Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (6 page)

After a startled moment, Deacon said, “Wow. That’s a little extreme. On retainer? How many exes did he have?”

“A few. But if you’re thinking more suspects, most remained at least friendly with him afterward. And Melanie was the most recent. The one showing anger in public. So . . .”

“So your number one suspect?”

“Not exactly. It’s just that his place was . . . awfully clean. And they had that argument in public. So I have to take notice, so to speak.”

“I assume you also have to take notice of the unlikelihood that my sister—or any woman without special training—could have broken the neck of a healthy, fit, adult male with plenty of his own muscle. And most especially when his neck is broken with no bruising or ligature marks, no sign of a rope—and the body found in a room with windows and door locked from the inside.”

Sheriff Nichols nodded slowly and with no surprise. “It is a puzzle,” she conceded. “I’ve been trying to wrap my mind around it, without much success.”

“Then you don’t believe my sister killed him.”

“The thing is,” Trinity Nichols said, “I’m having a hard time believing anyone killed him.”

“And yet he was murdered.”

“And yet he was murdered.”

—

THEY WERE COMING.

He could feel it, like a change in the air before a storm, a kind of oppressive heaviness even though the sky was clear. And not just heavy, but more, like power of some kind let loose to roam, prickly, tingling, uncomfortable. Both light and dark energy moving slowly all around him, restless and uneasy.

Like him. The restlessness, at least. And a growing sense of power within himself. He wasn’t exactly uneasy, just . . . alert. That was it. He was alert and aware.

Not a bad thing, surely.

An edge.

It fascinated him that he could feel them coming nearer. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected to feel
her
, of course, because she couldn’t close herself off, and even though he was being careful that she didn’t sense him, he’d always expected to sense her.

Except that she felt . . . different, somehow. More than she had been? Less? Or just different? He didn’t know.

Not knowing bothered him.

It was something out of his control.

Then there was
him.
He was different now, too. Shut inside himself like before, protected like before, but . . . connected in a way he
hadn’t
been before. Connected to her. So something new there, too. Something he couldn’t . . . quite . . . get hold of.

It was irritating.

And if the truth be told, he wasn’t sure if this uncertain sensitivity to both of them, all these change in what he had expected, would make things easier—or more difficult.

Not that it mattered, really.

He had A Plan. And he intended to stick to his Plan no matter what sort of tricks they brought with them.

A muffled sound drew his gaze from the town and stunning scenery around it to the bound man at his feet. He studied the sluggishly bleeding cut in the center of a swelling bruise on the man’s temple, then shook his own head, not so much in impatience as in regret.

“It’s a shame you came to,” he told the man. “I thought I hit you hard enough to keep you out. It would have been much better for you that way. I’m sorry, I really am. But this one has to look very . . . physical. Because the other one wasn’t. I need to throw them off the scent, so to speak. I’m sure you can understand.”

The sounds muffled behind the very efficient tape and gag became even more frantic.

“It’s nothing personal,” he assured the man as he bent and unrolled a soft leather case filled with assorted very shiny tools. “I mean, you didn’t do anything to me. You just fit my requirements, that’s all. You have a part to play. A Very Important Part. And isn’t that better than anything you could have found for yourself in your really boring life?”

Pleading sounds, garbled panic and terror.

“Oh, stop it.” He studied his tools for a moment, then stepped over to recheck the rope around the man’s ankles. “I know it’s terribly undignified, going out like this, and I’m sorry about that, I really am. If it’s any consolation to you, I’ll do my best to make sure nobody in your family finds you. Of course, the police’ll probably take lots of pictures, but I don’t think they show the really bad ones to the family, do you?”

A long, low moan, then even more urgent sounds.

“And morticians can do wonders these days, so you’ll look good in the box so everyone can pay their respects.”

This time, the sound was more a muffled scream.

He looked briefly interested, then shrugged, checked the hoist and rope for a final time, and began to slowly, carefully raise the man until he was hanging upside down with his head not much more than a foot off the ground.

