“ I told you, Mr. Whistler doesn’t live in Bricker’s Bowl, but he does v sit on occasion. I don’t know about any cult. ‘Children of Twilight’? That sounds crazy. Whistler’s a nice man, Agent Savich, wouldn’t hurt a soul. I believe he sells cars over in Haverhill. Why do you want to see him?”
“I want to talk to him about his cult you’ve never heard about,” Savich said.
“I tell you I don’t know about any Children of Twilight cult. Don’t you government types have anything better to do than harass car salesmen? Yeah, that’s what he does—sells those fancy German cars. Caldicot Whistler has nothing to do with a cult. Who claimed he did?”
Savich leaned forward a bit, his voice confiding. “Actually, Sheriff, the FBI knows just about everything we need to. I’m surprised that you, a law enforcement officer, haven’t bothered finding out about them, or think the FBI wouldn’t. On the other hand, you’ve been stuck in this valley a long time—don’t bother with TV or newspapers, right? Now, what’s Caldicot Whistler’s address?”
“We got TV, newspapers, computers, even People magazine.” Sheriff Cole wanted to kill this asshole or at least hurt him bad, and it showed. He also wanted to scratch at the itchy rash around his middle because the heavy leather belt dug into his flesh. That didn’t help. As for the girl with all her red hair and white skin, her long fingers flirt-ing with that SIG, he’d like to introduce her to other sorts of things he liked—a little bowling, a little love, a little pain.
He wondered if she knew what to do with that powerful weapon so close to her fingers. His two deputies were more than likely already over at Kandra’s Kafe chowing down on “All the Tortilla Chips You Can Eat,” today’s special. When Doreen had called him, he’d almost not come by, thinking about all those chips and the big bean burrito waiting for him. He could always count on Kandra to come through with the food when his wife was in one of her moods.
Stupid lost tourist who needed some hassling, that’s what he’d thought. And now this. Now he had two FBI agents on his hands, this big guy whose nose needed to be broken, and the woman, probably the guy’s girlfriend. He could just pull them behind the gas station but it was too big a risk. The woman had already called the damned director.
How could the FBI possibly know about Blessed and Whistler? He remembered that sheriff calling him about Blessed from somewhere in the mountains back in Virginia. He must have called the FBI. Damnation.
The fed had asked him a question—oh, yeah, about Whistler. He said, the hot rage burning the air between them, “You’ll have to ask Blessed for Whistler’s address. I don’t know it. I never knew it, you got me?”
“Not yet, but I’m beginning to think I probably will,” Savich said easily, and walked straight at the sheriff, making him hop to the side.
Sherlock saw the flash of rage in the sheriff’s eyes when he realized he’d been outsmarted, and tried not to smile. They watched the sheriff walk inside the Quik Mart and lean close in to speak to Doreen. They waited. After only about a minute he came out, put sunglasses on his nose, climbed into his truck, and peeled out. She arched an eyebrow.
Savich said, “Thanks for calling Director Mueller for me.”
“You’re more than welcome. He was right there, as if he’d been waiting for me to call him.”
“I must say, you sure got a hold of him fast. I’m impressed.”
“And so you should be. We’re off to see Grace and Shepherd?”
“Doreen said Grace wasn’t here either,” Savich said. “She could have been blowing me off—we’ll find out when we get to the Back-mans’.”
Savich stared after the black truck. “Do you know, I don’t think Sheriff Cole and I are going to be best friends.”
Sherlock said, “He’s afraid of the Backmans, and he hates you all the way to his steel-tipped boots. He really wants to kick your butt, Dillon, big-time.”
Savich quirked an eyebrow at her. “Do you think that might be fun?”
“Yeah, for you.”
Savich drove down Main Street, only two blocks long, past its short row of businesses, from the Intimate Apparel boutique to Higgins Bar on the corner, with its neon flashing Dos Equis signs, to Polly’s Dry Cleaners right next door. He stopped when he saw a little boy on his bike and asked him where the Backmans lived.
The boy, who was missing two front teeth, gave him a big grin and leaned close. “My ma doesn’t like me to go anywhere near where the spooks live,” he said, and pointed east.
