Crone’s Moon argi-5

by M. R. Sellars

  “Cold, fizzy, and well, yellow-colored,” she said, reaching with her free hand into the change pouch around her waist and withdrawing a straw. She tossed it in front of Ben and shot him a smile as she walked off. “Enjoy.”

  “Jeez…” he muttered, shaking his head at me.

  “So you don’t really think Porter has escaped or something do you?” I asked abruptly, the edginess in my voice was obvious even to me.

  “Don’t know,” he replied. “But we’ll know shortly. Roy’s an old friend of mine, and he works for the Missouri Department of Corrections.”

  “But wouldn’t there have been some kind of bulletin or alert or something if he’d escaped?” I pressed.

  “Depends, Row.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel very secure, Ben.”

  “Listen, Kemosabe, don’t get all worked up,” he told me. “I’m just checkin’ to be sure. C-Y-A and all that shit.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I knew that my tone was less than convincing. My friend shook his head then brushed the straw out of the way and lifted the pint of beer. After a long swallow, he rested it back on the coaster and watched it intently as he slowly spun the glass.

  “So you said on the phone that you were movin’ when Felicity went all la-la,” he finally said, bludgeoning the stalled conversation in a new direction with a blunt segue.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “Kind of. When she seized, her foot slipped off the brake, and we started into the intersection.”

  “Not too fast then?”

  “Not really I don’t guess.” I shrugged. “But I still probably didn’t do the transmission any favors.”

  “How so?”

  “When I popped it into gear.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “To stop the Jeep,” I explained. “I switched off the key and then popped it into gear. Kind of an abrupt stop, but it worked.”

  “I thought you said you weren’t movin’ too fast?”

  “We weren’t really. Just rolling more or less.”

  “Just rollin’?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  He creased his forehead. “Then why didn’t ya’ just pull the emergency brake?”

  I closed my eyes and hung my head in sudden embarrassment as the mental picture of the Jeep’s center console painted itself in my brain.

  Ben looked back at me, his face spread into a grin, and I could tell that he was already formulating a wisecrack. Fortunately for me, his cell phone began its low warble, cutting him off before he could utter the taunt. He motioned me to wait and answered it. “Storm. Yeah. That was fast. Yeah. Yeah… You’re sure? Okay, thanks, Roy. I owe you one… Uh-yeah,” my friend hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Yeah, I’ll tell ‘er. Bye.”

  A slightly pained look crept in to replace his grin, and I wasn’t sure why, but for some reason, I could tell that it came from something other than the query about Eldon Porter.

  I raised an eyebrow and dipped my head at him. “All good?”

  “Yeah,” he replied as he fumbled to put the cell phone back on his belt, finally giving up and dropping it on the table in front of him. “Porter is locked away safe and sound, preaching to all the other wingnuts in the population.”

  “Great.” I frowned.

  “Hey, a coupl’a minutes ago you were getting’ ready to panic on me,” he observed. “What’s up?”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  “Yeah, right. What’s the deal?”

  “Okay, maybe I was,” I admitted. “A little. But I guess maybe I was still just hoping for an easy explanation to all of this.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “Woulda been nice, but look at it this way; at least he’s not on the street.”

  “True. So since we’ve ruled that out, maybe it is the Brittany Larson thing after all,” I offered with a shake of my head, not really believing it myself. “But that wouldn’t explain why I was having the seizures in January.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” he agreed.

  I picked up my pint of Stout and took a sip then set it back on the table. The murmur of the crowd was ramping up to a dull roar now, and I looked out of the booth, glancing around at the milling bodies.

  Across the way, the bar itself was stacked two deep with people waiting for drinks or simply inhabiting their claimed bit of real estate at the polished, wooden counter. I knew it should be approaching eight, and the band would be playing soon. At that point, we would be unable to carry on any kind of worthwhile conversation, not to mention the fact that I was in no mood for singing along with drinking songs. I suspected that Felicity no longer was either.

  I scanned the wall, looking for a clock, and my eyes came to rest on the television set perched on a shelf above the rows of liquor bottles. I watched as a news update filled the screen, absently taking note of the ever-changing price of gasoline.

  When the tube flickered and displayed the picture of a twenty-something young woman inset over the shoulder of the anchor, my heart skipped a beat. Beneath the photo was the caption, Tamara Linwood.

  Neurons fired in rapid succession, flooding my brain with a not-so-distant memory as I stared at the picture.

  Gruesome discovery.

  Badly decomposed human arm.

  Shallow grave.

  Body may be that of Tamara Linwood, the grade school teacher who disappeared from the parking lot of Westview Shopping Mall back in January…

  The memory of the phantom metallic tang tickled the back of my tongue, and I closed my eyes. I definitely wasn’t going to call it easy, but there it was- the explanation for at least a part of my day.

  And, I was absolutely certain that I didn’t like it.

  CHAPTER 9:

  “Tamara Linwood,” I said aloud, turning my attention back to Ben.

  “Do what?” he asked with a puzzled look.

  “Tamara Linwood,” I repeated, pointing at the screen across the room. “On the TV.”

