by Vicki Lane
She leaned toward him. “A note? Birdie didn’t mention a note…what was in it? Did it say why the pastor killed himself?”
Phillip took his time answering, happy to have beaten Bernice’s boy for once. “Well now, that was the interesting part. It wasn’t so much a suicide note as a kind of confession. Let me see if I can remember how it went—it was kind of disjointed, but I guess if you’re on the brink of shoving an automatic in your mouth and spattering—sorry, sweetheart—I shouldn’t have—”
Her pained expression reminded him that she had actually seen and spoken with the pastor recently. Inwardly cursing his own ex-cop lack of sensibilities, he hurried on with the story.
“Anyway, it wasn’t so much a note as a kind of series of phrases—‘eleven years of agony and guilt…pay the price…she was willing…an accident…not right that no one knows…’ Stuff like that—nothing that made any sense but it was bagged as evidence. But what kept me busy all last night was the piece of the note that we picked up after they’d removed the body and Mac and I were having one last look around. It was just a scrap—a corner of the note that must have gotten torn off when Deputy Doofus stepped on it. The first part was all smudged and illegible—all we could make out were the words ‘in the silo at the old stand.’”
Chapter 14
The Silo
Friday, December 15
The what?” Elizabeth was staring at him, as if he’d suddenly begun to speak in tongues. Then recognition dawned. “Do you mean that old abandoned thing in the field next to the parking lot at the bridge? It hasn’t been used as a silo as long as I’ve been here—it doesn’t even have the little dome thing at the top they usually—”
“That’s the one.” Phillip stood and bent to add another log to the fire. “And I gotta say, going down into that sucker after dark is high on the list of things I don’t want to do again.” An involuntary shiver ran over him as he remembered the previous night.
“How are you with heights?”
As the ambulance, followed by the unit carrying the other two deputies, had disappeared down the rutted, hard-frozen dirt road that curled away from the sagging barn, Phillip had found himself the object of Mackenzie Blaine’s shrewd, assessing stare. The question was unexpected and Phillip’s reply was suitably cautious.
“Why? What kind of heights?”
“Oh, nothing major. Say about the height of that silo at the old stand.”
Phillip groaned. “You’re not thinking of…”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows and waited.
“You are thinking of…oh, man, it’s almost dark now!” Realizing that his objection was sounding regrettably like a whine, Phillip had switched to reason. “Listen, Mac, if there’s anything in that silo—I say if—don’t you reckon it could wait till morning?”
But Mackenzie was shaking his head and turning back toward his cruiser. “Morton’s note said ‘eleven years of guilt.’ And that letter I got, the one that disappeared off my desk, it was talking about a gang rape eleven years ago. Now”—the sheriff stopped in his tracks and turned to wag a gloved finger in Phillip’s direction “—that makes me wonder if maybe there isn’t a connection between whatever caused the late pastor to eat his gun and the accusation in the letter. It also makes me wonder why Lester was so damned clumsy handling that suicide note.”
The sheriff scowled. “If there’s a connection between the silo and that letter I got, then I want to make sure I get there first. All four of those clowns who were on the scene when we got here are deputies I inherited from the previous sheriff. And they had plenty of time to read that note before I got there—for all I know they could have set up that 10-80—a phony domestic disturbance call—to give them time to get to the silo first. But I’m hoping that’s not what happened.”
Abruptly Blaine stalked off to his car and Phillip hurried to catch up with him. “Mac, what the hell are you expecting to find?”
Mackenzie stopped, his glove resting on the door handle. “I have no idea, Hawk. Probably nothing. If I had reason to believe there was”—he pursed his lips “—anything significant, I’d be obliged to call in the SBI and let them handle it. But at this point, I have no reason to suspect there’s a…there’s anything in there. Matter of fact, this is probably nothing but a wild-goose chase, and you’re going to be completely justified in calling me six kinds of crazy. But if there’s anything at all in that silo that has to do with whatever it was went down eleven years ago, I want it to be us that find it.”
