by Debra Webb
Reinhold shifted her attention to him. “Being at the same hospital during his residency, of course I ran into him from time to time, but he was always careful to avoid me. I had already spoken with the administrator and asked not to be assigned to the same patients as Addington. The administrator was a longtime friend, so he indulged my request.”
“Why do you believe Addington avoided you?” This piqued a new curiosity in Rowan.
“I think he knew I saw through him. Of course, it was nothing I could put my finger on and certainly I had no evidence of wrongdoing, but I sensed a kind of darkness in him as well. But his darkness was different from your mother’s.”
Rowan angled her head. “How so?”
“The darkness your mother kept hidden was a product of fear and desperation. His, on the other hand, was spawned by something sinister and malevolent. Obviously I was right to feel that way.”
“Thank you, Ms. Reinhold.” Rowan stood and offered her hand across the table. “If you think of anything else you believe I should know, please call me. Dr. Winslow has my contact information.”
The woman shook Rowan’s hand and pushed to her feet. “Good luck to you, Dr. DuPont.”
Billy exchanged handshakes with the woman and she walked them to the door.
As they drove out of the neighborhood, Rowan turned to Billy. “She was free of him until she ended up in the Serenity Center. That may very well be when he found her again.”
Billy braked at the intersection and turned to her. “You should check the dates in her journals to see if that time frame coincides with when she started her writing.”
Rowan’s breath caught. “You’re right. Her first entries were just before mine and Raven’s fourth birthday. I remember because she was too busy to properly plan the party. Daddy wound up doing most of it.”
That had been the beginning of the end.
* * *
A gray sedan waited in the parking lot in front of the funeral home when Rowan and Billy arrived.
“Oh hell,” he muttered.
“Is that Pryor?”
“That’s him.”
When Billy shut off the engine, she placed a hand on his arm. “Don’t mention anything about Josh yet. If I’m giving either of these men the benefit of the doubt, it’s going to be Josh. For now.”
Maybe her decision was a mistake, but Rowan had known and worked with Josh for years. No matter how it looked that Anna Addington and her friends were dead after Rowan mentioned going to see her to Josh, she wasn’t ready to throw him under the bus.
“For now,” Billy agreed.
Pryor was already emerging from his vehicle before Rowan and Billy opened their doors. The clearly agitated agent waited for them at the funeral home entrance doors.
“Did you have something else you wanted to say to me?” Billy asked as they strode toward the man. “An apology, maybe?”
Pryor scoffed. “I’m here to give you a final warning, Brannigan. Stay out of the Addington investigation. Your new deputy chief will be taking your place on the task force and I understand that he’ll likely pass along everything he learns to you. I have no problem with that. What I do have a problem with is you—” he turned to Rowan “—and you being involved on any level with the investigation on the ground. Both of you are too personally involved.”
“I went to see Anna Addington for personal reasons related to my mother’s death,” Rowan reminded him. “I’ve told you that already. I had no idea when I arrived that she had been murdered. I can’t possibly interfere with your investigation, Agent Pryor, if I’m not aware I’m walking into part of it.”
“If it’s related to Addington in any way it’s part of my investigation. End of story. Keep that in mind, Dr. DuPont.” He pointed a finger at her. “If I find out you’re keeping anything from me, I will see—”
“Good night, Agent Pryor.” Billy stepped in front of Rowan and stared the man down.
Pryor didn’t move for a beat or two, then he walked away. The agent in the passenger seat stared at Rowan and Billy as his boss drove away.
“He knows we’re onto him,” Rowan said as Billy unlocked the door.
“Makes him nervous.” Billy pushed the door open and waited for Rowan to go in first.
The alarm beeped until she disarmed it. Billy turned on the interior lights. Freud bounded up to them, his tail wagging. Rowan scratched him behind the ears before rearming the security system. At this point she wasn’t taking any chances.
Billy was right. The idea that they had Pryor’s number did make him nervous.
The question was, did it make him dangerous?
Seventeen
Saturday, March 14
Rowan finished the weekly report and filed it with a few clicks of the keyboard. Last night had been a restless one. She’d dreamed of that house in the woods where her mother had grown up. The house had disappeared and the hospital had taken its place. The rest of the dream had sent her fleeing for her life from Julian. But then the woman running wasn’t her, it was her mother.
Billy had woken her and pulled her into his arms. No words had been necessary. He had understood that she needed to feel safe. She thought of the ring she had found in his glove box. In truth it still startled her that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her knowing all that he did about her and the insanity that had followed her since before she was even born.
Beyond the surprise and the happiness, not to mention a hefty dose of giddiness, there was fear. Fear that if she dared to hope that they could actually have a life together that somehow Julian would find a way to tear it apart. The possibility that he would harm Billy terrified her more than anything else.
How did she go on with her life as long as he was out there?
“Ro!”
Billy’s voice drifted from the hall. Her heart instantly shifted into a faster rhythm. What had happened now? She closed out of her electronic files and stood. “In here.”
