by Elise Sax
Faye gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “It's just a coincidence,” she said. “It doesn’t mean anything. So what if he has land that no one knew about, near where the girls were dumped? It's probably totally innocent.”
She ended the statement like a question, and she bit her lower lip. It was looking like Boone might really be guilty.
Chapter 3
We finished searching Boone's house. We didn't find any instruments of torture, duct tape, or remnants of abducted girls. That was a good sign, but I couldn't stop thinking about his secret property in Rust Creek.
We locked the house behind us and drove to the university. As a professor, Boone would have an office there, and maybe we could find more clues to prove his innocence.
We found the archaeology department with no problem. It was filled with students walking around in shorts, T-shirts, and flip-flops. The professors were wearing more or less the same thing.
Boone's office was clearly marked down a hallway, but it was locked, and Faye couldn’t risk picking the lock with so many people around. I stopped a passing lady, who was wearing a long skirt and a cardigan sweater. Her glasses were attached to a chain around her neck. She was much more of the professor type than the flip-flop guys, as far as I was concerned. When I stopped her to ask a question, she raised her glasses to the bridge of her nose to inspect me.
“May I help you?” she asked, like she didn't want to help us at all.
“We’re picking up something for Professor Goodnight from his office. He's out on a dig,” I told her. I had come up with the lie in a split second, and I was impressed with my ability to fib. So was Faye. She elbowed me in the side and nodded at me, smiling like she approved. The lady with the glasses seemed to think about my excuse for a second and then took a keychain out of her pocket and unlocked the door.
“I’m busy, so I expect you to lock it after yourself,” she said, looking down her nose at me.
I crossed my heart with my finger. “Sure thing. Don't worry.” I gave her my best smile. She marched off, and Faye walked through the door before me. Inside the office, it was quintessential Boone. A total disaster. Books, papers, relics, and bones covered every available surface in no discernible order.
“This is going to take some time,” Faye complained, looking at the mounds of chaos everywhere. “What’re we looking for?”
“Anything to prove that Boone’s not the killer, so I can get married and live happily ever after.”
Faye nodded. “Gotcha.”
We searched through the office, but it was all academic gobbledygook. I couldn’t make out half of what was there. Obviously, my fiancé was one smart cookie. Everything I found had something to do with carbon dating, dinosaur physiology, and ancient DNA. There was nothing about girls or being a psycho killer. Not a single clue about abductions and murder. As it turned out, when Boone was at work, he was all business. I flopped down in his chair and sighed a huge sigh of relief.
“This isn’t the office of a serial killer,” Faye assured me. “Serial killers drive Volkswagens and dress up as clowns.”
I pointed at her. “That's true. They do. And Boone’s never dressed up as a clown. And he doesn't drive a Volkswagen.” I put my hand on my chest and took a deep, healing breath. I had been on an emotional roller coaster. I had been either convinced of Boone’s guilt or innocence every five minutes on a rolling loop. I wouldn’t be able to handle the agonizing limbo for much longer. I needed to find out the truth, one way or another, quickly before it tore me up.
A man walked into the office, breaking into my thoughts. He had long scraggly hair and a thick unkempt beard. He looked like he had bad breath. “What’re you doing in Professor Goodnight's office?” he demanded. I was right. He did have bad breath. I got a waft of day-old egg salad up my nostrils when he spoke in my direction.
“We're picking up something for him,” I said, holding up a random batch of papers as proof of my lie. “He's out on a dig, you know.”
“A crazy dig, you mean.” The man moved his finger in a circle next to his head, giving the international crazy sign. “I can’t believe that Boone’s still out there searching for the dinosaur that lived. He's a laughingstock in the archaeology field. Wherever there’s a bone, someone’s laughing at Boone Goodnight. Maybe he got tired of being laughed at and that's why he went off into the desert for months.”
“He did find the dinosaur who lived,” I said, coming to my fiancé’s defense. Boone had been working on a theory that not all the dinosaurs had died from the asteroid or comet that had wiped out the dinosaurs. A few weeks ago, he found proof of that, but his discovery hadn't been published yet.