He opened the door. “Get in; time’s a-wastin’.”
Turning the ignition key, Mackenzie grinned. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The silo had glimmered palely in the fading light as they parked at the far end of the riverside park, deserted now, even by the Canada geese. As he followed the sheriff into the weedy field that surrounded the lonely concrete structure, Phillip looked back over his shoulder at the old stand on its ledge overlooking the park, the river, the bridge, and the deserted fields. The last rays of the sun, sliding behind the mountains beyond the river, were caught in the upper windows of the old building, momentarily giving the impression of blazing fire within, then blinking out and leaving the glass blank, as if the house had closed its eyes.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been down this way recently.” Blaine’s words floated back to him on the icy air. Phillip followed, trying to shake off the memory of Nola Barrett’s black-clad figure tumbling from the upper gallery of the old house.
“Maybe not recently, but in the past eleven years there have to have been kids climbing it like kids do, on a dare or—”
“Don’t think so, Hawk. Till just a year or so ago, this field was used for pasture—feller in the house down that way kept cattle here. And between the bull and the five-strand electric fence and the fact that the old boy just despised a trespasser—kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt—kids around here had to find some other way of working out their daredevil tendencies.”
The frozen vegetation around the base of the old silo was undisturbed, and a thin frosting of snow lay unblemished on the metal rungs that ran to the apex of the concrete cylinder. Phillip’s eyes traveled up the meager ladder, lingered at the open top, and then returned to Sheriff Mackenzie Blaine.
“I’ve got a real feeling that question about heights wasn’t just to make small talk. But there oughta be a way in around here…” Phillip began to circle the silo, then stopped, seeing the sheet metal that completely sealed off the rectangular opening.
Blaine called after him. “The old boy who kept the cattle here put that up years ago. Probably worried about a cow getting stuck in there. Once the cap was gone, I reckon the bottom got pretty boggy.”
Phillip pried at the edges of the rusted metal, but the heavy bolts securing it to the concrete wall wouldn’t budge. At last he abandoned the attempt and returned to Blaine. “Okay—so you want me to climb up that ladder—”
“Hawk, I’d do it myself if it weren’t for my right knee. It’s not back to full strength after the surgery. Still, if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll just have to—”
Phillip held up a hand. “Please, Mac, spare me. Did you bring a flashlight?”
But the sheriff was pulling something from his jacket pocket. “I’ve got you a headlamp right here. Free up your hands for climbing.”
With the air of one bestowing a medal, he arranged the elastic bands over Phillip’s watch cap. When the light was settled to his satisfaction, Blaine gave it a twist. An intense blue-white beam shot out, glancing off the nearby trees and momentarily making them look like photographic negatives.
Phillip swung his head from side to side, enjoying the ease with which he could pick out shadowy objects.
“Dammit, Hawk, watch where you point that thing!” The sheriff jumped back, an arm raised to shield his eyes. “How ’bout you use it to find your way up the ladder? The temperature’s gonna drop like a son-of-a-bitch, with night coming on.”
&n
bsp; The iron rungs of the ladder were mercifully sturdy. So far, anyway. Climbing steadily and carefully, his gloved hands testing each rung before trusting his weight to it, his booted feet feeling carefully for a firm purchase, Phillip made his way up the silo’s side at a stately pace. The main thing is not to look down.
And then he was at the top. Turning his head from side to side to relieve the growing tension in his neck and shoulders, he was startled and momentarily dizzied by the sight of the blue-white beam dancing crazily over the nearby leafless trees and the river beyond. Closing his eyes, he clung to the ladder, waiting for the feeling of nausea to subside.
“You okay, Hawk?” Blaine’s voice sounded very far away. How tall is this thing, anyway? It can’t be more than forty, fifty feet. Phillip tried to concentrate on breathing slowly. Get a grip.