“Why do you call them spooks?”
The boy said, “Everybody knows they’re spooks, but my ma says I’m not supposed to talk about them. She won’t admit it, but I think she’s scared of them.”
“Why do you think that’s true?”
The boy frowned over Savich’s left shoulder. “Whenever she and my dad are talking about them, they whisper.”
“Got you. Do you ever see the Backmans in town? Blessed, Grace Mrs. Backman?”
“Miz Backman sometimes talks to Dolly down at Fresh Fish Filet— that’s our restaurant, you know. Ma doesn’t like to eat there, says the fish is off sometimes, whatever that means.”
A gold mine of information. Savich said, “What do your parents do here?”
“My dad—he’s Reverend Halpert; he’s the preacher at the First Pilgrims Baptist Church. He’s always saying we’re lucky to have more members than Father Michael at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Mi-chael tells my dad he’s a heretic and laughs. Dad tells him he might be a heretic, but we have better potluck suppers. Catholics can’t make good potato salad, he tells Father Michael, and then he laughs too.”
“Do the Backmans go to your church?”
“No, they’re Catholics, but they donate money to us anyways. Lots, I heard my dad say.”
“What’s your name?”
“Taylor.”
“Well, Taylor, I’m Dillon Savich. You’ve been a big help. Go buy yourself an ice cream. I saw Elmo’s Thirty Flavors. Are they good?”
“Oh, wow, thanks, mister. The triple-fudge chocolate’s the best.” The dollar bill disappeared in Taylor’s pocket and he’d pedaled half-way to the ice-cream shop by the time Savich slid back into the Camry. Taylor yelled over his shoulder, “Elmo’s really got thirty-three flavors, I counted them! Thanks again, mister!”
“Spooks, hmmm,” Sherlock said as Savich pulled away from the curb. “Cute kid. So Mama’s afraid of the Backmans?”
“So it appears,” Savich said, and gave a nod toward a couple of old geezers who appeared to be playing checkers in front of The Genesis Spirit, the lettering stenciled in gold against black glass.
“Wonder what that’s all about?” Sherlock said.
“There’s a little sign beneath. Looks like it’s a tarot card and palm-reading place. I wonder how a town this size can support them?”
“We’ll ask Mrs. B.,” Sherlock said, and gave a little wave to the two checkers players, who seemed more interested in them than in their game.
41
THE DRIVEWAY TO THE Backmans’ house was long and graveled, curving first around two enormous oak trees, then threading between wildly blooming red rhododendron bushes. Oaks and maples lined the sides, full branches forming a lush canopy overhead. It was a royal approach to the palace.
The house was set in the best spot in the valley, at the eastern end of the bowl. It glistened beneath the hot sun like a wedding cake, lavishly decorated with blue and green accent colors. The house was surrounded by thick stands of oak trees. The front yard was beautifully manicured, with undulating green lawns and small yews lining flower beds filled with azaleas, petunias, and fuchsia. Rosebushes and jasmine trekked up the sides of the house on trellises. It was extravagant and romantic and utterly unexpected in a valley like Bricker’s Bowl.
Savich’s first thought was, Where is the cemetery?
“Wowza,” Sherlock said, and whistled. “Would you look at that place, Dillon. I didn’t get the impression of anything this grand from Joanna. She s
aid it was a mansion and left it at that. Would you look at the accent colors—those dark blues and greens are gorgeous. I don’t think I’ve seen more colors on the Painted Ladies in San Francisco.”
The place gave Savich a headache. It was too big, too in-your-face, just too much, period, except for all the flowers. He particularly liked the iceberg roses with white blossoms so thick they looked to weigh down the bushes.
He parked the Camry in the driveway leading to the six-car garage, behind a new dark blue Cadillac that matched the blue on the house trim. Were there more cars inside? And if there were, then why had Blessed borrowed an SUV to drive to Titusville?
Sherlock said, “The Caddy looks like Mrs. Backman’s wheels, I’d say, so hopefully she’s home. Any idea where the cemetery is?”
He gave her a quick smile. “Probably in the back. We’ll get to it.”
