Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (5 page)

But it appeared that Sociable was doing all right for itself, or at least all right enough that all the buildings Deacon could see on Main Street appeared to be attractive and occupied, at least surviving if not thriving. He couldn’t see a single vacant building, at least along the main drag. And there had to be some money about; he had passed both a high school and a middle school on the drive in, both newish and sprawling buildings less than five miles from downtown, both with well-designed and well-maintained athletic fields.

Probably the latest thing in tech as well. Couldn’t send your kids out in the world these days without education in all things digital, after all—even though plenty of kids knew a lot more about cutting-edge technology than did their parents because they’d grown up with so much of it in their lives.

Deacon had passed a couple of car dealerships, too. A few recognizable chain restaurants off the highway. A couple of small motels tucked away close to the highway, one at least outwardly respectable and one clearly the sort that charged by the hour.

He had also passed churches. Several churches.

And there was one downtown, perched high above Main Street, the highest visible point of downtown, the whiteness of its slender steeple almost shining in the afternoon light. Maybe watching over the town and valley below.

Maybe.

There was a bed-and-breakfast literally at each end of downtown, with a well-kept and attractive building housing a three-story hotel smack in the middle, which included a restaurant on the ground floor. There were numerous stores, at least three other restaurants or cafés, a couple of banks. A sheriff’s office apparently shared a fairly large building with the town post office and courthouse, and he could see at the far end of Main Street what looked like a fire station. There were two doctor’s offices visible, a pawnshop that looked less seedy than many, a bookstore, and two different coffee shops, one chain and one local.

He wondered idly which got the most business; it was difficult to tell at first glance.

Deacon, not making a community statement, parked in front of the first of the coffee shops he came to, mildly surprised to find no parking meters. He got out and closed the car door without bothering to lock it; his luggage was in the trunk, and Sociable really didn’t look like the sort of town where cars were jacked right off Main Street.

At least not in broad daylight.

He stretched absently, a bit stiff after the long drive, and looked around with casual interest for a few moments. There was a fair amount of activity in the area on this Thursday despite the January chill in the air, and as far as he could tell, no one paid him any special attention.

They were polite, though.

“Morning,” one middle-aged man said pleasantly as he walked past.

“Morning,” Deacon responded.

Not really a booming tourist town, Sociable, but the scenery and small-town charm did bring enough visitors that the arrival of one more clearly caused no particular notice.

Even now.

Which, Deacon thought, was a bit surprising. The people he saw went about their business, expressions preoccupied but not especially tense or uneasy. When two met in passing, they appeared to exchange casual greetings, but no one lingered to talk.

He would have expected that.

Then again, what he was seeing might very well be the citizens of Sociable being uneasy and on edge. Maybe they generally did stop and talk to each other, get coffee, shoot the breeze, discuss local events.

Like murder.

Deacon frowned a bit but decided to get out of the chilly air while he considered the matter. He went into the coffee shop, which he found to be typical of most he’d been in: small tables with minimalist chairs, a long banquette along one wall with evenly spaced tables in front of it, and in one rear corner a tall counter with glass cases showcasing various sandwiches and pastries. There was a drop to a lower counter on either end, where a customer ordered and then picked up said order.

There were signs advertising free Wi-Fi, and at least two customers sipped coffee or tea as they worked at laptops, while two others appeared to be reading, one with a hardcover and one with an e-reader. There were even three independent “stations” just past the banquette with laptops set up for customer use.

A pleasant young woman took Deacon’s order, and since it was a no-frills black coffee and a large wedge of apple pie, he was able to carry both to a table in the other back corner in only a couple of minutes.

He settled into his chair and sipped the coffee, which wasn’t bad. He sampled the pie, which was excellent.

And he watched, without being obvious about it.

More customers trickled in and out over the next half hour. Some came for coffee and left with their ubiquitous paper cups and preoccupied expressions; a few lingered to chat with the staff behind the counter, which included several young women and only one young man.