He had gotten a grip and, calling down reassurances, laced with a little mild invective, had negotiated the tricky business of getting first one leg and then the other over the open top of the silo to begin the slow journey down.
“And you actually climbed right down into that old silo? At night? In the black dark?”
As he resumed his seat on the sofa, Elizabeth moved to sit beside him and he felt a tingle of pleasure at her incredulous gaze. Taking hold of her hand, he leaned back into the soft cushions, determined to make a good story of it.
“Well, I had a headlamp with a powerful beam, and before I started down, I took a good look at what was down there.”
He didn’t mention the sudden lurch his stomach had given as he stared down, far down into the core of the cylinder that echoed and magnified the clang of his boots on the ladder, amplifying even the sound of his breathing, coming faster and faster. He went on with his story, feigning matter-of-factness.
“From what I could see, the silo was about a third full of god knows what—old silage, leaves—just a bunch of gray-brown vegetable matter. And there was a weird musty, moldy kind of leathery smell—not awful, just not good.”
“So, did you find anything?” In the flickering light of the fire, her face was that of a child entranced by a ghost story—apprehension and excitement teetering in a delicate balance.
“From up at the top it didn’t seem like there was anything to find. But I kept on coming down the ladder. Then as I got closer to the bottom, I started to worry that all that leafy stuff would be like quicksand or something and I’d just sink into it. So when I got down to its level, I kept good hold of the ladder and eased one foot out onto the surface. The leafy part was about ankle deep but underneath there was a fairly firm footing—a little spongy and wet, but it could hold my weight.”
He described how he had shuffled cautiously around the edges of the cylinder and then, realizing that it would have to be done, had gone down on his hands and knees and slowly crawled round and round, tightening the circle to examine every inch of the compost-covered floor.
“I even took off my heavy gloves and put on some rubber ones Mac had given me.”
“Just in case,” the sheriff had said, and Phillip had been happy to have them as he thrust his fingers into the rotting leaf-duff and scanned the lower level, groping about for whatever it was that the dead man had felt was worth mentioning in his final words.
“And?” The big-eyed kid-around-a-campfire look was still on her face.
“Well, there I was, inching along, pushing the leaves to the side, and feeling around like some obsessed snail who’s lost a contact lens. I’ve got a pretty good rhythm going—sweep, feel, inch forward, sweep, feel, inch forward—and I’m thinking about how I’m going to get even with Mac, when all of a sudden my hand hits something different.”
The half-buried, brown-stained object that the last sweeping aside of the leaves had revealed was lying on its side, just inches from his face. The one exposed eye socket was filled with dirt and what looked like a beetle’s egg case. And though finding something of the sort was a possibility he’d considered, the sight had jolted him back onto his heels and he had let out a sudden, startled yelp that magnified and echoed within the concrete chamber.
Then, as his adrenaline level eased to normal, the shape of the skull registered.
“It’s a friggin’ deer! Mother of God, is this what the late rev felt guilty about—hunting out of season maybe?”
Snorting with disgust, he had grabbed at the forlorn relic to lift it out of the dirt, entertaining a fleeting notion of dropping the skull on Blaine’s head.
“And then, just when I’d wrenched this damn deer skull up out of the dirt, I saw what was underneath it—and it wasn’t deer bones. I didn’t touch anything but I could see enough to recognize part of a pelvic girdle—a human pelvic girdle.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and he saw that the little girl listening to a ghost story was gone. This was no longer delightful scary entertainment, her face said. This is death and tragedy and sorrow close to home. Tightening his arm around her, he hurried his tale to its conclusion.
“And that was it. I scrambled back up the ladder in record time and hollered down to Mac that we had remains. By the time I was back on the ground, he had the SBI on his cell.”
She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “The State Bureau of Investigation? How come?”
