by Holly Lisle
"Well. Birra will arrive before twilight to help you ready yourself. And I will take my leave until this evening. I have many duties to which I must yet attend."
He turned and vanished down the hallway, walking too quickly.
Molly stared after him. The guard who had the duty at her door watched him leave, too, then turned to Molly and slowly, slowly, bowed his head until it nearly touched the floor. Then, without a word, he closed the door between the two of them and bolted it shut again.
Molly didn't begin to know what to think.
Cat Creek
Eric was feeling the weight of the all-nighter watching Lauren when the phone rang. He glanced at the clock that hung across from his desk—5 A.M.
"There's a dead body in the swamp…floating! I was going out to fish, and…oh, my God, the boat bumped into her, and I didn't know what I hit and I looked with my flashlight to see and she was under the water, looking right up at me!"
Eric was suddenly awake. "This…Tom? You sound like Tom Watson."
"It's me, Sheriff. Oh, God, she was just floating there with her eyes all wide and her hair tangled in a tree branch that was hanging into the water, and she looked like she was reaching out to me, only she was dead."
"Breathe, Tom. Calm down."
A moment in which he could hear only sobbing and panting on the other end of the phone. Then, "I'm sorry, Sheriff. I'll be all right."
"Good. Did you recognize the body?"
"It's Debora. Debora Bathingsgate."
The news hit him like a gut punch. His skin was crawling and covered with goose bumps and he had the awful feeling that someone had just walked over his grave. His ear clamped to the phone, he started scrambling through the drawers of his desk for papers, his evidence-collection kit, and film for the camera. "Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn, godDAMN…Give me the coordinates."
"A mile east of town on 79, turn right on Sally Brown Road, right again on the second dirt road, straight back to the swamp." Tom hiccuped.
"What in the Sam Hill was she doing out in the goddamned swamp?"
"I don't know."
"What were you doing out in the swamp so early in the morning?" He tugged on a shirt, started buttoning it. "Shit, we're out of film. I'm going to have to call Pete in here to mind the store. You…where are you right now?"
"At the pay phone at Sweeney's Used Car Parts on 79."
"Get your ass back to the swamp and wait for me there. Stay in your car, don't touch anything, don't move anything, and keep your car doors locked and your head down. If this is an accident, fine. If it isn't…well, I don't want you being somebody's next target."
"Yessir," Tom said. "I'll be there."
He called Pete next.
"Get up, get in here. We've got a floater in the swamp, and you're going to have to baby-sit our guests."
"Son of a bitch."
"Pretty much my thoughts, too."
"Who is it? Any idea?"
"Debora Bathingsgate."
"The Yankee."
"She's Canadian. Or was. But, yeah. Her."
"What the hell was she doing out in the swamp?"
"That's what we get to find out."
"Give me ten."
"Anything past five and I'll kick your ass when you get in here. And bring me some film for the camera."
Pete made it to the station in just under four minutes.
"Anything I need to know about them?" he asked, nodding down the hallway.
"They slept all night. Still asleep, actually. I did paperwork half the night and read that damned book of yours the other half. You got to bring in some better books. I wouldn't mind a little Zane Grey."
Pete laughed softly. "Me either. Kind of liked him."
"I've already called the coroner. All you have to do is keep everyone out of the back." Eric sighed. "Keep our, ah, packages safe. Don't say anything about what has happened to anyone you see. And as far as you know, you're all alone in the station. If that means you have to shoo people out to keep 'em from hearing the kid, then you do it. You got me?"
Pete was quiet for a minute. "Seems a bit odd, but, yeah, I can manage that."
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
* * *
She didn't look too bad when they pulled her out. Carlin Breedy, the coroner, said she'd only been dead for two hours, three tops. She looked pale. Blue. No swelling, no signs that fish or anything else had been at her. Carlin had a thermometer sticking where thermometers had no business being.
"Real fresh," Carlin said to Eric. Eric was pegging off the site, in spite of the fact that Tom and Willie and even June Bug were milling around and had already tromped all over it. There might be some evidence he could salvage. "I'd say young Tom didn't miss her going under by much. Wonder how she got out here."
Eric nodded, and looked over at Tom, deep in animated conversation with Willie and June. Headlights flashed and bumped down the dirt road that led in, and Mayhem's car skidded into the tall grass. The rest would be along soon enough, he figured.
"Cause of death drowning?"
"Looks like…from first glance here." Carlin was shining his flashlight on the girl's body. "But I don't much like those." He pointed to several darkly mottled spots on either side of the throat. "Those look like finger marks to me. Unless I miss my guess, boy, somebody had a big hand in helping her drown. Be real interesting to get a look at her lungs."
"Why?"
"See if it's good brown swamp tea in 'em, or clear town tap."