  He twisted in his seat and shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The news anchor had already moved on to the next story, but my friend managed to pick up on what I’d meant anyway. “What? You mean the missing teacher?” he asked. “So, what about ‘er?”

  “That’s why the seizures. She’s got to be what this is all about.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “It adds up,” I offered. “She went missing in January, right?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded.

  I continued. “And they found her remains this morning.”

  “That hasn’t been confirmed.”

  “I’m confirming it for you, Ben. Those are Tamara Linwood’s remains.”

  “You sure?”

  “They’ve got to be.”

  “Listen, Row.” He held up his hand and nodded quickly. “I know better than to not believe what you’re sayin’, but we’ve been down this road before. I can’t just march into my lieutenant’s office and announce something based on one of your feelings. Besides, that case belongs to the MCS… And well… you know that situation.”

  I gave him a frustrated nod. “I know, but they ARE her remains. I’m sure of it.”

  “How?” he asked.

  “I just told you,” I replied. “The timing of the seizures. It makes sense.”

  “To you.”

  “I thought you believed me?”

  “I do, white man,” he appealed. “Kinda. I mean I know you’re makin’ a connection with somethin’… or someone… or whatever the hell, but how do ya’ know it’s actually her? How do you know it’s not someone else who got murdered in January? I hate to say it, but we had a few cases runnin’ then besides hers.”

  “It’s a gut feeling, Ben.”

  “And I can respect that, believe me, but you still don’t have any proof. Listen, since we’re talkin’ about a schoolteacher, look at it this way. It’s just like homework from eighth grade math class. Just havin’ the answer ain’t good enough. You gotta show the work that gave ya’ the answer.”

&
nbsp; “With the ethereal, that is easier said than done,” I replied.

  “Yeah, I know. But lemme ask you this: So what? So what if they are her remains?”

  “Then maybe we can figure out who killed her.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the plan whether that’s what’s left of her or not.”

  “You know what I mean, Ben. Maybe I can help.”

  “How? I thought you said your little trips into the Twilight Zone hadn’t been real informative.”

  “They haven’t,” I agreed and then added, “Yet.”

  “Yeah, and there’s the catch. Yet may never happen.”

  “Come on, Ben. You know how quickly these things can turn.”

  “Yeah, I do, but which way is it gonna turn? This whole thing might just go away like it did back in January.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but he had a valid point. Still, for me, there was an overwhelming imperative. The psychic episodes were happening to Felicity now. I simply wasn’t willing to stand by and allow that to continue, be it a half dozen more times, or only one. Something had to be done.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so. This feels different,” I appealed.

  “Hate to say it, Row, but…”

  “…I’ve got to give you more than that,” I completed the sentence before he could. It was a lament that I’d heard from him more than once, so the lyrics were all too familiar. “Well then,” I switched tactics, “How long before they know for sure about the identity?”

  “Not my department.” He shrugged. “Could be tomorrow, could be next week. Could be never, I guess. Dunno.”

  “Rowan?” Felicity interjected.

  “What’s up, honey?” I turned to her. “You okay?”

  My wife was still lounged in her seat, arms folded across her chest. Her head was tilted back, and her eyes were closed. She actually looked relaxed for the first time in the past couple of hours.

  “We’ll need to go before too long, then,” she murmured. “I have papers to grade for class tomorrow.”

  I knew she wasn’t fully conscious of what she had just said. I had been in such a state before, myself. She was simply repeating a memory that wasn’t even her own. While it was a far cry from the ‘work’ Ben said I needed to show, in my mind her words served to verify the revelation I had just espoused.

  I slowly turned my face back to Ben but didn’t utter a sound. I allowed my wife’s comment to stand alone as my personal vindication. He looked over at Felicity for a moment then back to me.

  “She’s teachin’ a photography class somewhere, right?” he finally asked, but I could tell from the tone of his voice he already knew the answer.

  I just shook my head.

  My friend’s hand slipped up to his forehead, as if on automatic pilot, then slid slowly back, smoothing his hair. When his fingers came to rest on his neck he spoke. “Okay. Fine. I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’ll make some calls.”

  *****

  Felicity was still sleeping when the phone rang the next morning. I had just finished filling my coffee cup for the third time and was walking out of the kitchen when the device emitted its annoying demand for attention. I took a step back and plucked the receiver from the cradle without even looking at the caller ID box.

  “Hello?”

  “I wake you up?” Ben asked at the other end.

  “Nope. Neither has the coffee,” I quipped.

  “That’s ‘cause you don’t make it strong enough. You need some cop coffee.”

  “I’ll pass. I think that cup I had yesterday is what kept me up last night.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “Because it was eating a hole in my stomach,” I added.

  “Shoulda had another doughnut. They soak up all the bad shit.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ll still take a pass on it.”

  He chuckled. “Your loss.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, Ben,” I told him then took a sip of my java. “So what’s up?”

  “You want the good news or the bad news first?” he queried.

  “Depends. How bad is the bad?”

  “Bad enough. I’ve been re-assigned to the Major Case Squad.”

  “I thought that was a good thing?” I questioned.