“Lizabeth, the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department is fairly limited in terms of investigative resources, and the sheriff always has the option of calling in the SBI. In a case like this, it’s more like an obligation. Morton’s death was fairly straightforward—ninety-nine percent of the time, a bullet wound of that sort is suicide—self-inflicted lead poisoning. But this—remains that may be linked to a suicide, that may have been hidden all of eleven years—that’s going to take some expertise. Hell, they’ll likely have to figure out the cause of death for the deer too.”
He could feel the shudder that swept over her. She bowed her head and he had to strain to catch the words she whispered.
“They’ll have to find out about her as well…the girl…the one the pastor said was willing.”
Chapter 15
Light in a Dark Season
Sunday, December 17
Elizabeth watched as Ben and Phillip coaxed the monster tree through the cramped angles of the mudroom into the living room. The giant fir brought with it a whiff of cold, a spicy fragrance, and an ineffable feeling of the wild out-of-doors that completely vanquished the cozy after-breakfast aromas of coffee and sausage. The two men maneuvered the freshly sawn butt of the tree into a washtub in the corner of the room and wrapped a length of strong black rope once around the trunk halfway up, securing the ends to small hooks in nearby window and door frames.
When the washtub was filled with water, Elizabeth fixed a critical eye on the tree. “I’m not crazy about the way that rope looks but ever since the dogs knocked the tree over one year, I play it safe. And the branches mostly hide the rope, and once all the ornaments are on—”
“It’ll be fine, Aunt E, just like it always is.” Ben looked at his watch. “Sorry, I’ve gotta get down and do the watering. Phillip, I guess you’re elected to help get the lights up. There’s a ladder out back and—Aunt E, what time are the girls getting here?”
“Around three—Rosemary stopped and spent the night in Asheville with Laurel. She said they had some last-minute shopping to do, then they’re coming out together. You and Amanda come on over around three and we’ll get started on the dreaded cranberry-popcorn chain.”
By two-thirty the multiple strands of tiny white lights were in place—on the tree, around the dining room windows, across the mantelpiece, and winding up the steep stairway to the loft guest room. Five fat evergreen sheaves—mixtures of yew, juniper, fir, and holly cut that morning—hung at intervals from the stair’s banister rail, each adorned with a red satin bow. More branches had been laid on the mantelpiece, and an assortment of old brass candlesticks with red candles nestled among the fragrant greenery.
“I pop the corn a little ahead of time. If it sits a while and cool
s off, it doesn’t shatter so easily when you try to run a needle through it.” Elizabeth set down a huge stainless steel bowl, brimming with fluffy white popcorn, between two bowls of fresh cranberries that were in readiness on the chest in front of the sofa. Nearby was a spool of heavy-duty thread, several pairs of scissors, and a piece of paper pierced by an assortment of long, stout needles.
Phillip was studying the contents of the bowl with an apprehensive eye.
“What’s the deal here? I’ve never done this kind of thing. Sandy always decorated the tree herself—it was a different motif, as she called it, every year. But I don’t remember anything like this.”
“The motif here is of the traditional persuasion, I guess—old-timey, country, whatever. We use the cranberry-popcorn chain, red satin bows, candy canes, and all the ornaments that have accumulated over the years, from ones I made when Sam and I were first married to the ones the kids made at school and even ones I inherited from Gramma—the girls would have a fit if they didn’t see their old favorites.”
She moved to the old trunk at the end of the love seat, gathered up the books that rested on its wood-slatted top, and opened the trunk lid. “The decorations are all in here but the chain has to get done and on the tree before we hang the rest.”
Elizabeth watched as Phillip picked up the paper of needles and pulled one free, holding it between his thumb and forefinger and looking at it as if it were some curious new invention.
“Well, okay, give me some string and I’ll get started. It’s gonna take hours to use up all this popcorn.” His face was a study in determination and she felt a surge of tenderness at his willingness to join in this admittedly tedious tradition.
“Not yet, not till the kids get here.” Gently, she took the darning needle from him and returned it to the paper. “You’ll see, with six of us working, it’ll go really fast. Let’s take a little walk while we wait for them.”