A couple sat enjoying coffee, pastries, and a quiet conversation, clearly in no hurry to leave.

A woman with a laptop arrived to get coffee and settle down to work, or check her e-mail or social media sites, or surf the Net, or whatever she was doing. A teenager showed up, bought what he and the staff laughingly referred to as “milk with a little coffee,” and then went to one of the provided laptops and settled down to what looked like an online game.

Just as outside, no one appeared tense or on edge. In fact, the occasional chats at the counter erupted more than once into quiet laughter, and the staff behind the counter appeared unfailingly cheerful.

Okay, just one odd murder. So maybe that’s not so unusual. Nothing worth talking about, for most people. So what if this town hadn’t had a murder in a decade or so until two days ago, when they had a really odd one. Maybe nobody’s that bothered. Maybe Melanie’s wrong in believing it’s bigger than murder, worse than murder.

Maybe . . . maybe it’s just Melanie.

On some level of himself, he was aware of being hunted. Not frightened, because the voices had told him he didn’t have to worry about the hunters; there was a place in the plan for them as well.

So he didn’t worry.

There were other things to occupy him. At first, it had been much easier to be God’s avenging sword. He had felt so powerful, suffused with the light of justice. It had been so easy to snatch the first two from under the very noses of their friends and carry them off. Easy to keep them quiet with the injections. And easy to punish them. Though he was still uneasily confused by the fact that they somehow got all bruised and battered long before he used his avenging sword to mete out justice.

That was troubling.

Even though long distances had to be covered, and quickly even over rough terrain, he thought he slept a lot, because there were long gaps in his memory. That was troubling, too, because he was growing more tired rather than more rested, and sometimes when he woke up his whole body ached, as though he had run a marathon.

And his sleep, though deep, was often restless, his dreams filled with red. Everything red, so much red.

And screaming.

He thought the screaming made a kind of sense, because the second pair of harlots had been a bit more difficult to subdue and had screamed a lot. They had screamed and fought, one giving him a black eye. And that one had screamed even more later. Every time he woke up, it was to hear her screaming.

Still, if he concentrated on a song he liked and kept that music in his head, he could mostly block out the screaming. So he did that, most of the time.

It didn’t really help with the smell, though.

He tried to ask the voices when they could leave the place because it smelled so bad, but they were impatient with him for the first time, and that was troubling.

That was very troubling.

The time he liked best was when he was making the crosses. He had always been good with his hands, and the voices hadn’t had to teach him for long before he had it all down. He loved melting the silver, bits of jewelry and coins and other things the voices told him to use. And he loved pouring the liquid metal into the mold.

He loved filing away the rough edges, and drilling the tiny, perfect hole for the ring, and sometimes stamping names and messages into the metal.

He felt so much more righteous when he was making the crosses, so . . . in control.

That was it. When he made the crosses, he was in control. He felt like himself.

The rest of the time . . .

Well, it was troubling.

Very troubling.

But he was a soldier of God. He was doing great and noble work, important work.

He just wished he could sleep without dreaming in red.

And he wished he could escape the screams.

And the smells.

—

MELANIE JAMES HAD
worked at the Hollow Creek Bank for more than three years, and she liked her job. The bank truly was a “hometown” sort of place and had been for at least three generations, its canny local investors and managers both smart and skilled enough to keep it prospering even during the periodic economic downturns of the state and even the country.

And since Sociable was a small town where neighbor still helped neighbor and most had very strong work ethics, being the loan officer for the bank seldom involved unpleasant duties such as turning down a request for a loan, whether personal or business.

“It’s just for the rest of the winter,” John David Matthews was saying in his laconic, matter-of-fact voice. “Got some fine stock to sell in the spring and over the summer months.”

“You’ve always been a good credit risk, John David,” Melanie told him with a smile as she gave the paperwork a final check. “Hey, how is that pinto mare coming along?”

