Bogeyman

by Gayle Wilson

  Blythe glanced over to where her daughter was playing. When she turned back, she asked, “So where does that leave us?”

  “Something’s changed. At least he believes it has, and he’s reacting to it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All these years he’s been content to let things lie. To let people suspect Abel. Or Satanists. To blame whoever they wanted to blame. Now…” Cade hesitated, wondering if there was any way to couch this warning that wouldn’t scare her to death.

  “Now?” she repeated.

  “Now, for some reason he’s afraid.”

  He could see her thinking about that. After a moment she came up with the only logical scenario for Abel’s murder.

  “He’s afraid someone is going to figure out that he’s the one. Is that what’s changed?”

  “I think so.”

  She laughed. “He thinks I’m going to do some research and figure out who killed Sarah? That I’m going to do what Hoyt couldn’t, not with all the resources of the county and state at his fingertips?”

  Cade said nothing, knowing that she’d eventually get there on her own. Maybe that was better.

  “You really think he’s afraid of me?” she demanded.

  “Maybe,” Cade said. “Or maybe…Maybe he’s afraid you’ve got help.”

  “Sarah?” She laughed again. “Look, I know I said some things about the Wrights wanting him brought to justice, but you have to know—”

  “Maybe living with his guilt all these years has made him more susceptible to the idea that a hand from the grave is going to reach out and finger him.”

  “Pun intended, I assume.”

  “Look, I’ve never denied that I don’t buy the idea that your daughter is somehow in contact with Sarah’s ghost. That doesn’t mean that whoever killed her doesn’t buy it.”

  “Then why kill Abel? Wouldn’t it make a lot more sense to go after Maddie?”

  Her eyes had been hard and cold when she bit off that suggestion. When he didn’t respond, something began to change within them.

  Her lips parted as if she intended to say something else before she closed them again. Finally she shook her head. “You think that’s what the fire was about. Not about me, but about Maddie.”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “But…how would he know?”

  “In Crenshaw? How many people did you tell about the tapping?”

  “The tapping? On the window?”

  He could tell that had caught her off guard. Obviously she’d thought he was talking about something else.

  “That would be significant to only one person,” Cade said softly. “Only to whoever used to tap on Sarah’s window at night to get her to come outside so he could rape her again.”

  Her mouth opened, this time in shock, as her eyes held his. “Is that what it meant?”

  “I don’t know. There’s too damn much we don’t know. What I do know is that Abel Comstock is dead. And that someone tried to burn your house down with the two of you inside. So…like I said, after twenty-five years something’s obviously changed.”

  She glanced again toward her daughter, who had migrated to the set of swings on the other side of the playground while they’d been talking. “Maddie? That’s too far. You need to come back over here.”

  “I’m all right.” The childish voice, carried away by the wind, seemed faint. Distant.

  “Mind me, Maddie,” Blythe called, her tone clearly saying that she wasn’t brooking any argument. “Come back here right now or we’re going home.”

  Together they watched as the child trudged reluctantly over to the slide where she’d been playing before. This time she didn’t climb the steps, but leaned against them, head down.

  Blythe turned back to him, anxiety written on every feature. “What do we do?”

  We. He wasn’t sure whether or not he should welcome her linking of them in this effort.

  Still, it was a fair question. Whatever else he was, he was the sheriff of Davis County. If Maddie Wyndham needed protection—and that she didn’t wasn’t something he was willing to take a chance on—then it was up to him to provide it.

  “First, we assume he’ll try again.”

  “Another fire?”

  “Anything’s possible, I guess, but…”

  “You don’t think that’s the way he’ll go.”

  “I think this time he might want to try something more…”

  “Certain?” she finished for him, the bitterness back.

  “Thanks to you, he didn’t have much success with arson.”

  “Maybe he’ll just shoot her like he did Abel.” Unconsciously, she had crossed her arms over her body. “God, why is this happening? Why Maddie?”

  As she said the name, her gaze again left his face to seek out her daughter. The little girl was sitting on the bottom of the slide, scuffing the toes of her sneakers in the soft dirt beneath it.

  “We’re leaving,” Blythe said, turning back to him.

  “Leaving?”

  “Crenshaw. We should never have come back.”

  “So you’re going to run.”

  “Don’t. Don’t even try that. I don’t owe you or Crenshaw anything. Especially not my child’s life.”

  She had already turned and started toward the slide where her daughter was sitting, when he grabbed her arm. She looked back at him, eyes wide with shock.

  “What do you owe her?”

  “I’m her mother. I owe her everything. Protection. My life for hers, if that’s what it takes.”

  “I didn’t mean your daughter.”

  It stopped her efforts to pull her arm out of his grasp. In response, he released her.

  “Sarah? I thought you didn’t believe—”

  “I don’t. You do.”

  “I don’t owe her anything. I didn’t ask for this.”

  “Maybe Maddie did. Or maybe she was just more open to whatever’s happening than anyone who’s lived in that house since Sarah was there.”

  That was what Hoyt had told him, and on some level it made sense. Even to him.