  “Yeah, well, it’s the good news too.”

  “Ooo-kaayyy,” I replied slowly. “I’m assuming there’s an explanation to go with that?”

  “Good news, I’m back on the MCS. Bad news, I’m workin’ the Brittany Larson abduction with the Bible Bitch.” He offered the matter-of-fact explanation like someone who had not quite come to terms with having been condemned.

  “Lucky you.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed sarcastically. “Lucky me.”

  “So what brought this on do you think?” I asked.

  “Who knows?” he replied. I could almost see him shrugging at the other end. “Got the call this morning. I’m thinkin’ maybe the fact that Mandalay’s the lead agent coulda had somethin’ to do with it.”

  He was referring to Constance Mandalay, a mutual friend and special agent assigned to the FBI’s St. Louis field office. It stood to reason that the Federal authorities would have been called in since it was a kidnapping. And, considering that they had worked together before, Constance might well have requested him to be a part of the team from local law enforcement. In a sense, that was slightly amusing itself, because the first time the two had met they had absolutely despised one another.

  Still, it was surprising that Lieutenant Albright would be willing to give in, considering her personal mandate regarding Ben’s involvement with the MCS; unless, of course, she had her own motives, that is.

  “Makes sense,” I acknowledged, then voiced my thought. “But, what about Albright?”

  “Search me,” he replied. “But you’d better bet I’ll be watchin’ my back. Somethin’s hinky with that if ya’ ask me.”

  “Yeah. Good idea,” I agreed. “But, hey, at least you’re back in the fold. That’s good news.”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m not so sure I’m all that excited about a Feeb fightin’ my battle for me though.”

  “Look at it as reinforcements,” I offered.

  “Yeah, sure.” He didn’t sound convinced.

  I decided to maneuver away from what was obviously a sore spot. “So do they have any leads yet?”

  “They’re workin’ on a couple, but I haven’t got the full run-down. Headin’ in for a briefing in about forty-five minutes.”

  “What about the car? You got the license plate number, right?”

  “Car was found abandoned in North County,” he replied. “No fuckin’ idea how they got that far without gettin’ popped, but they did. Both it and plates were on a hot sheet. Car got jacked in Racine, Wisconsin. Plates were off a van registered to a homeless shelter in Chicago. Both of ‘em were stolen weeks ago.”

  “Great,” I offered with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “No evidence though?”

  “The crime scene guys have been all over it. Found Larson’s blood in the trunk. Some hairs. Plenty of prints but still no hits on AFIS yet.” He referred to the automated fingerprint identification system. “So yeah, there’s evidence all right, but this ain’t a TV show. Evidence helps convict, not necessarily find.”

  “Yeah, you’ve pointed that out before.”

  “The thing that’s got ‘em worried right now is that we’re comin’ up real fast on twenty-four hours, and there hasn’t been any contact from the kidnapper yet.”

  “That’s unusual I take it?”

  “Yes and no. Usually if you’re gonna get a ransom demand, you get it within the first twenty-four.”

  He didn’t have to tell me what it meant if no such demand was forthcoming. My own tortured imagination was taking care of that just fine.

  “But there are exceptions, right?” I asked.

  “Hell, there’re always exceptions,” he sighed. “But the odds do a big nosedive if ya’ know what I’m sayin’.”


  “Yeah,” I replied. “I know what you mean.”

  “So listen, Row, there’s another reason I called.” He proceeded to steer the conversation back onto the original path. “About the whole Tamara Linwood thing from last night.”

  “Yeah, do you have something?”

  “Nothin’ you’re gonna like,” he continued. “I made some calls, but it ain’t good. The real deal is I’m not tight with anybody who’s workin’ it.”

  “Nobody?”

  “Nope. Nobody. The case has actually aged enough with no new leads that it kinda got back-burnered for a while. There’re only a coupl’a coppers assigned to it at this point, and they’re disciples of her holiness, Bible Barb.”

  “Okay, so what about the remains? Did they make an ID yet? Wouldn’t that get them rolling?”

  “They’re still waiting for results,” he answered. “There wasn’t much left, so it might all come down to DNA.”

  “I seem to remember DNA takes awhile,” I remarked.

  “Yeah. Could be a coupl’a weeks.”

  “What about dental?”

  “Between you and me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Seriously, Row,” he pressed. “What I’m about to tell ya’ is not for public consumption.”

  “I understand, Ben,” I acknowledged. “What is it? Did the killer pull her teeth or something?”

  “There’s no head,” he replied succinctly.

  “You mean…” I allowed my voice to trail off.

  “I mean whoever killed her sawed her head off, and it didn’t get buried with the rest of the remains,” he answered.

  “Gods…” I muttered.

  “Yeah.”

  A memory flitted through my brain, and enough of it made an immediate impression on me to spark a question. “Wasn’t there another murder similar to that awhile back?”

  “Sarah Hart,” Ben answered. “Disappeared from the same parking lot. Remains turned up in a wooded area several months later. No head. That’s why that info hasn’t been released about the Linwood case yet. Not until we get a handle on it at least.”