The Darkness We Hide

by Debra Webb

  Billy gave her a nod and started looking through the one bookshelf in the small living room. The home was sparsely furnished with nothing more than a couple of upholstered chairs, a small table and a bookcase in the living room. A small box-style television sat on the counter that divided the living room from the equally small kitchen.

  Down the hall, Rowan spotted three doors. The first was a tiny bathroom. She stepped inside and checked the medicine cabinet. No prescription drugs. A bottle of over-the-counter aspirin and a packet of antacid. Two drawers under the sink. She opened both and checked inside. Toothbrush and toothpaste. The only other storage in the room was a small cabinet over the toilet. Toilet paper and a towel along with a cheap bottle of aftershave.

  The shower was empty save for generic shampoo and a bar of soap.

  Rowan moved on to the next room. This one contained only one thing: a weight lifting bench. An extra small closet was empty. She removed the register and checked in the hole in the floor that allowed warm or cold air to circulate in the room. Nothing there.

  The next bedroom was slightly larger. This one actually had a bed. The sheets were tousled, and the comforter was thrown aside. One thick pillow was wadded as if whoever had slept there last had bunched and squeezed it repeatedly in an effort to get comfortable.

  A single bedside table with only one drawer. She checked the drawer. Reading glasses. A comb. Lip balm. She placed the items on top and pulled out the drawer to have a look at the bottom. Clear. Then she moved on to the built-in dresser. Socks, boxers and tees and nothing else. Rowan checked the bottom of each drawer and then on to the closet. Three pairs of jeans were folded and stacked on a shelf. She felt in the pockets of each pair. Examined the outer pockets and inside the sleeves of the one jacket and the one button-down shirt. There was a pair of hiking boots and she thrust her hand into each of those.

  Nothing.

  Nothing under the mattress or inside the pillowcase. Under the bed was clear as well. She moved to the only remaining place where the man could possibly hide anything in this room considering there was no carpet on the floor. Linoleum ran from one end of the mobile home to the other.

  She pulled the register from the hole in the floor and looked into the sheet-metal-lined space. Brown paper. Hope daring to sprout, she reached into the hole and tugged out the package.

  Not paper. An envelope that had been folded and was a little crumpled. Rowan sat back on her heels and opened the envelope. A photo of her came out first. She considered the setting and how she was dressed and realized this was a photo of her visiting her father’s grave. Maybe shortly after his death. April or May of last year, perhaps.

  She laid the photo aside and shuffled through the pages. Yellow legal pad paper. Handwritten notes filled the lines. Notes about Rowan. Where she had lived and worked in Nashville. Her work friends. Billy. There were lots of notes about Billy. Where he lived, where he had attended university.

  She moved to the next page. The names of the victims in the Winchester area who had been murdered by Addington or one of his followers were listed. Dates and causes of death. Vague reasons for the murders. Most, Rowan noted, were accurate. Other names marched down the page.

  Josh Dressler.

  Burt Johnston.

  Charlotte Kinsley.

  Dottie Brannigan.

  Billy Brannigan.

  Fear pounded through Rowan’s veins.

  Dressler was missing.

  Burt was dead.

  Was something about to happen to the next person on this list?

  Six

  Billy insisted on stopping for lunch after the visit to Layton’s home, but Rowan hadn’t felt like eating. She kept thinking about the list of names she’d found in that envelope.

  She stood in the lobby of the funeral home now. Billy had headed back to his office to follow up with Detective Clarence Lincoln on where they were with the Layton murder investigation. Rowan locked the door and headed for the mortuary. Charlotte had received an intake and was currently starting the prep.

  Freud followed close behind Rowan, but at the stairs that descended to the basement level she ordered him to stay. Allowing him in the mortuary room with Burt was an exception to the rules. For his own safety, she couldn’t allow him to grow accustomed to that sort of leeway. Halfway down the stairs she heard the strums of Charlotte’s favorite Bach tinkling from the mortuary room. The woman adored classical music.