  “That house is gone. Whatever connection—” She stopped in the middle of that assertion, closing her mouth and swallowing.

  “Nothing’s happened since you’ve been living with Miz Ruth?” The answer, one she obviously didn’t intend to articulate, was in her eyes, so he pressed his point. “Do you really think she’ll leave her alone?”

  “Don’t,” she said again, but more faintly this time.

  “You didn’t initiate this. She did. And I don’t think she’s ready for it to be over.”

  “I don’t care what she’s ready for. Don’t you dare try to feed me that crap. You haven’t believed a word I’ve said since the beginning of this. Don’t try to come on now like you do.”

  It was a legitimate argument. Except that sometime during the last few days—maybe when he’d stood in that cold, windowless lean-to out at the Comstock place—his conviction that either Blythe Wyndham or her daughter was crazy had lessened.

  “I’m not trying to convince you of anything, Blythe. I’m just throwing out things you should consider. After all, only you know how close the connection between them is.”

  Her eyes changed again. Although they didn’t lose contact with his, he knew she wasn’t seeing him anymore. She was seeing something else. Something—

  “Was it dark?”

  “What?” Her non sequitur had thrown him.

  “When Abel was killed. Was it dark?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t gotten the coroner’s report back on the time of death. It was dark when I found him.”

  “Dark and cold,” she said softly.

  “That’s right. Dark and cold,” he repeated, unsure what she was asking verification of.

  She turned her head toward the little girl sitting at the foot of the slide. Maddie was no longer kicking the dirt. She seemed to be looking out on the park. Her mouth was moving, as if she were singing.
>
  After a moment, Blythe turned back to him, her eyes again hard. “What is it you want us to do?”

  It was after eight before he got away from the office. After the loss of sleep last night, and with no opportunity to catch up on any today, he needed to grab a few hours in order to be able to think clearly. There was no room for error here.

  And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Since he’d slept, of course, but when he tried to pin it down, all he could come up with was yesterday’s lunch.

  Something else that needed to be rectified, he acknowledged. It would be smarter to do that before he grabbed the hot shower and the few hours of sleep he hoped to manage. The quickest way to accomplish that in Crenshaw, other than the fast food places out on the highway, was the Town Square Diner.

  He pulled up in front of the place, glancing up through the windshield and the wide plate-glass windows to assess the crowd. Since most of the county ate supper before six, there were as few people inside as he’d been hoping for.

  He crawled out of the car, feeling in every aching muscle both the cold night he’d spent combing the crime scene in the Hollow and the endless day that had followed. He straightened, arching his back to stretch out the tightness.

  He thought about checking in with the dispatcher, but decided Davis County had had enough of his time today. He had his cell phone. If they needed him bad enough, they’d find him. They always did.

  He opened the door of the restaurant to a welcome rush of warm air and the smell of hot corn bread. Marilyn Becker was dumping corn sticks from a cast-iron pan into one of the warming pans on the service line. She looked up when the bell above the door sounded.

  “Well, look what the cat drug in.”

  He couldn’t argue with that. It was exactly how he felt.

  “Coffee?” she asked, her tone suddenly compassionate.

  “Black and hot.” He put his hat on one of the hooks by the door before he shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on the bottom prong of the same hook.

  Marilyn was headed toward the table nearest the serving line, a mug and carafe in hand. She poured a steaming cupful as he slid into the chair.

  “Whadda you want, Cade? I’ll bring it.”

  “I don’t know yet. Let me drink this, and then I’ll get my plate.”

  “Good enough, honey. You just yell if you want me to bring you something, though. Be glad to. Y’all been at it all day?”

  “And most of the night.”

  “Know who did it?”

  “Not yet. But we will.”

  The hostess smiled and nodded before she went back to the register. Cade lowered his head, sucking in half the coffee in one gulp. It burned a trail all the way down to his stomach.

  The reassurance he’d so glibly given made him feel like an idiot. Unless the autopsy or the state lab—

  “You won’t sleep after drinking all that caffeine.”

  He looked up to see Doc Etheridge smiling down on him. Cade knew the old man had served as county coroner years ago, which meant he would probably want to talk about Abel’s murder.

  “You could inject it straight into my veins and I’d sleep tonight. Besides, this is just to ensure that I make it to the bed before I pass out.”

  “Heard y’all been at it hot and heavy in the Hollow and over at Abel’s place.”

  “Don’t want anything important to slip through the cracks.”

  “I expect you learned that from Hoyt. No stone unturned.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Any luck? Or is the state of the investigation not for public consumption?”

  “We’re waiting on the autopsy. Coroner fixed the time of death, and we have the bullets, but something else may show up in the postmortem. And we sent some samples we took from the scene to the state lab.”

  “Sounds like you’re closing in.” There was a note in the doctor’s voice that seemed to say that he wasn’t fooled by Cade’s show of confidence.

  Of course, when you’d practiced medicine in a place like Crenshaw for almost forty years, you developed a certain cynicism about the quality of the services available. After all, the town’s only other murder in recent memory had never been solved.

