Vision of Darkness (D.I.E. Squadron Book 1)

by Tonya Burrows

  Let her pontificate to the patrons of Mae’s about the evil sheriff. It’d keep her out of his hair for a while at least, but he had no doubt she’d be back. He’d give Richard Mallory a call later today to smooth the waters, but he doubted anything would come of Helen’s threat. As much as she liked to make everyone think she had sway in her husband’s political affairs, it was a load of hooey.

  Wishing for a cigar, Forbes returned to his desk as Rhett tapped on the open door and stepped into the office. “Sheriff?”

  “Oh, don’t tell me. Kids are smashing mailboxes on Milbridge Road again?”

  “Nah. All’s quiet for now.” Rhett shut the door. “Is Kevin really missing?”

  “So says the queen bee. I know he’s your friend. Did he mention anything about taking off for a couple days?”

  “Except for a passing hi, I haven’t talked to him in weeks. He’s been moody.”

  Forbes tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth, making a tsk sound. “About what I thought. He’ll be back. But, to please her highness, if you could go to Buzzy’s, ask around a bit, write up a snazzy looking report, I’d appreciate it. It’d give me something to show her next time she comes barreling in here.”

  “Sure,” Rhett said, but didn’t move.

  Forbes waited. When the deputy said nothing for several more seconds, he prompted, “Is there something else on your mind, son?”

  “Alex Locke.”

  Should’ve known. “What about him?”

  “Where do I start?” Rhett made a sound halfway between disgusted huff and irritated growl. “He didn’t so much as look at a phone when we had him in the cage, but then he’s got a hotshot lawyer getting him out. Now I’m hearing he’s got another friend hanging around the lighthouse, a big Indian guy.”

  “We can’t arrest him for that and, like that fancy lawyer of his said, we have nothing else on him.”

  “He attacked me.”

  “You pushed him first.”

  Rhett opened his mouth. Forbes cut him off with an impatient gesture. “It’s not worth pursuing and you know it. We have bigger problems, like that missing girl. Her family’s whipped up about it again, saying how her cell phone last broadcasted a signal here in town. If they get to shouting loud enough, the media will notice and it’ll be a circus like it was last year.”

  Rhett drew in a breath through his nose. “Where did they get the idea to check her cell phone?”

  Forbes raised a brow. “They’ve hired a private investigator. A good one.” He sat forward and linked his hands across the top of his desk. “Listen, there’s no doubt in my mind Locke’s hiding something, but damn if I can put my finger on it.”

  “We need to dig deeper into his background,” Rhett said with a note of command in his voice that always made Forbes’s teeth grind. He used that tone on purpose. A reminder that he had his eye on the position of sheriff and that, in his lofty opinion, Forbes was merely a placeholder.

  “Maybe. Can’t spare the manpower though.” And won’t sign off on overtime hours for you to foster a grudge. Forbes spread his hands in the same that’s-how-it-is gesture he’d used on Helen. “Sorry, Rhett. In the scheme of things, Locke’s small change.”

  ***

  Pru had to work.

  After trying to convince her to take another day off and failing, Alex brooded through a cold cereal breakfast by himself at the kitchen table. The house, creaking at the onslaught of a blustery fall day, felt uncomfortable around him—not because it was empty, save for him and Triton, but because it didn’t feel empty.

  The little hairs on his neck lifted with a chill and Alex gave up on his cereal. He took his bowl to the sink, rinsed it and left it in the dish drainer, then leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. Sitting on the floor at his feet, Triton tilted his head to one side, ears perked as if to ask, now what?

  “Beats me, pooch.”

  Going into town was out of the question, especially since he couldn’t keep the persona of Alex Locke in place anymore and kept slipping back into his own skin. Best to avoid the sheriff, Rhett Swithin, Helen Mallory and everyone else unless he wanted to nurse a splitting headache by the time he got home. And even though he could feel Pru’s presence yanking him toward the diner moth-to-flame style, it was probably a good idea to avoid her as well, give them both time to cool off after the incident this morning.