For a few brief moments, he twisted around desperately like a newly hooked fish, but then subsided, still making those moaning sounds.

“I really am sorry,” he told the man again as he tied off the rope. “If I had another choice . . . But I don’t. It’s just something I have to do. You understand that, right?”

A frantic shake of the head.

Again mildly curious, he went around and bent slightly so he could grasp one side of the duct tape covering his victim’s mouth. “You know nobody can hear you up here, right? Just us?”

A jerky nod.

He stripped the tape far enough to one side to expose the mouth, and allowed his victim to push the wad of gauze out with his tongue.

“Well? What are you so desperate to say? And please don’t beg me not to do this. That’s so boring.”

In the upside-down face, terrified eyes stared at him and the mouth worked several times probably just to generate enough spit to be able to speak before a gasping string of intelligible words emerged.

“It’s . . . you . . . You’re
dead.
”

He didn’t bother with the gauze, just smoothed the tape back over his victim’s mouth.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s what makes it all so very interesting. Don’t you think?”

“It certainly isn’t your average murder,” Trinity Nichols said.

Deacon wondered how she felt about that, but couldn’t tell. Her pleasant expression gave nothing away, and when he let his guard down a bit, that extra sense failed him as well. Not so unusual; he had a fairly narrow range, according to Bishop, able to sense less than half the people he encountered even on a very good day.

Today was an average day, and he could sense only two here in this coffee shop. The teenager who seemed so intent on his online game was worried about flunking out of school, and one of the young baristas was nursing a pretty fierce crush on her boss. With more of an effort than he had expected, Deacon reestablished his shield, and the emotions faded away.

He nodded. “So . . . any suspects other than my sister?”

“I could tell you I wasn’t free to discuss the investigation with an outsider.”

“You could. Are you going to?”

“Well . . . it
is
up to me.”

Having done his research, Deacon nodded. “State constitution grants all Georgia counties home rule to deal with local problems. Do you answer to county commissioners or a town council?”

“Commissioners,” she answered readily. “We have a good board, as usual. People who want to serve, not use the position as a stepping stone to something better. Not really the best place to begin an ambitious political career, Sociable.”

“I would have said,” he murmured.

A faint gleam in her eyes acknowledged his use of the phrase she had used herself earlier, but she didn’t comment on that.

Instead, she said, “Since the county sheriff’s office is here, there’s never been a need for town police, though a few of the smaller townships in the county have small forces. Basically, I’m the law in Crystal County.”

“That was my understanding.”

Conversationally, she said, “There was no way I was going to call in the state police, even when I realized—which I did well before noon on Tuesday—that whatever’s going on here is something we’ve never had to deal with before. And that we certainly lack any necessary specialized . . . training . . . to deal with it. Bad as the situation was and is, it would be made immeasurably worse by the sort of media attention that always follows big official investigations with multiagency task forces.”

Gazing into her intelligent eyes, he said slowly, “So you called in someone else. You called in the FBI.”

Trinity Nichols inclined her head slightly. “I was a bit surprised when you turned up today. Having a family connection here, I mean. I assume that would disqualify you from working the case.”

He barely hesitated. “Actually, I’m not sure whether it would or not, though there’s probably something on the books to address a situation like this one. But the unit I belong to is a bit . . . outside . . . some aspects of traditional FBI procedure, so I’m not at all sure any sort of standard rule would hold true. In any case, I’m definitely not here officially. My boss didn’t say anything to me about sending an agent or team down here.”

“Bishop?”

That did surprise him, although he wondered if it should have. The SCU was, after all, becoming quite well known within law enforcement all over the country. Even in very small southern towns.

Maybe especially in very small southern towns.

Still, it made him more than a little wary. No matter what she said about media attention, the bald truth was that small-town local law enforcement generally called in federal troops only as a last resort, and the SCU as a
desperate
last resort. Unless, of course, that law enforcement was not too proud to yell for help—and not too closed minded to reject all things paranormal out of hand.

Which appeared to apply to Sheriff Trinity Nichols.

“Yeah. You called Bishop specifically? The Special Crimes Unit, not just the Bureau?”

Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, though her eyes never left his. “I know a few other sheriffs and cops in districts along the southern Appalachians. With all the tourists and hikers wandering up and down the Blue Ridge, some of them getting lost or into some other kind of trouble, it pays for law enforcement to keep in touch even across jurisdictional boundaries.”

“Especially at times like now?” he suggested. “On the drive down here, all I heard on the radio was about all those young women abducted and killed in the mountains. Four dead so far, with two more missing.”

Her face tightened slightly, but her voice remained calm. “Yeah, we’re keeping in touch on that account. The girls have been taken along the southern part of the Blue Ridge, with abduction and dump sites miles apart. Hard to track, maybe even impossible, but they think he’s moving south.”

Deacon half nodded. “I know there’s an FBI team working that case, including a couple of very good profilers. But it’s the kind of case that can drag on for months, even years.”

“God, don’t say that,” she muttered. “Six women abducted since just after Christmas, four of them already dead—and the last four taken awfully close together in the timeline. That’s not just efficient; that’s scary efficient.”

“And scary prolific,” Deacon said. “I don’t see how he can keep to this pace much longer, but if he does . . . a lot more women are going to die.”

“He’s operating in a wilderness, and so far that’s worked for him. But all the media coverage coupled with rangers, cops, feds, and even private investigators and bounty hunters crawling all over the mountains, plus helicopters buzzing overhead during the day, is bound to shrink his victim pool.”

“They’ll stop making it easy for him,” Deacon agreed. “No more hikers or motorists stopping at lookouts or even rest stops. I heard the last two were taken from a pretty deserted rest stop.”

“Yeah, and now every rest stop along the Blue Ridge and the general area is being manned by state cops or rangers, twenty-four-seven.”

“A sensible precaution.”

“It could drive him down into the towns to hunt, you know that. And there are way too many small, isolated mountain towns where hunting would be relatively easy for him.”

“Like Sociable?” Deacon said.

“Like Sociable.”

—

CATHY SIMMONS NORMALLY
took a brisk walk before work nearly every day, weather permitting, and used the gym three times a week, usually after work. But since Scott’s death, she had noticed she wasn’t the only one electing not to be out walking or jogging alone.

The gym was crowded for a Thursday morning; it was a good thing she’d taken an early lunch, or she probably wouldn’t have gotten a treadmill to herself.

Since there was a line waiting to use the equipment, she didn’t linger but did a brisk thirty-minute walk, then gave up the machine and went to the locker room for a quick shower. She figured if she hurried, she’d have time to stop in next door for a salad or a half sub, even if she had to eat it in the break room at the bank—

“Hey, Cathy.”

She started, swearing inwardly. “Hey, Jackson.”

“Did I scare you? I’m sorry.” Jackson Ruppe was a big man who towered over most everyone around him, but he was also the stereotypical gentle giant—unless he intercepted a bully or someone otherwise picking on the smaller and weaker.

Cathy could remember at least once in junior high when a couple of the “mean” girls had been verbally picking on her near her locker; Cathy had been to the point of tears when the girls had suddenly shut up and melted into the crowd. And Cathy hadn’t been very surprised to turn and find Jackson looming.

He had smiled, winked, and gone on his way before she could even say thank you. And whether he had done something else or merely made his protection obvious, she had never again had to worry about being picked on—at school or outside it.

Smiling, she said, “I’m just jumpy. I think a lot of people are right now. Bad enough Scott’s gone, but not knowing who killed him has everyone on edge.”

“Yeah, that’s all anybody’s talking about down in the valley.” Jackson worked on his family’s horse ranch, raising and training beautiful Arabians that had for generations been so famous that they were shipped all over the world.

Cathy could remember as a child seeing an honest-to-God sheik in town to look at the horses. Flowing headgear and all.

“What’re you doing up here in the middle of the day?” she asked.

“Mostly came up to ask Trinity if she had any leads. And to pick up my one good suit from the dry cleaner for the funeral tomorrow.”

Making a mental note to check on her own wardrobe, Cathy asked, “What did Trinity say?”