The man barked laughter. “Yeah, right. The man's a joke. He'll always be a joke. We've been trying to get him kicked out of here, but he's got tenure. He gives our university a bad name.”
The man harrumphed and stormed out.
“I can’t imagine Boone being a laughingstock,” Faye said to me. “He's like an action hero in Goodnight. There’s nothing he can’t do. I once saw him save a cow from a mud bank. Nobody else could get the cow out, but Boone rigged a rope with a tree and his truck, and he went into the mud with the cow and got it out. He’s like Superman or Batman.”
My chest grew tight, and a big bubble of worry popped in me. If Boone was a laughingstock in his career, would that have driven him to madness? Would he have been so upset about not being in control, that he needed control? Control over girls? My own mind swam with uncontrollable thoughts that wouldn't stop coming.
My anxiety rose until it was hard to breathe. I turned to Faye. “You want a drink? I could go for a margarita.”
“That sounds good. I know where we can get good enchiladas and a killer margarita, no pun intended with the killer comment.”
At the restaurant, Faye drank half of a margarita. I finished mine and then tackled hers, along with chips and guacamole. We were more or less no closer to clearing Boone’s name when she drove me back to Goodnight.
“We need to investigate his land,” Faye said, as we approached town. “I have a job to do today, but I can go snooping tomorrow.”
We turned on to the main road toward the Plaza, and Faye slammed on her brakes, nearly hitting a man. He waved at her and stuck his middle finger up.
“Sorry,” Faye called, opening her window.
“Don’t stop my momentum,” he called back, angrily. “I’ve got another eight hundred laps to do to make it into the book.”
He kept walking. “What was that about?” I asked Faye.
“Nigel Ridder’s get rich scheme. He’s trying for the world record of circling Goodnight on foot.”
“There’s a record for that?” I asked.
Faye put her foot on the gas and drove toward my house. “In 1929, a woman walked around town two thousand times. She had scabies, and she walked to distract herself from the itch. Nigel’s trying to beat it and then go on Good Morning America and get signed for a book deal. He’s already got the book title worked out: Walking Around Goodnight.”
She drove another minute when I saw Boone walking across the Plaza. I clicked off my seatbelt and sank to the floor of her truck. “Oh my God, he’s there. Drive faster.”
“Who’s there?” Faye asked. “Oh, it’s Boone. He’s waving at me to stop. What should I do?”
“Don’t stop!”
“Not stopping,” she assured me. “In a hurry!” she called out to Boone and raced through the Plaza.
I stayed on the floor of the car. “How did he look?”
“Not like a serial killer. Handsome. Very little body fat.”
I sighed and rested my chin on her gear shaft. “He’s got a nice body. I never knew asses could look like that until I saw Boone naked.”
“I bet his front part ain’t bad, either.”
We arrived at my house a couple minutes later. Faye dropped me off in the driveway in front of the house, and I waved goodbye as she drove off. The dogs greeted me at the gate, and they wa
lked with me into the Goodnight Gazette office.
Klee, the managing editor, was busy typing at her computer, while the senior reporter Silas was inspecting his bare foot on his desk.
“I think something burrowed its way under my toenail. Klee, would you check this out?” Silas asked her, waving his foot at her.
“Not if you gave me a million dollars,” she said.
“But I can’t see it. It might be working its way up my body to eat my brain,” Silas whined, trying to eyeball his toenail. He wasn’t in the best shape, and he was having a hard time. But I didn’t blame Klee because Silas wasn’t the kind of man who got regular pedicures. I didn’t want to go near his toenail, either, even though he bathed in my bathtub every night, so I knew he was clean.
“Good. That’ll be an improvement,” Klee said. “Where have you been?” she demanded in my direction. “Do you think this paper writes itself?”
“I’m on assignment all day,” I lied.
“What assignment? I don’t have you written down for any assignments.”
“The serial killer story.”
“That’s Silas’s beat,” Klee insisted.
