. “This kid have any other relatives?”

  “Nobody in town.”

  “We need to find them."

  “Why? Think they were hiding a secret?” asked Cameron.

  “I think they were hiding a monster.”

  Cameron put his hands on his hips, slowly shaking his head. “Something’s not adding up.”

  “Huh?”

  “It doesn’t make sense. There’s no way he could have hidden this from everyone. If it’d been anyone else I might believe it, but this kid, I knew him, and it just doesn’t fit.”

  “Well, we need to make it fit then,” Frank shot back, “and fast. People are dying, and the ones who aren’t dying are scared half to death.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Abrams Medical Center

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  A surge of air washed across her skin, like someone passing by.

  Kyle felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck dance, then woke up, startled. She looked at the clock. It was late.

  Exhaustion had finally caught up with her. She’d been sitting at her desk in her office, pushing paperwork, pushing her limit, when her eyelids started feeling heavy. She’d laid her head down just for a minute or two—or so she’d thought.

  Before she could get her bearings, someone, or something, whispered into her ear, startling her, causing her body to pitch. Stunned, she looked around the room but saw no one.

  She’d felt it, though: an ice-cold breath of air spilling across her cheek.

  “Kyle!”

  It knew her name.

  Before she could respond, another sound came, then another, and another, each one overlapping the last, picking up speed, and darting around the room.

  Suddenly, the place was abuzz with furious and audible activity, random noise that bounced off walls, swooped in rapidly, and skirted past her head at a dizzying, frenetic pace. As the presence grew louder, Kyle grew more dizzy, more disoriented. She didn’t know where to look, what to do.

  Static. Then the whooshing sound of air rushing in, zooming out, followed once again by the whisper.

  “Kyle,” it said again, snapping at the air like a whip. It was that child’s voice, the same one that had been haunting her for days.

  She turned around, tried to find the source, but as she did, it swooped in from the other direction, catching her off-guard, the cold air grazing the back of her neck as it streaked by.

  “Kyle! help me!” it said, still in a whisper but with more urgency now, a whistling, whirling noise trailing it.

  “Tell me how!” she shouted, looking around helplessly. “I’m trying, but you won’t tell me!”

  “Please! Hurry!” it pleaded.

  Then, silence, but only for a moment. The whooshing started once again, and again, the voice spoke to her.

  “… anyyyyyyy,” it said, sounding more like noise than words.

  “Any?” Kyle shouted out to the invisible, blaring presence. “Any what?”

  Another brief pause, then, “I’m …” more static, more wind, and crackling. “Anyyyyyyy ...”

  What did it mean? So much movement, so much interference; she couldn’t make any sense of it. Kyle closed her eyes and placed her fingertips against her temples, concentrating.

  A loud gust of wind began to circle around her, creating an even louder whistling noise. Then it seemed to move away like a jet lifting off through the sky, swallowed by clouds.

  And then—nothing. The girl was gone.

  Kyle dropped her head into the palms of her hands.

  As usual, the child came and went too quickly, almost as if someone were chasing her. But who? And why? If only she could make one lasting connection with the girl, something to give her a starting point, a foundation.

  Frustrated, Kyle picked up her pencil, threw it onto her desk.

  Then she looked down, and up, then quickly back down again. Something caught her attention, something on her desk. She zeroed in, halfway not believing what she saw but halfway knowing that there was no mistaking it.

  Scribbled across the prescription pad, in the rudimentary handwriting of a child, was one word:

  Bethany

  Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I’m Beth-any! That was what she was trying to say!

  The girl had a name, and Kyle had her connection; she was onto something.

  Now, if she could only figure out what that was.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Community Hospital

  Faith, New Mexico

  In any larger city, Faith Community Hospital would be barely adequate. To the people who lived there, however, it was just fine.