"She was murdered."
"Sure as the sun will rise this morning."
Carlin was on one knee, probing the back of Debora's head. "Funny," he said. "Back of her skull's all spongy. Somebody gave her a good lick." He stared up at Eric. Under his breath, he said, "But if they dented her head, she wouldn't have much fight in her when they dumped her in the water. So why the bruises on her throat?"
Eric's response was as quiet as Carlin's comment. "You get an autopsy for me from Laurinburg, you hear? Put a rush on it."
"I'll do it. You're going to get some funny findings."
"You think?"
"Bet on it. I'm guessing those bruises on the throat weren't supposed to show up."
"Don't mention them. Not to anyone."
"Never saw a thing."
"Good. And neither did I."
Tom, June Bug, Willie, and Mayhem were walking through the grass toward Eric. He waved them back, told Carlin, "Cover her up and get her out of here," and headed over to talk to his colleagues.
"What happened?" Willie wanted to know.
"Hard to say until we get an autopsy. She might have drowned, she might not have."
"What was she doing out here?"
Eric shook his head. "Can't say."
"Can't, or won't?" June Bug wanted to know.
Eric frowned. "Right now, can't. When I know something, then it's won't. This is sheriff business, and it isn't Sentinel business unless it is. You know what I mean?"
He looked from one bleak, haunted face to the next, and said, "Everybody but Tom go on home. We've got problems here, but we've got bigger problems through the gates." He rubbed his temples. He felt sick inside. "How many people you call, Tom?"
"All of us I could get. Granger didn't answer. Neither did Jimmy Norris. But I think Norris said something about having a date last night, so he might have still been out tomcatting around."
"Shit. Why the hell did you call everybody? Now I got footprints covering my tracks, and bent grass all over the place, and Willie's goddamned cigarette butts on the ground where they have no business being, and I'm going to have a time sorting out what's evidence and what isn't."
"She's one of ours. I figured they ought to know."
"You figure one of them might have been the one who killed her? Your little party out here just made it easier for the killer to keep on hiding."
"Maybe she just drowned."
"Not with the back of her head bashed in she didn't."
T
om's already-gray face went sheet white. "Oh, Lord."
Eric was still furious. "So I can figure on damn near everybody else showing up out here before I leave?"
"Don't reckon so," Tom said. "Most everybody had to go in to work—they said they'd hear what they needed to know from you."
"Somebody with a little sense. Go wait by your car. I'm going to talk to the coroner for a minute, and get everyone else out of here. Then you and I need to have a talk."
When the other three Sentinels were gone, the ambulance arrived. Eric walked over to Carlin to watch the attendant load the body into the back. "Keep an eye open for anything strange, will you?"
"Already found something." Carlin turned his body so that neither the ambulance attendants nor Tom could see what he was doing, and passed Eric a piece of paper. "Found that in her pocket."
Eric looked at it. Carlin had unfolded the soggy sheet. The writing was still perfectly legible.
Meet me at my house at midnight. I know who the traitor is, and have proof.—Lauren Dane.
"Holy shit," Eric whispered.
"That's what I thought, too."
"If anyone asks, you didn't see this, either, all right? Put it in your report as an effect found on the body, but until I can release information, this is between the two of us. It's…dynamite." Eric slipped the note into an evidence bag, quickly labeled it, and slid it into the pocket of his coat. "And you tell me why the hell some fool would be out fishing in the swamp on a morning this goddamned cold, anyway," he muttered.
Carlin said, "You got a mess here, son. I'll get you your information as fast as I can. Meantime…well, you watch your back, you hear. This has the feel of something mighty nasty to me."
Eric nodded. "I'll do that."
When the ambulance, Debora, and Carlin pulled out onto the dirt road, Eric strolled back to Tom. "All right. What happened?"
"Brought my boat out here early. I wanted to get in a few hours of fishing before I had to be at work."
"Why would you want to go fishing in this cold?"
"I had the taste for some pan-fry. I don't mind a little cold—my daddy and I used to fish the swamp in cold weather all the time. Fish you get taste better than the ones you catch in warm weather."
"And you were due in to work when?"
"Three this afternoon. I figured I could get a nice mess of cats and clean 'em and freeze 'em and fry up a plate of them for lunch and still have time to shower and shave and not smell like dead whale by the time I went in."
"So you came out here with your boat and…what?"
"Put it in right over there." He pointed to a well-worn low spot in the tall grass—the spot was a popular put-in point for any number of swamp fishermen.
Eric nodded. "And?"
"Started to row out toward the cypress knobs—fish like to collect around the base of those, and you can do pretty good with a jar of worms and maybe a couple of poppers."
"And…?"