“You know, Dillon, this place is incredible, the flowers look like they’re on steroids, the grounds are lush and neat as a pin—it creeps me out.”
They walked up the ten deep-set wooden steps onto a wide veranda with an inviting porch swing, white rattan table, and four matching rattan chairs, the cushions the same blue and green of the house trim. It was blessedly cool on the porch, a breeze coming from the west.
Beautiful Italian ceramic pots filled with overflowing azaleas and petunias and other flowers Savich couldn’t identify hung from lacy black wrought-iron hangers, each set precisely two feet apart.
“The flowers,” Sherlock said. “I wonder what Mrs. Backman uses to get them so glorious? Maybe some sort of spell or incantation?”
He laughed. “Our garden is just as spectacular.”
“I wish,” Sherlock said, and breathed in. “Even though I can smell the roses and jasmine giving off that lovely perfume, it still creeps me out. I don’t know why.”
“You know too much about the residents.”
The door opened before they could knock. The proverbial little old lady in a flowered cotton housedress stepped out in beaded mules, her sturdy legs bare. She looked like a benign grandmother, fluffy white hair done up in an old-style knot on the top of her head, pearl studs in her drooping earlobes, a huge diamond on her ring finger There was nothing frail about her. They knew she was seventy-eight years old because Joanna had told them. Otherwise they could have only guessed because officially, Shepherd Backman didn’t exist. She didn’t have a birth certificate, a Social Security number, a driver’s license, or a recorded marriage license. Her husband had filed taxes in his name alone. Blessed filed now, showing a yearly income of about forty-five thousand dollars from driving a delivery truck, this verified by a manager of a local mailing distribution company who had been paid off at least that much. Or maybe Blessed simply stymied him every year at tax time.
Mrs. Backman said nothing, merely stared at them, not moving, her pale brown eyes darting from one to the other. They came to rest on Savich. “Who are you, young man, and what do you want?” Her voice didn’t sound like it belonged to an old lady. It was deep, on the gruff side, as if she’d smoked for many years, and had authority, the voice of a person who always drove the bus she rode in. Savich wagered that Blessed, who was utterly terrifying, bowed to her orders without hesitation.
Savich smiled at the old woman and held out his creds. “I’m Agent Dillon Savich, FBI, and this is Agent Lacey Sherlock.”
She studied his creds, gave them back, then held out a surprisingly youthful hand to Sherlock, who placed her own creds in her wide palm. Her fingernails were dirty. From gardening? Or maybe from digging up graves?
She studied Sherlock’s ID for a very long time. Finally she handed the shield back. “Now I know who you are. What do you want?”
“We would like to speak to you and your son; Grace, since Blessed isn’t here.”
“Neither is Grace.”
At her words, Savich went on full alert. He smiled at her. “Where Grace?”
“I imagine he’s with his brother, since they left together. They’re rarely apart, those two.”
“Do you know where they went, Mrs. Backman?”
“My boys are all grown up, Agent Savich. They come and go as they please. I’m only their mother. I’m always the last to know.”
Yeah, right, Sherlock thought.
“Excuse me a moment, please,” Savich said, nodded to Sherlock, and walked to the end of the veranda. He called Ethan’s cell. Ethan answered on the second ring. Savich said, “Grace is in Titusville. Evidently both he and Blessed went to fetch Autumn. I don’t know what to expect from him, Ethan, but he’s close by, and maybe as dangerous as his brother. Maybe they work together or Blessed uses Grace in some way to help him focus. Remember you told me when Ox was stymied, he sounded like himself, only not quite? Was it Blessed’s voice?”
“He didn’t sound all that different, but what he said and how he said it, that wasn’t Ox. You’re thinking it might have been Grace’s voice?”
“That sounds so bizarre it gives me a headache even to think about it. More likely Blessed does it all by himself, but the fact is, we don’t know for sure. But Grace is there, so take care.”
When Savich walked back he heard Sherlock say, “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Backman. The blue and green accent colors are perfect, and show an amazing attention to detail. They draw you right in. And the flowers—I like to garden myself.”