He paused in the open doorway of her office. “Lucky Ledbetter is here. He’d like to speak with you.”
“You think he discovered something about the ex-wife’s cause of death?” Rowan followed him into the corridor toward the lobby. Anna Prentice Addington, her driver and her friend, Cash Barton, had all suffered a single shot to the back of the head. Just like Crash Layton.
Julian was eliminating all the loose ends.
“He found the same sort of Taser marks as on Layton. But his visit isn’t about that. He could have called with that info. He needs to speak to you face-to-face.”
Anticipation nudged her. “Maybe he found something on the man in the photo. The one who used to work with Burt.”
“Could be.”
When they reached the lobby, Lucky cradled a foam cup from the local coffee shop. He gave Rowan a nod. “Morning.”
“Good morning. Do you have some news for me?”
“I do. I found that fellow in the photo from Burt’s house.”
Rowan’s pulse reacted to the possibility of learning more helpful information. “Is he still alive?”
“He is but he won’t talk to you or the chief.” Lucky glanced at Billy. “His name is Ernest Vernon. I guess you could make him talk.” This, too, he directed at Billy. “But I don’t think he knows a whole lot. He said he grew up in the same area as your mother. He recognized her after she moved to Winchester with your daddy,” he explained to Rowan, “but she begged him never to tell anyone what he knew. Vernon is the one who gave that photo to Burt after all this business with Addington started. He thought it might mean something.”
“You’re sure he won’t talk to me?” Rowan wanted desperately to hear more about her mother’s childhood. Anything he knew could prove useful.
Lucky shook his head. “He said he would disappear before he’d get involved. But he said there was a man your momma visi
ted up on Sewanee mountain. One who knew a lot about the trouble she had. He gave me his name. A Reginald Price. He’s a professor at the university up there.”
“Thank you so much, Lucky. This explains a lot.”
Lucky nodded. “I figure whatever Burt was doing, he was trying to help you.”
“I’m certain he was,” Rowan agreed.
They spoke a moment about how things were going for Lucky since he’d taken over as the temporary coroner, then Billy walked him to the door, thanking him again for his help.
When he’d closed the door, he turned to her. “I guess we’re taking a drive to Sewanee.”
“I’ll grab my bag and my file.”
The road up the mountain was a crooked one. The community of Sewanee was small but thriving. The University of the South was one of the nation’s top private institutions of higher learning. In high school Rowan had been offered a scholarship there but she’d needed to go as far from Winchester as possible. Staying hadn’t been an option.
Dr. Reginald Price lived in a midcentury modern home that sat amid the trees in one of the community’s most elite neighborhoods. An electric car that a quick call to Clarence had confirmed was registered to Price sat in the driveway, which hopefully meant he was home.
Walking to the front door, Rowan surveyed the neighboring homes. All were immaculately maintained and most had either electric or hybrid cars in the driveway. Any pets were evidently inside since no barking echoed along the block. No cats scurried across the meticulously landscaped yards. The wind was chillier up here than down in Winchester. She wished she had brought her jacket.
Billy rang the bell. The buzz echoed in the house. Then came the yapping of a dog. Not the deep bark of one like Freud, but that of a smaller breed. The door opened and sure enough a tiny white dog danced around the socked feet of the man staring at Rowan and Billy over the rims of his glasses.
“Professor Price?” Billy inquired.
“That’s right.” He pointed to the sign posted next to his door. “No soliciting.”
“I’m Winchester Chief of Police Brannigan,” Billy said as he extended his hand.
The man stared at the outstretched hand for a moment before shaking it.
“This is Dr. Rowan DuPont,” Billy went on. “We’d like to speak with you, Professor Price.”
When the man looked confused, Rowan said, “I apologize for the impromptu visit. But the matter is urgent.” She held the folder against her chest. If there was any way this man could shed additional light onto her mother’s life, Rowan would be immensely grateful.
“You’re the undertaker’s daughter. I’ve been following the case.”
“Yes.”
“By all means.” He stepped back. “Please, come in.”
Rowan and Billy followed him inside. The entryway was spacious and spilled right into the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous view of the valley below. Rowan hadn’t realized the houses on this street sat on a bluff.
When they were settled, he turned his hands up. “How may I help you, Chief, Dr. DuPont?”
Billy answered first. “We were told you might be able to help us with some background information on Norah DuPont.”
Price blinked. Even behind the glasses it was obvious hearing the name surprised him. “Of course. She was your mother,” he said to Rowan. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to hear the name after all this time. Actually, I suppose I should have contacted you months ago, but I wasn’t sure anything I knew would be useful to the investigation. It was primarily speculation. I’m not one to interject my theories into a situation where they might only confuse and mislead.”
“We would love to hear any information, theories, whatever you have,” Billy assured him.
“Of course. Why don’t you start the conversation with any questions you have?” Price suggested. “That will get us headed in a helpful direction.”
“I was told,” Rowan began, “that my mother spoke to you on several occasions.”