“She’s helping me out,” Silas lied and arched an eyebrow in my direction. He slipped his sock back on his foot and put his shoe on. “Well, if this thing eats my brain, I’d like to see how you get this paper out. C’mon, boss, give me the update on the serial killer story,” he said to me, bouncing up from his seat.
I followed him to the supply closet at the back of the office. “What’s up, boss? What’re you up to?” he asked.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and tried not to make eye contact with Silas. “Nothing.”
“Boone’s been looking for you. He had a panicked glint in his eye, which is totally out of character for him. He’s not a panicky kind of guy. Are you hiding from him?”
“No, of course not.” There was a noise from the other room, and I dropped to the floor and covered my head with my arms.
Silas offered me a hand back up. “Well, that was weird, boss. What’s up? Why are you hiding from Boone? Do you owe him money?”
“No. I…well…here’s the thing…” Silas was giving me his reporter look. The kind of facial expression that said he wasn’t going to give up until he got to the truth and I spilled the beans. We were at a standoff, staring at each other, waiting for the other one to say something. Much to my surprise, Silas was the one to break the silence.
“Speaking of Boone, I’ve got some Boone news,” he said. “You’re not going to like it.”
I gasped and plopped down on a step ladder. “He’s the serial killer? He abducts girls and murders them in a dungeon?”
Silas’s face turned up in shock and surprise. “No! I mean, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been studying the profiler report, and have you noticed that it’s an exact description of Boone Goodnight?”
“Oh, God,” I moaned. “Yes.”
“Do you suspect him, boss? You? You’re sort of close with him, right? Do you know something I don’t? Should I get my reporter’s notebook?” He was practically drooling at the thought of getting the scoop, but he didn’t seem altogether pleased with the idea that Boone was guilty.
I stood and grabbed two handfuls of Silas’s shirt and pulled him close. “We’ve got to prove he’s innocent. We’ve got to find the real serial killer now,” I said breathlessly.
Silas’s eyes grew wide. “Do you have any leads?”
My only leads were about Boone. Boone fit the profiler’s report. Boone had secret land near the river where the girls had been dumped. Boone was a pariah at work. Boone had an incredibly tidy, serial killer-like closet.
“No,” I lied. “But we’ve got to do something.”
“Okay. I’m with you, boss. I’ve got some fluff pieces I can hand in to Klee for the day, and then we can make this happen. We need law enforcement leads, but the FBI left town.” Silas was speaking quickly, almost out of breath with the excitement of tracking down the serial killer. “And Amos is MIA. Nobody’s seen him.”
“Last I saw him, he was upset about a box his cousin had given him. It had belonged to his wife.”
“His dead wife,” Silas and I added in unison. Silas’s pupils dilated. I got a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow.
“We need to do this fast,” I croaked. “Before Boone finds out that…”
“Before he finds out that you think he killed girls? Yeah, that’s smart. Otherwise, it might put a dent in your relationship.”
“I’m going to grab a couple sandwiches, and then let’s head out to Amos’s place and see if he can give us information about Boone,” I suggested.
“I’m on it, boss. I’ll drive. Gee, my toenail stopped hurting. Isn’t journalism wonderful?”
We moved into action, me in a hurry to clear Boone’s name and Silas in a hurry to find the killer before the mysterious toenail creature burrowed into his brain. He also mumbled something about the Pulitzer Prize under breath.
The dogs followed me outside. I tiptoed across the courtyard to my side of the house, keeping a lookout, in case Boone was around. I tossed a couple rawhide bones to my dogs from the pantry and opened the refrigerator to make sandwiches for Silas and me. But the refrigerator was bare except for a half-gallon of milk and some soggy tomatoes.
“Tilly, where’s the ham? Where’s the bread? Where’s the cheese?” I called out.
Tilly had been the fraudulent oldest citizen of Goodnight until they found out that she was only ninety years old. Since then, she had moved into my living room and was sleeping on my couch.
“Tilly!” I called, again when she didn’t answer. “What happened to the food?”