“My daughter’s training her, says she’s smart and good natured. No vices. You still interested in her?”

“Definitely. I’ve been saying for the last year that I wanted to have a good riding horse, mostly for weekend trail rides.” It was a favorite activity among several of her friends, enjoyable because the area was crisscrossed with miles of mountain trails.

Also because there really weren’t a whole lot of options when it came to things to do in Sociable.

“The pinto would be a good choice.”

“For a Sunday rider?”

He smiled. “I’d say. Sophie trains with kindness and takes her time; her horses always seem to take on her own sweet nature. With a pasture to run in when you aren’t riding so she gets plenty of exercise, the pinto’s bound to be a calm mount.”

“Good. Maybe I’ll come see her this weekend, if it’s okay.”

“’Course it’s okay. I’ll tell Sophie you’re still interested. You can call the house and let her know if you do decide to come.”

“Great, I’ll do that. And you be thinking of a price, okay? I’d be boarding her with you, of course.” Her downtown apartment was nice but hardly boasted a stable or pasture. And John David provided fine care at a reasonable price for any animals boarded with him.

His rugged face appeared mildly pleased, which for him was as good as a broad grin; training and boarding fees, along with the occasional guided trail ride, made up most of his income from fall to spring, so a prospective new boarder was welcome news. As was the strong possibility of a horse sold.

Still, being a practical man, he said, “You know you can always borrow a horse if you want to ride. Don’t have to have the expenses of buying and boarding.”

Melanie gathered up the signed paperwork into a neat stack and smiled at him. “Little girls dream of owning their own horses one day. I did. Now I can actually do it. And I’ve got my eye on that pinto, John David.”

“Consider her reserved.”

“Thanks. Now—here are your copies of everything, and here’s your check. Always a pleasure doing business with you.” The words were conventional, but her tone made them friendly and personal.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled as he rose, and they shook hands before he headed out into the bank to deposit his check.

Melanie rechecked to make sure all the paperwork she needed was in his file, then closed it and for a few moments gazed down at the folder on her blotter without really seeing it.

Good job. Good town. Good people. She had friends. She had dates when she wanted them. She had a nice home she enjoyed and money enough to live comfortably, even well.

It was a good life.

Or, at least . . . it had been.

Until the dreams had started. Until she’d begun to catch glimpses of . . . something . . . from the corner of her eye, just quick enough to be gone when she looked.

Until she had begun to feel that too-familiar, almost gleeful sense of being watched from the shadows.

Until they started hearing about what was happening in the mountains so near.

Until people started dying.

The cold knot in the pit of her stomach was never very far from her awareness now. Because something was very, very wrong in Sociable, something . . . unnatural was here. Something a deeply primal part of herself recognized.

And she was afraid that meant at least one person in her life wasn’t at all who or what she believed them to be. In fact, she was almost certain that was the case.

Not a stranger, Trinity had said, eyeing Melanie calmly. No evidence of that, and plenty going the other way.

It was entirely possible, Trinity had said, that someone in Sociable was a murderer.

It’s not natural, what happened to Scott. It’s not . . . normal. Normal is when somebody gets mad and somebody else gets dead. Shot. Stabbed. Hit on the head. Somebody gets greedy and somebody else gets dead. Somebody gets jealous and possessive and somebody else gets dead. Simple motives for simple, stupid crimes, mostly obvious right from the start. That’s what Deacon says. And he’s right. That’s the way it works. But this . . .

This was definitely not simple, and if the killer was stupid, he or she was hiding it well.

Even with no experience investigating murder in Sociable, Trinity was no fool and probably better trained to handle the unlikely than most small-town sheriffs, given her background in big-city law enforcement. And she wouldn’t hesitate to arrest even a friend if the evidence warranted it.

She was giving Melanie the benefit of the doubt.

For now, at least.