  Which still bothered the hell out of him. Not only did her parting shot about his crucifix still sting more than he cared to admit, but there also had to be a logical reason for the exploding mirror. He just couldn’t figure one out.

  Goaded, Alex pushed away from the counter and headed for the foyer to take another look. Bits of glass still clung to the frame, fracturing his image as he braced his hands on the chiffonier and leaned in close. Had to be a slug here somewhere. Only thing that made sense. Mirrors didn’t randomly explode—or, hey, maybe they did. He’d believe in spontaneous mirror combustion before Pru’s ghost story any day.

  Alex sighed and let his head drop forward out of pure exhausted frustration. Photos, knocked aside in the heat of the moment this morning, now lay in neat piles on top of the cabinet, waiting to return to their rightful spots. The top of the stack caught his attention: Wade Putnam standing on the bow of a boat with one brawny arm slung over his brother’s shoulders and the other around a man with a bushy white beard and pale eyes.

  Cappy.

  Alex picked up the photo. The nickname suited John Putnam Sr., who looked salty and grizzled, as if he’d be right at home at the helm of a ship. Either that, or on a package of fish sticks at the grocery store. He had a stubborn face and a glint of humor in his eyes. Alex could almost imagine the guy’s laugh, harsh and funny like a seagull’s chortle, and didn’t believe for one second this man would kill himself. He’d go out in a blaze of glory before taking the coward’s way. It just didn’t make sense.

  “What happened to you, Cappy?”

  A chill raked Alex’s spine. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement, shifting shadows in the stairway. Cool air brushed the skin of his bare back like the caress from an icy hand. He turned.

  Nothing. The stairway was empty.

  Triton whimpered. He patted the dog’s side and replaced the photo on the chiffonier as a knock sounded at the front door.

  “Jesus.” Alex nearly jumped out of his skin and Triton barked twice at the figure on the other side of the glass before scampering into the living room to hide behind the couch.

  Oh, yeah, he was a good watch dog all right.

  Alex drew a breath to calm his pounding heart and flipped the lock on the door, fully expecting to see Nick and instead coming face to face with John Putnam Jr.

  John Jr.’s smile froze. “Uh, I was looking for Pru.”

  “She’s at work.”

  “Oh.” He shifted on his feet, gestured vaguely over his shoulder toward the carriage house. “She knew I was coming over to go through Wade’s—” His voice broke. “I, uh, need the key.”

  Alex stepped back to let him cross the threshold. “I don’t know where she keeps it.”

  “I’ll find it.” He started toward the living room, then stopped. He turned back and met Alex’s gaze with direct, bloodshot eyes. “Just so you know, I don’t believe you had anything to do with what happened to my brother.”

  “Thanks.” Alex shut the front door, thought of the photograph of Cappy and his sons. He hated to cause the guy more grief, but a question nagged at the back of his mind, demanding an answer. “Hey, John. Do you think what happened to Wade has any connection to your father?”

  John Jr. stiffened. He turned away quickly, hiding his expression, but Alex saw the flash of regret. “No. Dad killed himself.”

  Right. Alex watched him search the living room. He found the extra key to the carriage house in a clay pot on the mantel over the fireplace and hustled back to the door, still avoiding Alex’s gaze. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Alex waited until John Jr.
disappeared inside the carriage house before closing the door. He strode over to the chiffonier again and picked up the photo.

  Every instinct he possessed screamed that Cappy’s only surviving son was hiding something. He either killed his old man or—and Alex thought this possibility was more likely—he was covering for the murderer.

  He’d give John Jr. some time alone in the carriage house, he decided. Then the two of them were going to have a little chat.

  CHAPTER 19

  John Jr. felt tears building up behind his eyes again and didn’t bother holding them back as he found an old, dirty baseball that had rolled under Wade’s bed. It still had the players’ signatures on it, faded with time: Jim Rice, Wade Boggs, and Marty Barratt. He rubbed his hand over the smooth leather, tracing the names with his thumb.