“Wasn’t in her office. I gather she’s over at Village Coffee talking to a stranger. Except word is, he’s Melanie’s brother. And a fed.”

Cathy blinked. “Seriously?”

“Way I heard it.”

“You think he’s here just to visit Melanie or because of Scott’s murder?”

“He’s not talking to Melanie,” Jackson pointed out dryly. “He’s talking to the sheriff.”

Cathy chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe Trinity just needs somebody to talk to, a cop, who didn’t grow up here. I mean, can
you
be objective about who might have killed Scott?”

Calmly, Jackson said, “I figure it was a cuckolded husband. Just not sure which one.”

“But Scott and Melanie just broke up, and they were an item for months.”

“Doesn’t mean he was faithful.”

Cathy hated finding out bad things about friends. “Dammit, did he cheat all the time?”

“It was his nature.” Jackson wasn’t in the least judgmental, just matter-of-fact. “I think most of his women caught on pretty soon, and some probably knew going in. Trinity did.”

“She did? How do you know that?”

Jackson smiled. “Just do. She’s one of the brightest people in this town and very . . . intuitive to boot. She knows people, and without being told. Horses love her. So do cats and dogs. Watch Braden with her sometime. Animals can always tell about good people.”

“I know you’ve always thought that.”

“It’s true. Take Scott, for instance. Now, we both know I didn’t care for the guy, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed things about him. Telling things. Anytime a group of you went riding, he always had something else to do. Truth is, horses didn’t like him. Neither did dogs. Even if he hadn’t been a neat freak, there’s no way he would have had a pet.”

Cathy wasn’t surprised that Jackson related people to animals; he’d been that way his whole life, probably not surprisingly given his upbringing on a ranch filled with high-strung horses, numerous other animals, and a family of bedrock-calm people.

She leaned sideways to look around him and down the sidewalk for a moment. “Yeah, Braden’s sitting outside the shop. He doesn’t get far away from her, does he?”

“No, and probably a good thing, right now especially.”

“I guess.” She realized something suddenly and frowned at him. “Wait a minute. If you believe Scott was killed by somebody’s husband, then why should Trinity be especially careful?”

“Hear about those women abducted and killed north of here?”

Cathy shivered, distracted from Scott’s murder by probably the only thing that shook her almost as much. “There isn’t much else on the news. Horrible. But that’s miles away from here, Jackson,
and
miles away from any town. Out in the wilderness.”

“Yeah. But looks like he’s heading south pretty steady, so it might be her headache eventually. And trouble for us. Of all the mountain towns here at the end of the Appalachians, we’re at the highest elevation. Closest to that wilderness.”

That hadn’t occurred to her. “Great. That’s just great.”

Jackson realized he had shaken her and was immediately sorry. “Look, it’ll probably never get that far.
He’ll
probably never get this far south. They’ve got an army combing the mountains for him.”

“I wish that made me feel better.”

He took her arm. “You need to eat before you go back to the bank. Why don’t we get a sub, and then I’ll walk you back to work, how’s that?”

Even though the sub shop was less than a dozen doors down the sidewalk from the bank, it made Cathy feel better. She managed a laugh as she fell into step beside him. “Still watching out for me even after all these years.”

“Maybe I’m just watching out for me,” Jackson murmured, but so softly she didn’t hear it.

—

“SO THAT’S WHY
you reached out to the FBI?” Deacon ventured. “Less because of this murder in Sociable than because there’s a serial in the mountains not so very far from here, maybe heading this way?”

“I had several reasons,” Trinity said. “As I’ve noted, there are some unusual elements about the murder of Scott Abernathy. Enough to make me wonder if his killing was personal . . . or the start of something a whole lot worse.”

Deacon hesitated, then said, “According to Melanie, he was the kind of man who might have enemies.”

“He was that. A womanizer, everyone knew. But charming, and tended to keep things civil, at least with the women. Though I’m sure there are a few men out there who wouldn’t have minded beating the hell out of him.”

“But not breaking his neck?”