  Rowan had to admit there was something relaxing about the music. She paused at the doorway and watched her assistant. Obviously she had already cleaned and disinfected the body. Now she was setting the face using a photo provided by the family. One of the most important tasks in preparing a client was to make him or her look as natural as possible. The family needed that sense of normalcy.

  Charlotte glanced up and smiled. Using her elbow she lowered the volume on her CD player. Charlotte was one of the few people Rowan knew who still wagged a small CD player around. She insisted she was setting an example for her kids—not every aspect of life required a cell phone or tablet.

  “Remember Ms. Donelson? She and her sister came in two months ago and did the preplanning package?”

  Rowan joined Charlotte at the mortuary table. At the time of their visit, Ms. Donelson hoped for six more months of life. “I do remember them. So the cancer won the battle a little earlier than expected?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  Faye Donelson and her sister, Kaye, were twins, like Rowan and her sister, Raven. The elderly women had never been married. They had lived together their entire lives. Despite the grim nature of their visit to the funeral home a few weeks ago they had laughed and told stories of their grandfather making moonshine and their mother working in a factory to fill in for her husband who was away fighting in the war.

  “Charlotte, if you’re at a good stopping point, there’s something I need to speak with you about.” Rowan’s pulse reacted to the worry coursing through her. “It’ll only take a moment.”

  Charlotte was young with a family that included two children. If being close to Rowan was a risk, she might want to rethink working here for a little while. Rowan had an obligation to discuss the situation with her.

  Charlotte removed her gloves and apron. “Sure.”

  They walked over to the desk on the other side of the room. Charlotte had carefully filled out the whiteboard regarding the steps taken and chemicals used in preparing Ms. Donelson, just as Rowan had taught her. Rowan couldn’t imagine facing the responsibility of running this funeral home without her. She was not only a top-notch assistant director, she was also a friend.

  “What’s wrong?” Charlotte’s expression showed the same worry Rowan felt. “You haven’t decided the promotion was a mistake, have you?” Her lips quirked with the need to smile at her own joke. “Because my husband is out of town the rest of the week and I’ve promised him celebration sex when he gets back on Monday.”

  Rowan laughed, despite the worry gnawing at her. “No, no. Of course not. That is the one thing right now that I feel completely confident about.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Is it about that body they found in the cemetery this morning? Are you worried this is connected to you know who?”

  In Charlotte’s opinion, even saying Julian’s name out loud was bad luck.

  Rowan nodded. “The killer had stretched the man’s body out on my mother’s grave. Obviously the act is somehow related to him.” She gave her assistant the other relevant details known at this time. “Billy and I went to his place of residence and I discovered a photo and some notes he had made. The photo was of me, but the notes included a list of the people closest to me. Your name was on that list, Charlotte.”

  Fear widened the younger woman’s eyes. “Should I be worried?”

  “Josh Dressler is missing and Burt is dead. Those are the two names above y
ours. I believe you should be very concerned for your safety under the circumstances.”

  Charlotte blinked, once, twice, three times. “But Burt died of a heart attack, right?”

  “As far as we know. We have no reason to believe otherwise,” Rowan said. “Hopefully we’ll hear something about his blood work today or tomorrow. Either way, this could be a very serious situation. I keep thinking about all the people around me who have died in the past year. My father, Officer Miller, Herman, Woody, Burt... That doesn’t even take into consideration the police officers and the women in Nashville who were murdered for the sole purpose of getting my attention.”

  Charlotte nodded. “I’m not going to lie, the idea is terrifying, but this is very scary for you, too.”

  Rowan shook her head. “I’ve worked with the police for years, Charlotte. I’m well trained with firing a weapon. I can take care of myself. Besides, this is about me. I have no choice but to be in the line of fire. You have a choice. I’m more than happy to give you a leave of absence until this is over. Your job, the promotion—everything—will be waiting when Julian is behind bars and you come back to work.”