  “One thing leads to another.” Cade kept his tone noncommittal.

  “Well, good luck. Hope you do better than we did.”

  “We?”

  “Hoyt and me. I was coroner back then. Thought you knew.”

  “I knew you had been at some point, but…I guess I didn’t realize it was during the Comstock investigation.”

  “The first Comstock investigation,” Etheridge corrected with that same edge to his voice.

  “Any advice?”

  That was the last thing he wanted or needed, but he’d always liked Doc. And right now the old man was just like everyone else in town—curious about how things were going.

  “I’ve been thinking…” Etheridge began.

  “Yeah?”

  Cade lifted his cup to drain the remaining coffee, nodding to Marilyn as he set it back down. With its warmth and the jolt from the caffeine, he was beginning to relax. To feel less strung out. Mentally, he settled in to listen to whatever Doc had to say. Then he’d dip a plate of whatever they were serving and try to wolf it down before anyone else could corner him.

  “Got to be a connection,” Etheridge finished.

  That was exactly what Cade had suggested to Blythe a few hours ago, but he was surprised to hear someone else thinking that way. And if Doc was, then Hoyt would be, too.

  “A connection?”

  “Between Sarah’s murder and this one.”

  Marilyn’s arrival with the coffee kept Cade from having to meet those shrewd brown eyes. He nodded his thanks to the hostess before he did. “What makes you think that?”

  “You don’t believe in coincidence any more than I do, Cade Jackson. Don’t try to make me swallow one of that proportion. Two murders in thirty years and both victims from the same family? You trying to tell me there isn’t a connection?”

  “Maybe one of the folks convinced Abel killed her decided to finally bring some justice to the situation.” It was the same solution he’d offered to Blythe.

  One she hadn’t bought, he reminded himself.

  Doc, at least, seemed to be thinking about it. “That your theory of the crime?”

  “Right now I don’t have a theory. Maybe when we get all the evidence we collected back. Talk to me then.”

  “You got somebody out at Ruth’s?”

  Cade wasn’t sure whether Doc was asking or saying. It was possible the old man had seen the cruiser that Cade had sent out there after his conversation with Blythe, but the Mitchell house was a little too far off the beaten path to make that likely.

  “Why? You think I should?”

  “I’ve known Blythe most of her life. I just grinned when I heard all that talk about her writing a book about Sarah. Maybe somebody else took it more seriously.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with Abel.”

  “Maybe he was one of the ones taking it seriously. Always claimed he didn’t have anything to do with the murder.”

  “So…he was thinking Blythe was going to clear his name?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he started telling folks around town something to that effect.”

  It was possible. After all, Abel’s encounter with Blythe had been the day before his death. Maybe he had gotten the idea that she was going to help him. He had apparently convinced her of his innocence.

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “Nope. Just speculating. You might want to try to figure out who Abel talked to in the days leading up to his murder.”

  That was something he would have pursued anyway. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt to let the old man believe that he’d made a valuable suggestion.

  “I’ll do that. Thanks, Doc.”

  “Glad to help. That little girl’s death always haunted me. I know it did Hoyt, too. He won’t admit
that, but…I’ll never forget how tiny she looked on that table.”

  Cade nodded, thinking instead about another little girl. One whose mother he had just convinced to stay here—under his protection—until he could get to the bottom of whatever was going on.

  “Well, I’ll let you eat your supper in peace. I know you deserve it.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “You got any questions, you let me know. I still got all those files. ’Course I expect Hoyt didn’t throw any of that stuff away, either.”

  “Sarah Comstock’s file was never closed.”

  “Well, maybe this time it will be.”

  21

  B lythe couldn’t explain the compulsion that had brought her to Abel Comstock’s funeral. As she slipped into the small, whitewashed church on the fringes of the community, she was surprised to find so many people occupying the narrow wooden pews. Unlike the mainstream churches, most of which were within the town limits, this one had always been outside, beyond both the boundaries that were prescribed the town and those deemed “acceptable” to the majority of its inhabitants.

  Almost everyone in Davis County took their religion seriously and their Bible literally. The congregants of the Holiness Brotherhood Synagogue, however, took both to the extreme. As long as Blythe could remember, there had been stories of snake handling and miracle healings associated with this congregation. There had even been talk of an exorcism, but like the whispers about Sarah Comstock’s murder, that had been discussed outside her hearing.

  As she sat down in the back of the small sanctuary, she unconsciously surveyed the crowd. Sunburned men dressed in shirtsleeves, despite the cold, with their thinning hair neatly slicked down with pomade. Their wives, pale faces devoid of makeup, were, in contrast, dressed in their Sunday best, their uncut hair pinned in rolls atop their heads.

  In a pew a few rows in front of the one Blythe had chosen sat Hoyt Lee. Despite the years since she’d seen him, she had no trouble recognizing the former sheriff.

  She wondered if his motives in coming today were the same as hers. Abel had been vilified in life as the murderer of his daughter. Based on her conversation with him, Blythe didn’t believe he had been. Neither did Hoyt.