Melanie had so far gotten only a few odd looks from some of her fellow citizens, but she knew it was early days yet. There were just a few rumors now, mostly because too many gossips had been in the restaurant when Scott had been so angry and Melanie so icy, their relationship clearly on the rocks.

So gossip said, preferring the drama over the more prosaic truth that a fiery relationship had simply burned itself out.

And long before that public display of . . . emotions.

Just gossip now. But with every day that passed without the murder being explained and the killer being unmasked, let alone caught, she would get more and more of those looks. As time went on and the very air grew thicker and thicker with tension, with anxiety, people would look for a focus for their suspicion and fear.

She was a relative newcomer to the town. And even if they didn’t know for sure, people would imagine . . . motives. From the reasonable to the irrational, there were bound to be motives.

Hell, she could think of a few herself.

Which explained her panicked call to Deacon.

Melanie wasn’t exactly having second thoughts about that, except that she hated feeling this need for . . . somebody on her side. Somebody who knew her too well to believe . . . even reasonable motives.

Someone who knew she was not a murderer.

—

DEACON ABSENTLY TRACKED
a casually dressed woman from the door to the counter. She had dark brown hair, pulled back at the nape of her neck. Hard to tell from the loose, bulky jacket, but he judged her to be slender, average height. He couldn’t hear what she said to the staff, but they seemed to know her and be eager to serve her.

It wasn’t until she turned with coffee in hand and came directly across to where he was sitting that he saw the gun on her hip.

And the badge.

He began to rise out of automatic courtesy, but she waved him back and took the chair across from him. Since the table was small, they were close enough that he could detect the unusual gold flecks in her rather startling green eyes.

“Sheriff,” he said. “Did I park illegally or something?”

She smiled briefly, the expression turning her face from rather ordinary to something close to beautiful. “No, Mr. James, you didn’t park illegally.”

“How did you—”

“You and your sister favor. The same blue eyes. High cheekbones. Even the way you raise your eyebrows.”

He thought about it, sipping the last of his coffee, then said, “And you ran my plates.” He was driving his own car.

“And that,” she agreed amiably. She sipped her own black coffee. “I’m Trinity Nichols, by the way. But I expect Melanie told you that much. Probably told you a lot more.”

He pegged her age at not much past thirty, which was young for a sheriff—except maybe in a small town where her father
and
grandfather had also served as sheriff.

Melanie had told him a lot, including the fact that Trinity Nichols had hardly inherited the job but had earned it on merit; she had spent nearly ten years as a cop in Atlanta, on the streets and as a detective, so she was most certainly not a politician or a desk jockey.

Deacon nodded. “I’m not here to cause trouble. Not here to interfere with your investigation.”

“Just here to support your sister.”

“Yeah.”

“So there’s nothing at all official about your visit.”

“No. Just visiting Melanie. I had vacation time coming and no pressing cases.”

“So a busman’s holiday of sorts.” Her tone was still affable.

“Brothers worry.”

“Do they?” She smiled, something a bit wry in the expression. “I wouldn’t know.”

Deacon thought that might prove an interesting tangent to explore, but also knew enough about small towns and the people who lived in them to be certain such probing wouldn’t be welcome.

Not yet, at any rate.

He hesitated, not entirely sure just how much this keen-eyed woman knew or had guessed, then said, “Melanie can be . . . overly dramatic, especially if an idea takes hold. And she has a very active and vivid imagination. But she isn’t capable of murder. I hope you know that.”

“I would have said.” Her green eyes never left his face. “Still resisting the notion, actually. But—evidence.”

“Circumstantial,” he said.

“True enough. But about all I’ve got. And apparent motives all over the place. A romance on the rocks. Arguments in public. Her fingerprints found in the home of the murder victim.”

“Well . . . they were involved.”

“Yeah. But Scott was a neat freak. And his habit was to make very sure all traces of his latest ex were wiped out of his apartment.”

“Still, a little cleaning wouldn’t—”

“He hired an industrial cleaning crew. Practically had them on retainer.”