  “No way.” Charlotte moved her head side to side. “I love my work. I love working with you. I will not desert you when you need me most. The very idea is out of the question. Friends don’t desert friends when they need them most.”

  Rowan closed her eyes and willed back the emotion crowding in on her. All she needed was another hero on her side. When she could speak again without her voice wobbling, she said, “I appreciate your wanting to support me, but you have to understand that if something happened to you, I would be responsible. I can’t bear the idea.”

  “Let me show you something.”

  Before Rowan could ask what she meant, Charlotte reached down and pulled up her skirt far enough to reveal her thighs. Unlike Rowan, who preferred her jeans and tees when she worked with the dead, Charlotte always dressed in a skirt and blouse or a dress. She wore neat little low-heeled pumps and her hair was always perfectly styled—also unlike Rowan. Around her right thigh was a small leather holster. Ensconced in that holster was an equally small handgun. Rowan should have anticipated that Charlotte would own a handgun. A good many Southern women took their self-protection very seriously.

  Charlotte slid the snub-nosed .38 from the holster and held it up. “I can hit a target center chest or center forehead from a fair distance. My husband says I’m a better shot with one of these than he is. I keep Shorty with me at all times.” She smiled. “Shorty is the nickname I gave my gun since it’s got this cute little stubby muzzle. You see, you don’t need to worry about me, Rowan.” She tucked her weapon away. “I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

  What could she say to that? She would be a total hypocrite if she insisted Charlotte wasn’t capable of doing so when Rowan argued this very point with Billy all the time. “In that case, I only have a few conditions.”

  Charlotte angled her head and narrowed her gaze. “Such as.”

  “Keep the funeral home’s exterior doors locked at all times. When you’re in here, close and lock this door as well. When you come and go anywhere, whether you’re working or off for the day, stay alert. Keep your car locked. Do the same wherever you are and at home. Warn your children to be careful. And your husband.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows reared up. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all I can think of for now.” Rowan placed a hand on her arm. “This is a serious situation, Charlotte. Don’t be lulled into complacency when a day passes without trouble. Stay aware. Promise me that.”

  “I promise.”

  “Thank you.” Rowan glanced at her watch. “If you have things under control with Ms. Donelson, I’m going on an errand.”

  Charlotte’s gaze narrowed again. “What kind of errand?”

  Rowan’s guard went up. “Has Billy been talking to you?”

  “He sure has,” she confessed without hesitation. “If you’re going somewhere, give me five minutes to get Ms. Donelson put away. I’ll go with you. I can finish up later.”

  Rowan started to argue, but she decided maybe she should take her own advice. She should not be so complacent either. Besides, if Charlotte was with her, Rowan could make sure she stayed safe.

  Maybe they could keep each other safe.

  * * *

  “You know, some people think she’s a witch. Making potions and concocting spells from plants and bats and stuff like that.”

  Rowan laughed as she made the turn onto the narrow side road after having passed it twice. “Bats? Really?”

  Charlotte chuckled. “That’s what they say. Whoever ‘they’ is.”

  Ms. Beulah Alcott lived closer to Huntland than to Winchester. No one knew exactly how old she was. Older than dirt, Billy would say, though he made the statement with fondness. He was kind to everyone. Whatever her peculiarities, they had made Beulah Alcott a sort of dark legend in these parts. Some depended on her remedies while others felt certain she was a witch to be strictly avoided.

  “Billy says she’s more a botanist,” Rowan suggested. “An herbal remedist.”

  Charlotte hummed a note of agreement. “That’s one way to put it. I remember people going to her for all sorts of ailments and personal dilemmas. My momma always said that whether it was arthritis or a broken heart, Ms. Alcott had a cure.”

