Ann put her hand over her mouth and turned away. The task at hand required some assistance. She pulled the radio from her belt and pressed the talk button.
“George. I need backup at Brent Winter’s address. Bring a kit.” She waited. “George, do you copy?”
“Oh, hey, Ann. Yeah, I copy. I’ll be right over after I beat this game of Solitaire.”
“No. You’ll be here immediately. When I request backup, drop what you’re doing and get over here.”
George arrived minutes later in the station vehicle. Ann was on the front porch. She’d pushed Pinky into the back yard and barricaded the door with some chairs. She knew dogs sometimes liked to recycle their food—or owner—if that’s what they vomited up. She closed her eyes and took a breath. No speculating.
“There’s a pile of dog vomit in the hallway,” Ann said. “I need it for analysis.”
“You want me to collect vom—” George gulped. “—it?”
Ann snatched the kit from his hands, dropped to one knee, and opened it up. She sorted through the supplies inside, found a mask, and put it on. Hopefully it would block the smell. After giving George a disparaging look, she went inside and got to work on the puke.
After they’d taken photos and collected everything worth collecting, including more of the like-human-umbilical-cord substance, they returned to the station with Pinky panting in the back seat. Ann parked and cleared her throat, dispelling George’s disquieting silence.
“I’m assuming what we found belongs to Brent in some capacity.” She opened the door. “I’d like you to drive the evidence to the Pine Valley Hospital and drop it off with a lab tech named Melissa. Tell her I sent you. Ask her to check for DNA against this.” She handed him a hair sample she’d taken from Brent’s brush in the bathroom. “If the DNA matches Brent’s, we’ll need to contact his parents to inform them he’s . . . missing.”
“You hesitated. You don’t think he’s missing, do you?”
Ann didn’t answer.
“His dog . . .” He gulped. “Did she eat him?”
Ann stared straight ahead.
George turned in his seat and looked directly at Ann. She glanced side-long at him.
“Tell me Pinky didn’t eat Brent.” Tears wet his eyes. “Please. Even if you don’t think it’s true, just say it. I need to hear those words right now, out of your mouth.” He glanced over his shoulder at the dog in question, who grinned the way only pit bulls could.
“She didn’t eat him.” Ann got out and opened the back door to let Pinky out and grabbed the box of non-bio evidence. She waved an ashen-faced George off to Pine Valley.
Ann went inside and set the box on her desk. She filled a bowl with water and set it on the floor by the kitchenette. Pinky ran to it and lapped frantically. She lifted her head, and liquid dribbled from the corners of her substantial mouth.
“You’re with me until I figure out what to do with you,” she told the dog. Pinky cocked her head to the side.
Marcie’s copy of The Local Inquirer with the note from Brent sat on her desk. Inside were pictures of two suspects, clear as day, but they seemed too obvious. Louise and Teresa Hart. Motive? Libel, of course. Brent couldn’t expect to do a false write-up without consequences, especially when those people being written about were both, well, crazy.
Suspect number three. Ann sighed. George Riley. He had motive for Marcie and Brent. He also had a set of keys to Sheriff McMichael’s house.
She wondered how often Brent published The Local Inquirer and what it usually contained. Perhaps an earlier edition had more clues. She found the number in the phone book and dialed.
An elderly male voice answered.
“Hello, this is Ann Logan. I’m helping out on a local case. Can you tell me how often Brent Winter publishes The Local Inquirer?”
“Annie Logan, the little girl who grew up to be a hero?”
She didn’t say anything. Instead she cleared her throat and sniffed.
“It’s random. He’ll call me about a week before to let me know when he has enough content. Then we coordinate,” Mr. Newspaper said. “That Brent Winter. What a character. He comes up with some pretty funny stuff, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, sure.” She didn’t agree. “When was the previous one printed?”
“Let me check.” The sound of movement and a drawer opening and closing came through the line. “Before the latest edition . . . looks like it was about four months ago.”
“Did it include any pictures?”
“There’s one of Louise Marga, but he’s always got pictures of her.” The rustling of a page flipping. “There’s a picture from a town hall meeting—haven’t had one of those in a while, until this week that is.” He paused. “Caption calls ’em a local cult discussing how to take over Castle County.” He laughed too loud.
“Anyone in particular stand out in that photo?” Ann asked.
“Louise Marga, again, but she’s kind of all over the place around town, you know.”
“How often does Louise feature in Brent’s paper?”
“Every issue has a picture of her, I’d say.”
“What about Teresa Hart? Is she in the town hall photo?”
“Teresa Hart?” He sounded confused. “Oh, you mean the doctor’s wife. Let me see.”
She could almost see his eyes scanning the picture. Maybe he held the page close to his nose for a better look.
“No, the Harts aren’t present.”
“Do you happen to recall what the actual town meeting was about?” Ann asked.
“It came out in June so probably upcoming summer events.”
“Thank you so much for your time,” Ann said.
“My pleasure. You stay safe.”
“I will.” She hung up and tucked the bagged copy of The Local Inquirer out of sight.
Louise shot to the top of Ann’s suspect list. Another visit to the old loon’s house would definitely be in order. But until she had solid proof, she was at a loss. How and where could she find more proof?