  Much like the rest of Faith, the hospital hadn’t changed much through the years. Located just off the main highway leading into town, it had once been a private home, converted later to a medical facility. One of the community’s wealthy elders donated it after he passed away. Although the building was large for a home, it was tiny for a healthcare facility. That didn’t seem to matter much: having a hospital in town made all the difference. Before that, folks had to travel to the neighboring town of Truth for medical care, a good forty-five minutes away.

  As luck would have it, a year after it opened, a large, anonymous donation rolled in. Shortly after that, authorities had shut down a private medical clinic in the neighboring city of Parker after an investigation revealed inadequate care bordering on abuse. Their loss ended up being Faith’s gain. Officials gave the former clinic’s equipment to the burgeoning young medical facility. In addition, the donated money went toward adding on a new wing. Before they knew it, Faith Community was alive and thriving, although, it never managed to look like anything more than a cozy rest home. But that wasn’t a concern—it could have looked like a McDonald’s for all they cared. What mattered, was that Faith finally had a hospital all its own.

  Cameron pulled into the tiny lot, parked his car, and headed inside.

  A petite girl in her late teens sat at the front reception desk. Her posture was flawless, her smile, leaning toward this side of overkill; it seemed put-on, the size and shape of a lemon wedge. A perky greeting followed.

  “Good afternoon, sheriff! How may I direct you today?” she asked, each syllable dramatically over-enunciated, her enthusiasm sticky and sweet.

  Cameron glanced at the nametag, which said she was Becky. “I’m looking for Doctor Grayson.”

  “Very well, sheriff,” she replied, flashing a big, toothy grin. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  Cameron smiled politely and nodded.

  “A Sheriff Dawson here to see Doctor Grayson? Yes, of course,” she spoke into the phone, then hung it up and turned back to Cameron. In one breathless sentence, she said, “If you’ll just walk straight forward and follow the red line all the way down past the patient lounge and turn right at the swinging doors his office is the second door on the left he’s waiting for you have a wonderful day!”

  Cameron nodded with some amusement.

  Robert Grayson was a portly man in his mid-to-late fifties with plenty of hair on each side of his head, but none in-between. He wore blue and white running shoes that looked as if they’d plodded their share of miles on the hard hospital floors.

  “Sheriff Dawson,” the doctor said, offering his hand and a smile.

  Cameron shook the hand. “Appreciate you meeting with me, doctor.”

  “Not at all. My pleasure … really.”

  His office was a cramped space, no larger t
han a generous-sized broom closet, the walls covered in books. Grayson motioned for Cameron to sit in a chair, then settled into his own, a faux-vinyl, high-backed reclining type. He leaned forward, removed his glasses, and gave Cameron his full attention.

  “I need to ask you about the flu virus,” Cameron said, clicking his pen and scribbling on his pad to make sure it was working. “Did some research online, but still need to fill in some of the gaps, if you can help.”

  “Certainly,” the doctor said, a little curious. “What would you like to know about it?”

  “It’s in reference to the Foley murders.”

  “I know plenty about the influenza virus,” the doctor said, scratching his head, “but how that could be connected to a murder … afraid you’ve lost me there.”

  “It may not be connected at all, but some things aren’t adding up. Ben appeared to be coming down with the flu on the day of the murders.”

  “Okay,” Grayson said, waiting.

  “Wanted to know how common is it to get it in the summer—the flu—if it’s

  even possible.”

  “It can be,” the doctor said, then hesitated, “but not entirely common. Typically, the so-called flu season occurs in the late-winter-early-spring months. In colder climates, it can lapse a bit further. But here in the desert … not very likely.”

  “But it can occur?”

  “It can. But it’s rare. If it does, it’s usually because someone brings it back from overseas, someplace else where they’re in the midst of their own flu season.”

  “Not many folks in Faith are world travelers,” said Cameron.

  “No, I suppose not,” the doctor said, reflecting. “And they would need to have come back at least ten days prior to Ben’s first onset of symptoms. That would be the incubation period.”

  Cameron made a note to check the local travel agency and see if anyone had, in fact, booked a trip overseas recently. With online ticket sales, it was a long shot, but still worth checking.