  Though she had never been a believer, Rowan vaguely remembered the stories about the woman. At this point, she was just desperate enough to look under that particular rock. The rumors about the lady included fortune-telling and tarot card reading in addition to the potions and remedies. The only time Rowan recalled seeing Ms. Alcott in person was when she made a rare appearance at a wake for an old friend. Rowan had been ten and standing at her father’s side as he greeted visitors and reminded them to sign the guest book. She recalled vividly the whispers that had gone through the crowd in the parlor when the petite woman had appeared. Alcott had paid no mind to any of them. She’d gone right up to the casket and placed something inside. Folks talked for months about how the old man who’d passed away had needed all the help he could get if there was any chance of him going to heaven.

  That one time had made an impression on Rowan primarily for what happened after the woman walked out of the parlor. She had paused and looked directly at Rowan with her curious eyes. Heterochromia. One blue eye and one green eye. It was generally genetic but could be caused by another underlying problem. But Rowan remembered more than the difference in eye color. She remembered the way Beulah Alcott seemed to look deep inside Rowan before she smiled and walked on. According to what Billy had told her about his visit with Alcott a few months ago, she remembered Rowan as well.

  Rowan parked next to the path of mossy stones that defied the overgrown yard and led to the little house that seemed to lean to one side. New sprigs of green were sprouting up amid the brown grasses and shrubs around the house. Daffodils spilled across the yard like yellow dots.

  “Let’s see if the legend is accepting visitors.” Rowan opened her door and climbed out. Charlotte did the same.

  Billy had said Alcott didn’t have a phone. She also didn’t have electricity. She preferred an oil lamp and a wood-burning fireplace. Since no smoke puffed from the chimney, Rowan had a feeling the elderly lady wasn’t home. The weather was still a little cool to be without a heat source.

  “Good grief, the sky is getting dark.”

  Rowan followed Charlotte’s gaze to the storm clouds churning overhead. “Maybe we can be back to town before the storm hits.”

  “That would be nice.”

  As they moved closer, Rowan recognized that the house was hardly more than a shanty. It could have been carved right out of the forest itself. Moss covered the roof and vines embraced the siding to the point it was barely visible. She stepped up onto the small porch, holding her breath in hop
es it wouldn’t fall in as she crossed it. Massive rosebushes seemed to support its corners. It was easy to envision all the colors that would spring to life a few weeks from now. The little house surrounded by the forest and all the blooms would look like something from a fairy tale.

  Rowan knocked on the door. It was eerily quiet beyond the slab of aged and cracked wood. Then again, the lady didn’t have electricity so she probably didn’t have a television. Maybe a battery-powered radio.

  “What’s this?” Charlotte reached for the small leather pouch hanging on the doorknob.

  “A previous visitor must have left her a gift.” Rowan glanced around the yard. Definitely no one home. Frustration tugged at her.

  Charlotte opened the pouch and peeked inside. She pulled a folded note free and opened it. She hummed a note of surprise. “I was expecting a rabbit’s foot or a bat’s wings.”

  Roman grimaced. At this point she hoped no one was home to see her nosy assistant poking around.

  Charlotte made a face, then looked at Rowan. “Wow. It’s for you.” She offered the small piece of paper.

  “What?”

  “The note is for you,” Charlotte repeated.

  Rowan accepted the paper and read the words written in a shaky hand.

  Dear Rowan,

  Come back around tomorrow. I’ll be watching for you then.

  Beulah Alcott

  Rowan had told no one she was coming here. In fact, she hadn’t actually decided to come until after going to that trailer park with Billy. A cold chill danced along her spine. How could Ms. Alcott possibly have known?

  Maybe there was more to her special talents than Rowan wanted to believe.

  “You have a pen?” Rowan asked. She’d left her bag in her SUV.

  Charlotte reached into the bag hanging on her shoulder and withdrew a pen sporting the logo of a local bank. “Here you go.”

  On the backside of the paper Rowan wrote: See you then. Rowan DuPont.

  She tucked the paper into the pouch and hung it back on the doorknob.