Right on cue, the phone rang. Pinky barked and ran to the door. Ann jumped, startled by both the phone ringing and Pinky’s reaction.
She picked up the phone on her desk.
“Castle County Sheriff’s Department, Ann Logan speaking.”
“Are you a detective or a receptionist?” Joey’s voice came over the line.
“Short-staffed. What do you have?”
“Fingerprints. Let’s see . . . I’d email you my findings, but they are way too big, and you just have to see everything.”
“Whose fingerprints were on the window?” That was all Ann needed to know.
“You’re gonna love this,” Joey said. His voice held a note of accomplishment. “After I ran the print, I did some extra digging. Found even more gold. You have to read the entire dirty write-up.”
“Tell me who it was, and I promise I’ll read the whole file.”
“Let me give you some highlights.”
Ann grumbled. “Fine. But you know you’re obstructing justice by not telling me.”
“Yes. But I don’t care. Let me have this moment.” He cleared his throat. “The perpetrator is a woman.”
Check for both Teresa and Louise.
“She has had an extended stay in a loony bin twice in her life.”
Ann didn’t know about Louise, but she knew Teresa had been in Mountain View at least once.
“Those places were easy to hack. You’d think with confidential patient info they’d have better internet security systems in place, or at least have a firewall that’s water tight like a frog’s ass.” She heard the shrug in his voice. “Their ignorance is my gain.”
“Tell me more,” Ann said through her teeth.
“Here we go—you ready for this?” He cleared his throat again. “The first time she went to the funny farm was after her mother died. The possible suspect was fifteen years old at the time. Mummy took too many lorazepams with too much whiskey. Maybe on purpose, maybe on
accident. Maybe the fifteen-year-old daughter did it.”
“Go on,” Ann said.
“The second time she went was after her baby died.”
Ann hit the top of her desk with her flat palm. “Teresa fucking Hart.”
“Come on. You stole my thunder.”
Joey sent her the files via file transfer. While she waited, she made another pot of coffee, played four games of Solitaire on the dispatch computer, checked the time every two minutes, and finally, a folder called, “You Can’t Make This Shit Up” appeared.
Inside were the files Joey hacked right out of Mountain View. Teresa’s haunted past. Every single piece of it, complete with news articles from reputable newspapers, stories from gossip rags, police records, and photographs of her family. Joey had also included the fingerprint analysis.
Ann didn’t know if a hacker’s work would hold up in court, but for now, Ann needed Teresa in custody. She selected every file and hit print. Then she pulled on her jacket and grabbed the keys to the station vehicle.
When she stepped outside, her skin ached from the cold. No, not her skin. Ann pulled up her sleeve. Her veins glowed. Her blood tingled.
Maggie was in trouble.
Chapter 49
Mother? Dead?
Teresa snatched the phone from Derrick’s hand and hit redial.
Three obnoxious tones rang out, then a robotic voice.
“We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again.”
She punched the numbers in. Then again. Then again. She was about to dial one more time when Derrick took the phone from her unyielding hand.
“She passed away when you were a teenager. Remember?” Derrick said in his giving-bad-news-to-a-patient voice.
Teresa turned away from him. Suppressed memories swirled out of the depths of her mind.
Her mother dead in the bathtub with an empty bottle of generic Ativan and an empty glass of whiskey on the bathroom floor.
A tear slithered down her cheek. She wiped it away. Derrick took her by the hand and pulled her carefully toward him, then shifted his hand to her elbow.
“It’s okay,” he said, stroking her back. “Let’s go out to the car, okay?”
She nodded but didn’t know why they needed the car. They only used the car when they went grocery shopping. Was he taking her grocery shopping? Now?
“Okay.” Shock tightened her throat. It came out a strangled whisper. Though she wasn’t sobbing, tears dribbled from her eyes.
Derrick helped Teresa into the car and fastened her seatbelt for her. She stared out the window as he drove out of town.
“It’s not true, is it?” Teresa asked. “I just talked to her on the phone.”
Derrick’s lips tightened. He didn’t answer. Concern lined his forehead.
The car passed the sign wishing farewell to those who had visited Harmony. She turned in her seat. The other side of the sign welcomed people with a goofy looking bear wearing a hard hat and headlamp and holding a pickaxe.
The sign disappeared into the distance. They weren’t going grocery shopping. Teresa forced her heart rate to stay steady.
“Where are we going?” Teresa stared at the side of Derrick’s face.
His eyes shifted to her, then straight ahead. He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
“Derrick, tell me. I demand to know where you’re taking me.”
She couldn’t stop her pulse from rising, her mouth from going dry. She already knew the answer, but one part of her hoped it wasn’t true.
“Tell me.” She pulled on his arm. The car swerved.
“Teresa, goddammit.” He straightened the car.
Teresa slouched into her seat and crossed her arms.
After a few miles, he turned down an all-too-familiar winding road. The road to Mountain View. Teresa sat straight up.
“No.” She shook her head. “You can’t take me there. You can’t!”
“Among other things, you’ve been talking to your dead mother on the phone. Something isn’t right.” He turned on the radio and tuned in to the local rock station, boosting the volume a little higher than necessary for casual listening.