  Wade had collected a baseball from every Red Sox game he’d ever attended, but this one, as his first, had always been special. It had been Wade’s most prized possession for years, until he traveled to Boston last year and watched the Red Sox win the Series against the Cardinals. While there, he got another ball with three-times as many signatures, which now sat encased in a plastic cube on the bookshelf over his bed.

  John Jr. had envied him that. Having a business to run and a father showing the first hints of Alzheimer’s, he couldn’t up and go to any game he pleased.

  He had been jealous of Wade a lot, he realized. As the baby of the family who never quite grew up, Wade’s every whim had been catered to. In all his thirty-one years, he never had to concern himself over anything more imperative than the Red Sox: how they were playing and if they would make it to the Series again so he could get another ball.

  A fresh round of tears. John Jr. picked himself up off the floor and sat on the edge of his brother’s twin-sized bed. Wade’s feet had always hung off the end of the bed when he slept, all rolled up inside his Red Sox comforter like an anaconda trying to squeeze into a caterpillar’s cocoon, but he never wanted anything bigger. Always perfectly content with what he had, never striving for anything more. Not a greedy or jealous fiber in the big guy’s body.

  Oh God, he hadn’t deserved this.

  John Jr. sat back and pulled out one of the dusty photo albums from the bookcase in the bed’s headboard. The photos, yellowed with time, showed forgotten clips of middle and high school. He, Rhett, Pru, Miranda, and other kids from the neighborhood, playing freeze tag in the lighthouse’s yard. He, Rhett, Kevin Mallory and David Faraday—“The Crew”—drinking stolen beers at a campfire on the beach. The neighborhood children all huddled around a similar campfire listening to Dad’s ghost stories….

  In all of the pictures, Wade, a fat kid until he hit puberty, stood in the background or off to the side, half out of the photo, grinning even though he was never included in their reindeer games. He still considered them friends when they all treated him like dirt—even Pru, who was nice to everyone now, had brushed him off as a loser back then. All through middle school and part of high school, she complained about how creepy he was for having a silly crush on her, since their grandmothers were sisters. The complaints had always sent Rhett, David, Kevin and the other kids into taunts about incest and retards.

  Rage bubbled as he thumbed through the photos, thankfully replacing his tears. Unlike grief, rage was something he could sink his teeth into and he gladly stoked it. He found another candid photo—Wade loved to play with cameras—showing The Crew out on his boat this past summer, fishing and drinking. In the background sat a young girl in a bikini, her black-tipped blonde hair flying in the wind, the small gem in her nostril winking in the sunlight as she raised a bottle of beer to her lips.

  Lila VanBuran.

  “Aw, hell, Wade.” The big, slow idiot. Why hadn’t he destroyed this? It may very well have been the signature on his death warrant. John Jr. slid the damning thing from its sheath and tore it down the middle.

  Had one of those bastards killed Wade? Possibly. No, more than that. Fucking likely.

  Wade was a weak link. They’d all known it from the beginning. He couldn’t keep a secret. He’d come close to spilling the beans to Pru the very night he died. And with Alex Locke showing up in town asking questions about Lila, it was only a matter of time until the weakest link snapped.

  Someone had wanted to silence Wade before it happened.

  A soft sound from the hallway outside the bedroom door caught his attention. Leather against wood, the scrap of a footstep. Probably Miranda. She said she’d stop by to help pack Wade’s things.

  Sassy, sexy Miranda.

  John Jr. gave a snorting, derisive laugh. Go figure she finally noticed him when he planned to spill his secrets and end his life as an upstanding member of the community. Just his luck. Even though, by her own admission, she had a “thing” for bad boys, asking her to overlook a prison orange jumpsuit was too much. He wouldn’t do that to her. He had to tell her the truth first, before he went public. It was only fair.

  John Jr. looked up at the empty door and waited for her to appear. A full minute passed. He slid off the bed, photo album still in hand. “Miranda, is that you?”

  The hallway was empty and silent, save for the faint creaking of the old carriage house. That must be what he’d heard.

  He turned to stare into the room. Cluttered but clean, it smelled and looked as Wade had left it. Cheap cologne lingered over clothes strung across the floor. A half-eaten bag of Doritos sat on the nightstand, a sports magazine turned facedown next to the chips to save the page. As if Wade would return to snuggle up in that too small bed and resume his reading and snacking.