He smiled and gave a nod. “She did. She asked me many questions for her research—for a novel she was writing.”
Disappointment speared Rowan. She didn’t want this to be another dead end.
“Do you recall anything about the story she was writing?”
Rowan wanted to high-five Billy for asking the question. She should have thought of going there.
“I do. Yes. The plot revolved around a pair of emotionally damaged protagonists who lured in serial killers and—” he shrugged “—exterminated them, so to speak. She had all sorts of questions about how the main protagonist might go about creating a wall of protection around herself. It was an immensely interesting concept. Ahead of its time. I’m really surprised she was never able to find a publisher for the project. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised it wasn’t made into a movie.”
“I did an internet search on you,” Rowan said. “You teach a class about the survival of mankind through the centuries. Is that correct?”
He nodded. “I do. Murder and those who commit other sorts of atrocities makes up an entire block of my class. It’s incredibly interesting, if I do say so myself. Particularly the section on serial killers. Norah was very interested in serial killers who interact with each other, a sort of community of killers.”
Rowan was aware of the concept. Actually, it was more than a concept. There was documented evidence of so-called murder clubs and killer coalitions. The item of team killers had been around for some time. Killer couples. There were all sorts.
“I suggested Norah call her team of vigilantes the killer collective. I have no idea if she actually used the name, but I was quite pleased that she even considered it.”
Rowan asked, “Did she ever show you any photos or discuss any particular characters she intended to use in her novel?”
“The main protagonist had experienced trauma as a child and she was exacting her revenge as an adult with the help of others. These other characters were more like sworn protectors. They would do anything to keep her safe.”
A chill rocked through Rowan. “This may seem like an odd question, but did these protectors have any identifying marks? Tattoos? Scars?”
“Why, yes.” He laughed. “She asked me about the symbols various cultures used through the years to depict those who served as protectors. It was a very interesting endeavor. I was honored she asked for my help.”
Rowan opened up the photo app on her phone and swiped until she reached the series of photos of the tattoos on the bodies of the two men who appeared to have been involved with Norah. She passed the phone to Price.
“Do you recognize any of those symbols?”
“Oh yes.” He scrolled through the photos. “You have Celtic symbols, Norse, Wiccan, several tribal symbols. They’re broken into pieces for some reason, like a puzzle, but I’m very familiar with them.” He passed the phone back to Rowan. “They all have one thing in common—they stand for protection or protector.”
Rowan said, “A person who wore these marks would consider him or herself a protector of someone or something.”
“That would be the actual intended definition. But there are any number of people who have the symbols inked on their skin simply because they like the design or the romantic idea of what it stands for.”
“Did Norah ever discuss any concerns she had with you that felt as if they might be real rather than fiction?”
Price shifted his attention to Billy’s question. “I have to say that after I heard about her death, I wondered if perhaps she might have believed the story was real. Perhaps this was her life story or there was an underlying mental illness.” He shook his head. “As for the latter, I never once got that impression. She was intense, almost electric. She felt life very deeply. I did not see her as unstable or unwell. Determined, fierce, a little sad, but not ill in any way.”
“Sad?” Rowan asked. “How so?”
“She shared with me that the story had taken on a life of its own,” Price explained. “She experienced highs and lows with the characters. She spoke with such emotion.” He sighed. “As I said, I’m stunned the story was never published.”
“She didn’t finish the story,” Rowan said, her own sadness far too audible in her voice. The statement was true. Her mother hadn’t finished any of her stories. Not a single one.
Rowan now understood that it was because they weren’t fiction...they were her life.
“Perhaps it was simply too difficult,” Price offered. “Some feel more deeply than others.”
Rowan bit back the other question she wanted to ask. She got the distinct impression this man had been infatuated with her mother.
“You,” he said suddenly, “you’ve written a book. You should finish her novel.” He pursed his lips a moment. “I must say you look so very much like her. I was a bit taken aback when I found you at my door, no matter that I’d seen your photo in the paper and on the news. The similarity is stunning.”
“Thank you.” She tried to smile, didn’t quite make it. “Did she ever speak of any real-life killers?” Rowan asked, steering the conversation back to the reason she was here.
“We discussed a few. Norton Barnard, the Kissing Killer. Alton Cavanaugh, the Perfume Strangler. Oh yes, and Lola Unger, the Movie Murderer. There were others, I’m sure, but those are the ones that come immediately to mind.”
Rowan couldn’t speak for a moment. The serial killers he had mentioned were among those whose faces and books of skin were found in Antonio Santos’s home.
“What about Melvin Mallard or Edgar Young?” Billy asked.
“Yes.” Price nodded adamantly. “Now that you mention their names, I recall discussing them as well.”
Billy and Rowan exchanged a look. Billy handed the professor one of his cards. “I hope you’ll call us if anything Norah said or asked that strikes you as particularly strange comes to mind.”
Price accepted the card. “I absolutely will.” He shot to his feet. “Let me find my card.” He hurried out of the room.