“Don’t turn the radio on to drown me out.” Teresa jabbed the off button. “You can’t do this to me,” she said, hating the threat of hysteria in her voice. “Please don’t do this.”
He didn’t care about what this would do to them, to her. He didn’t love her anymore. He wanted to get rid of her so he could be with Ann. Ann, Derrick, and Maggie. The perfect family for this perfect little stupid town.
She reached for the emergency brake, desperate to stop the car somehow. Derrick slapped her hand away and glared at her.
She couldn’t get a full breath. Though she hadn’t had a hysterical breakdown in years, she remembered the first signs of one.
“I can’t breathe,” she said.
Something touched the back of her left arm. Teresa looked over her shoulder. Tiffany, buckled into the seat behind Derrick, waved to her.
“Hi, Mommy,” she whispered. She held out her hands and presented Teresa with a hypodermic needle.
Blessed child. Blessed Yaldabaoth.
Teresa took the syringe.
“Would you turn around and sit still?” Derrick’s voice was full of agitation. “What are you looking for back there?”
Teresa faced forward.
Out of the corner of her eye, Derrick’s zoe line pulsed from his chest, oozed across the center console, and ended in her lap. A heavy living weight across her thighs. The cold glass of the hypo’s barrel calmed her heart and lungs.
“I won’t go back,” she said in a steady voice.
“You have no choice,” he said.
“I won’t, Derrick. I can’t. And I won’t—I refuse!” She yelled the last word and, at the same time, twisted in her seat and plunged the needle into Derrick’s chest.
The car swerved, tossing Teresa against the passenger side door. Derrick’s eyes were wide, his mouth opened and closed as if he couldn’t get any air. His hands on the wheel managed to get the car back on the road.
“What . . .” blood dribbled from his lips.
Teresa grabbed the plunger and pulled.
The car swerved again, went off the road, careened down a hill still spotted with clumps of snow.
Just as the barrel finished filling with Derrick’s zoe, the car smashed into a tree. Even with her seatbelt on, Teresa smacked her head against the window, and the world around her blurred.
The familiar whump of a fire igniting sent a surge of adrenaline through her.
She fumbled for the door handle, her vision still foggy, got the door open, and fell into the grass.
She managed to crawl a few feet away before her world faded to black.
* * *
When Teresa came to, she didn’t know where she was. The scent of smoke and barbecued meat assaulted her nostrils.
Camping? They’d never gone camping. Why now?
She sat up and rubbed her head. Her hand came away with blood on it. The barrel on the syringe warmed her other palm. The zoe inside swirled and pulsed.
She peered at the car and blinked a few times trying to remember what happened.
A mass sat in the driver’s seat.
Teresa stood up so fast the blood rushed from her head, and she nearly fell to her knees. Derrick’s burned form. Not moving. Of course he wasn’t moving. He was dead. She approached the car and looked in the back seat to see if her baby was okay. But Tiffany was gone. A sigh of relief. Then a wave of grief washed over her. Teresa dropped to her knees and put her hands over her face.
I’ve killed my husband. He’s gone. All this work to make him happy—and now he’s gone.
A sob escaped her. Movement from the car. She snapped her attention to Derrick. He shifted. Alive?
She dropped her hands. He turned his head, the movement jerky, and faced her. His eyes, which should have melted in the fire, were clouded white.
Blind. Teresa’s strangled cry caught in her throat. She flailed backward, tripped, and landed on her rear. Derrick sniffed the air in her direction. Then, with the same halting movement, he lifted his arms and reached for her. The center console kept him trapped. She reached up and closed the passenger door and crab-crawled backwards until the distance between her and the car felt safe.
When she got to her feet, her head throbbed with a probable concussion.
The sun had sunk low in the sky, casting ominous shadows. Teresa slipped and stumbled up the hill they’d careened down. At the top, she went back to town.
After she passed the sign welcoming her to Harmony, she stopped. Something was missing. Her hands felt empty.
The syringe. “Oh, God.” It was gone. She looked back toward the crash site.
Petulant tears sprang to her eyes, and she bawled for a moment before regaining her composure.
She swiped a stray hair from her forehead only to find it stuck in the blood on her head, so she ripped it out with an angry shout. She stomped her feet, knowing she acted like a child, but all she could think about was slipping into a steamy bath and rinsing away the day’s woes.
You just killed your husband—is that really just one of the day’s woes?
Maybe she didn’t want to turn Derrick over to Yaldabaoth. Maybe she could find the syringe and inject his zoe back into him.
A charred mess. He’d never look the same. What would the town think? Oh! The town would love her. She would stay with him even though he was horribly disfigured. A monster.
They would welcome her back. Her place in life would be restored. They would wash their hands of the baby’s death in light of her devotion to her husband.
A smile made its way onto her lips but quickly vanished. A tear slid down her cheek, and her face contorted into what she knew was a horrendous visage.
Who would take care of Maggie now?
You have to take care of her.
She started walking toward town.
Maybe Maggie is next.
The thought startled her. She couldn’t take a child.
The Blood of Seven Page 25