Tom looked queasy again. "Boat sort of thumped and skidded along something. You know how when you hit something solid you can feel it jar all the way through your bones, and when something hits you that isn't fixed in place, it sort of…slides along the boat. Nasty feeling."
"I know," Eric agreed.
"I got bumped by something big. Figure it wasn't a catfish—Lord knows I was hoping it wasn't a gator lost up our way, but in this weather I don't worry so much about gators. I flashed my light into the water and saw her staring up at me, her face under the water and her hair all fanned out. I pissed myself right then and there. Scared me so bad I damn near fell out of the boat."
Eric glanced at Tom's pants, flicked the flashlight on them for a better view, and looked up into Tom's eyes. "You go home to change before you call me?"
"No. After."
Eric considered the times involved, and nodded. Might have been possible, if only barely. Tom was known to stand on the gas pedal when he drove. "You knew who she was?"
"After a minute. She didn't look like herself, but after a minute, I could make out who she was."
"You try to pull her out?"
"Yes."
"Didn't make it."
"It took you and Carlin and me and that grappling hook you have to work her loose and fish her out of there into your boat. Don't know how you think I could have done that by myself. But I surely did try."
"I'm going to have to confiscate your boat," Eric said. "For evidence."
"What?"
"You're my best suspect right at the moment."
"The hell you say!"
"Didn't say I thought you did it—just that you were my best suspect. I'm sorry. You were sure in the wrong place at the wrong time—but until I have better evidence, I'm going to have to impound your boat."
Tom studied him, surprisingly calm for a man standing there under suspicion of murder. "Well…that's all right. You'll find some real evidence, I reckon. The innocent don't need to worry. But I have to tell you, I think it's pretty bad that I try to do the right damn thing, and now I'm going to be accused of killing her."
"You aren't accused of anything yet, Tom. I don't have an autopsy. I don't have any evidence. I haven't searched her body or her house or her car or listened to her answering machine or anything else. All I have is a corpse in a bag on its way to autopsy and the boy who found it way too soon after somebody dumped it in a swamp to hide it."
Tom stared at him. "You're not going to railroad me with this, are you, Eric? I know you got a lot on your mind—don't just decide I'm the easy answer to the smallest problem you got because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, you hear?"
"Never railroaded anyone yet," Eric said stiffly. "Sure nice to know how much you think of my work ethics." He shooed Tom toward his car. "Go home. I'll be in touch if I need you. Just don't leave town."
* * *
Eric spent his morning taking plaster castings of tire prints and footprints and everything else he could find from around the swamp, looking for any little thing that might be evidence. Then he drove over to Debora's apartment and let himself in. The place was lived-in messy—a few books piled in front of the worn sofa, one opened to a page and left facedown on the coffee table, a cup of coffee sitting half-finished beside it. But there were no signs of violence, no signs that anyone had been in the place who had no business being there. Eric lifted fingerprints from every questionable surface, but doubted that he'd get anything useful that way. When he was finished, he checked the answering machine. No messages. He looked through her closets, rummaged through her drawers, took both her diary and a stack of notebooks as evidence. He thought about the note that the coroner had found on her body.
That note made him sick to his stomach.
He went into her bedroom, found the full-length mirror bolted to her wall, and ran his fingertips across its surface lightly. The gate hummed softly.
But as he stood there, he had the gut-twisting certainty that he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up, and the metallic taste of fear filled his mouth. Wanting to flee at a dead run, he instead turned around nonchalantly and walked back to the kitchen, and dialed Willie's number. "Hey. Need you to come over to Debora's and shut down the gate here for me." He listened to Willie's weary grumbling for a moment, then said, "Really need to have it done right now. Things being the way they are, I don't want to leave one untended. If we get someone to take her place, you'll have to build a new one—but that just can't be helped. I don't know that we'll get someone else to fill her place…. Yeah. I'll be right here."
* * *
When he'd finished at Debora's he drove to the sheriff's station, filled Pete in on what they had to do, then worked out all the devious details. It took some orchestrating, but Eric made sure his ruse looked good. Pete, in one squad car, drove around to the back of Lauren's house while he pulled up in front driving the other. They both had their lights flashing. They had to make it a show—had to make it look good. Because someone was watchin
g.
When Pete was in position, Eric waited a minute longer, then walked slowly up the stairs to the front porch, loosened his gun in its holster, and rang the bell. He made sure anyone watching from the street could see the piece of paper he held in his left hand.
He rang the bell, and after a minute, Lauren came to the front door, holding her son in her arms. He showed her the paper, took her son away from her, and Pete came through the back of the house, carrying a box of stuff. That was, Eric thought, a nice touch. Pete put down the box, cuffed Lauren's hands in front of her. Jake started to cry and reach for his mama.