“Thank you,” said Shepherd Backman. She didn’t bend at the praise of her home or gardens, nor did she budge from where she stood, blocking the front-door entrance. Well, maybe she’d slathered it on a bit too thick, Sherlock thought. She wanted to tell the old crone that even though it looked well-kept, the place still creeped her out, just to see what she’d say.
Savich picked it up. “We wondered where all the money came from to build and maintain this lovely property. Your husband’s dead, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, a mugger got to him outside Harrah’s in Reno on November seventeenth, 1999, killed him dead.”
“Your husband gambled?”
“Well, yes, he spent a good deal of time in the casinos. He was a man of many talents, Agent Savich. I have little knowledge of his financial dealings, but he always provided well for us. I built this house from the legacy he left.”
Not quite the story you told Joanna, Savich thought.
Shepherd said, “The damned mugger took all Theodore’s money too after he whacked him on the head, money Theo would have wired to me the next morning, nine o’clock on the dot. The local police were useless. If our own Sheriff Cole had been in charge, they would have found the murdering little pissant and hung him.”
Now this was quite an outpouring.
Sherlock said, “That’s a long time to go without an influx of cash, Mrs. Backman. Has Blessed been providing for you since then, stymie-ing your local bank manager, for example, to replenish your checking accounts and your investment portfolio, or the car dealer to get you that new Cadillac? Incidentally the Caddy sure matches the blue ac-cent well.”
Shepherd showed no reaction; she remained poised, well in control. Maybe she’d paled a little bit? No, unfortunately Savich didn’t think so. She was a tough old duck.
shepherd said matter-of-factly, “Blessed doesn’t stymie for money in Bricker’s Bowl. That wouldn’t be right. We would not take from our neighbors. Those huge Mob-run casinos are a different matter entirely.”
Sherlock said, “I would very much like to see the inside of your lovely home, Mrs. Backman.”
“Most people would.”
“May we come in?”
They could see that Shepherd Backman desperately wanted to show off her masterpiece, garner more envy and praise. But should she keep out the FBI agents or appear to cooperate? She was obvi-ously torn about that. They could see her wheels spinning—let the enemy in or not?
“Very well, but I won’t show you all the house, it’s too big. You may see the living room. Then you will leave.”
42
SAVICH A
ND SHERLOCK followed her inside to an immense oak parquet entrance hall. There were fresh flowers in a huge pink vase on an antique table, an ornate Victorian mirror hanging over it, both looking as if they were straight out of Buckingham Palace. An antique umbrella stand, a grouping of several paintings—and then the Victoriana stopped. They stared at four paintings that were raw and elemental, painfully modern. Their constant subject was storm clouds churning water, and black rocks. In each, there appeared to be per-son drowning, pale arms flailing, mouth open in a scream. A terrifying glimpse into the artist’s soul?
“Incredible paintings; who’s the artist?” Savich asked.
“They are incredible, aren’t they? My son Grace painted them. I believe they are museum-quality.”
“Is this a common theme for Grace?”
“I suppose you’re wondering if Grace nearly drowned in a storm? It’s called artistic rendering, it’s a statement of the powers and forces beyond a mortal’s control.” She smirked at both of them, there was no missing it. She turned on her heel and they followed her into the first room on the right, dominated by a Carrera marble fireplace with an imposing portrait of an elderly gentleman above it. The look in his pale eyes was happily mad. It had to be Theodore Backman, her dead husband.
Mrs. Backman walked spry and straight, the cotton housedress falling straight to her calves, her mules sliding over the beautiful polished oak floor. She pointed to an authentic Victorian settee.
They sat, watched her ease into a high-backed chair opposite them. She looked complacently around the large room. “It took five years to build this house and decorate it the way I wanted it. It is now perfect. But my sons, Blessed and Grace, have no interest in anything other than the pork chops on their plates and their nightly dessert of strawberry cheesecake, made for them by Marge at Phelps’s Bakery every day.” She waved her hand around her. “This lovely house, all the flowers, the antiques, it’s all wasted on them. It is not right nor fair. I have asked them what they plan for it when I’m dead.”
“And what did they say?”
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