  Exhaustion swept through John Jr., smothering every other tangled emotion.

  Too hard to do this right now. He needed more time to cope.

  Yet, as he headed for the stairs, he couldn’t part with the photo album—a connection to his brother, no matter how flimsy. His only connection.

  Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

  John Jr. froze on the top step and glanced over his shoulder at the pounding sound coming down the hall toward him. A small, circular object ping-ponged off the walls and floor in a manner that defied physics then came to a rolling halt beside him.

  “What the…?”

  Wade’s 2013 Series baseball.

  Not possible. A second ago, plastic had encased it.

  John Jr. bent to pick it up and stared at the empty hallway. “Miranda?”

  No answer. The photo of Lila VanBuran flashed before his eyes, the evidence that could damn them all. Who was the weakest link in the chain now?

  His heart bumped. “David? Rhett? Kevin?”

  No sound. He swallowed hard as his shuddering breath clouded against the air. The ball felt heavy in his hand, condemning. Slowly, the bedroom door creaked open.

  “Oh, God.” His voice cracked. “Wade?”

  The hallway shook. Wade’s baseballs teemed from the open door and thundered toward him at speeds that would destroy any mortal pitcher’s arm. He held up the photo album in weak defense.

  “Wait, Wade! I didn’t mean for it to happen! You were right. We should have gone to the police. I didn’t mean—”

  The baseballs slammed into his chest. The stairs flipped up over the ceiling and the ceiling flipped over the floor. He landed with a sickening crunch, heard the noise, knew it was the sound of his bones breaking, and braced for pain. Nothing. He tried to lift his head, but his body and brain had lost communication with each other. Heartbeat slowed, teeth chattered. Warm liquid pooled onto the floor beneath him. Still no pain.

  Good God, he was going to die.

  John Jr. moaned as tears dripped down his cheeks. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of green fabric, a bare foot, the shapely leg of a woman. She laughed—a soft, musical, half-insane sound—and disappeared.

  His mind registered shock just before it blacked out.

  ***

  Rhett groaned at the brisk knock on his front door, muted the television, and set aside the old Winchester rifle he’d
been polishing. It was a good gun, one he’d forgotten about until this afternoon, but it was in bad need of a cleaning. Since he…acquired…it last year, it had been sitting in the back of his closet gathering dust. Sad to let such a nice gun go to waste. He really should take it out and see what it could do. He could start by practicing on those two nosy pests that had overrun the lighthouse.

  The knock sounded again. With a scowl, he scooped up his glass of brandy on his way to answer the door. David Faraday stood on the other side, looking as skittish as a squirrel.

  Rhett leaned against the doorframe and took a swig of his brandy. The ice had melted, watering it down so that it tasted like shit. “What’s up, Dave?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “If this is about what I think it is, no. You can go home and forget it.”

  “John Jr. was just life-flighted to Portland,” David blurted. “That Boston guy found him all busted up at the bottom of the stairs in the carriage house. It’s serious, man.”

  Rhett straightened. The brandy roiled in his gut. He stepped back to let David in, then shut and locked the door. “Does Forbes know?”

  “Shit, I don’t know. I—” He spotted the Winchester and staggered back a step as if Rhett had shot him with it. “What the fuck is that doing here? You were supposed to—”

  “Forget it. Tell me what happened to J.J.”

  After a long moment, David ripped his gaze from the gun and swallowed audibly. “He…fell. Possibly broke his neck.”

  “Did you have anything to do with it?” David was acting rather guilty.

  “No!” His eyes flared wide. “Did you?”

  “No.” Rhett stared into his glass, the amber liquid now unappetizing. He set the tumbler aside on an end table. “That fucking Kevin. Helen reported him missing today, says he hasn’t been seen since the night Wade died.”

  “Oh, shit.” David dragged a hand over his mouth. “He’s snapped. Dammit, I knew it. As soon as he dropped that pumpkin decoration on Locke, I knew it.”