I heard the sound of Tilly’s slippers shuffling along the floor. She appeared at the door to the kitchen, wearing a hot pink housedress and her hair in curlers. She was holding a large metal contraption.
“Did they get the food, too?” she asked, her eyes darting to the left and right.
“Who?”
“The ghosts.”
“The what?”
“The ghosts. The ghosts. They’re causing mayhem everywhere in town.”
“The ghosts have?” I asked, trying to figure out what she was saying.
Tilly arched an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who don’t believe in ghosts.”
I so wanted to tell her that I was one of those people who don’t believe in ghosts. But since moving to Goodnight, I had talked to dead people left, right, and center. I had more ghosts in my life than a Stephen King novel.
“I don’t not believe in ghosts,” I allowed.
“We’ve got some nasty ones in Goodnight. They’re stealing things. Shoes, potatoes, a VW Camper, and now our ham.”
“I don’t think ghosts steal things.” This was the truth. My experience with dead people were as ghostly apparitions, and as far as I knew, they left their corporeal activities behind them when they drew their last breath.
Tilly harrumphed, like she was commenting on my intelligence, and it wasn’t good. “You don’t know a thing about ghosts,” she spat. “Ghosts steal all the time. And worse. But I’ve got this under control. If I waited for you to act, the ghosts would run roughshod over us, and the house would be completely cleared out. That’s why I have this.”
She shook the metal contraption to show me what she had. It was ungainly and heavy, making it difficult for her to shake.
“What is that?” I asked.
“A bear trap. It’ll only catch us one ghost, but it’s a start.”
“Tilly, a bear trap is for trapping bears. I’m not sure it’ll get a ghost.”
Tilly harrumphed again. “Have you taken a good look at this thing? It’ll snap a ghost in two. Don’t tell me you’re one of those ghost rights activists. You can’t convince me not to use it.”
I didn’t know there were ghost rights activists, but I learned something new every day in Goodnight. “What if the dogs get near it?”
<
br /> Tilly thought about that a second. “I’ll lock it in the bathroom. I figure the ghost will want to take a bath sooner or later and then Pow! I’ll get him where it hurts,” she said with a demonic glint in her eye. She was pleased as punch with herself for creating the ghost-catching plan.
“I guess we can get a couple tamales from Nora’s food truck on the way out of town,” I said.
Tilly nodded. “If you’re looking for your flowers, I’ve got them in a secure location by my bed.”
“What flowers?”
“The flowers that Boone left for you. What did you do to that man? He’s been skulking around here this morning, looking for you. Are you hiding from him? Did you change your mind? Are you going to go for the sheriff, instead? The sheriff is one tall drink of water. Yum. Yum. If I were five years younger, I’d give him a try.”
“If you were five years younger, you’d be old enough to be his great-grandmother.”
Tilly blinked twice. “What’s your point?”
Chapter 4
Silas opened the driver’s door and slipped into his seat. We were in the Plaza, and he had just stopped at Nora’s food truck to get us lunch since the ghost ate my food. “That was weird, even for Goodnight,” he said and handed me a tamale and a can of cream soda. I was huddled on the floor again, this time in Silas’s car because Boone was still looking for me all over town.
“What happened? Was it Boone?”
“No. Ghosts. The town is being attacked by ghosts. The thieving kind of ghosts. I texted Jack and told him to get his butt over to Nora and interview her about her missing Fritos bags. The lunch crowd was up in arms over the ghosts. There was talk of tarring and feathering.”
“They want to tar and feather a ghost?” I asked, unwrapping my tamale.
“I didn’t argue the logic because my job is to report the news, not make it,” Silas said, never letting the chance at a lesson on the importance of journalism go by him.
We drove the rest of the way to Amos’s house without talking anymore about ghosts or serial killers. The only sound in the car was our tamale chewing and soda slurping. We arrived at Amos’s ranch, just as we finished our lunch. When we parked, it dawned on me that Amos wouldn’t want to rat out his brother, no matter how strained their relationship was.
