Once An Alpha (The S Files: Paranormal Investigation Agency – Book 1) (11 page)

Chapter Thirteen

“Yep. Uh-huh, I’m writing it down now. Thanks, Charlie.”

Lyndon nodded at me as he scribbled down a note, and then hung up his cell phone. “Ok, our guys got us the address. Mrs. Callie Winter lives at 42 Mountain Home Road with her husband, Seamus Winter, and their two children. Husband is an electrician, while she is apparently a housewife. He drives a white van, she drives a blue Honda. Let’s go pay her a visit while he’s most likely at work.”

I stretched and yawned, still tired even after the long sleep I’d had the night before after Dora Hall’s visit. “Okay, let me just grab my bag.”

“You feeling okay?” Lyndon asked.

“Sure. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

We headed about four minutes away from the town center and then took a right. Mountain Home Road was close. Pine trees lined the street, and the houses varied between cozy little cottages and larger two-storied bungalows, all with neat little gardens and pristine verdant lawns out the front. After pulling up across from number forty-two, we scanned the front yard and garage for a vehicle that matched the make and model of Seamus Winter’s.

“Looks like he’s definitely out,” Lyndon remarked.

Their front garden was impeccable, and a little rope swing tied to an oak tree to the side of the house swayed gently from side to side in the breeze. We crossed the street and then rang the doorbell to the residence, and after two more tries there was finally an answer. A timid brunette with wide brown eyes, pinched features and pale skin opened the door a crack, nervously peeking out at us.

“Yes?” she said.

“Mrs. Winter,” I said. “We’re from the FBI, and we’d like to have a word with you. I’m Agent Peyton and this is Agent Lyndon.”

We displayed our badges, and she looked at both of them before staring curiously at me. “What is this about? Did my husband do something?”

“Err…maybe. We aren’t sure about that yet,” Lyndon replied. “That’s why we need to talk to you.”

Callie slowly nodded and beckoned us inside, and I noticed she did the same thing that Dora had done the night before, checking to make sure no one had seen.

“Can I offer either of you tea or coffee? Or juice?”

“Tea would be great, thank you,” I replied. “And I assume Lyndon will take a coffee.”

“How do you take it?” she asked, busying herself in the kitchen.

“White with no sugar in my tea, please, and weak,” I replied.

“And I like my coffee however you make it, Mrs. Winter,” Lyndon said, turning on the charm. We needed to make her feel comfortable so that there was a chance she would talk to us.

When our drinks were ready, Callie ushered us over to a mahogany kitchen table and motioned for us to sit.

“If this is about the back taxes Seamus owed from last year, he already paid them,” she said.

Lyndon grinned. “That sounds like something more in the domain of the IRS,” he said. “That’s not quite why we’re here.”

She nodded and then stared silently down into her own drink, watching the tendrils of steam rise up and vanish under her nose.

“Mrs. Winter,” I said. “Have you ever heard the name Catherine Stockton before?”

Her head jerked up at the mention of what I assumed to be her real name, but she regained her composure only a fragment of a second later.

“No. I don’t think so. Why?” she asked.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Lyndon pressed her. “It’s very important that you tell us the truth, Mrs. Winter.”

She stared defiantly back at him. “I am telling the truth. I don’t know anyone of that name. Never heard it before.”

I glanced at Lyndon, wondering what our next move should be. Callie Winters was obviously lying, based on her initial reaction upon hearing the name, but we couldn’t prove it, and we couldn’t very well arrest her and force her to submit to DNA testing without her permission and without apparent cause; testing that I was certain would prove she was really Catherine Stockton, solo hiker who had vanished outside Bakewell Springs twelve years before.

“Well, Mrs. Winter…if anything jogs your memory later, then please give us a call,” Lyndon said, handing her a small card with both of our cell phone numbers on it.

We finished our drinks, and she showed us to the door. As we walked down the drive and then back across the street to our car, I turned my head over my shoulder and looked back at the Winter house. Callie was standing at a window, peering through the curtains at us, and she didn’t let up until we had started the car and were in the process of pulling away from the curb.

“Great,” Lyndon said. “Back where we started. Did you try the local newspaper yet to see if there was anything there?”

“Nope.”

He took a left and headed back into town towards the small office that belonged to the Bakewell Springs Gazette. When we arrived there and asked to see back issues that might pertain to our case, we were once again stonewalled and told that we needed to fill out an application to have them go into their archives for us. They’d let us know if our application was approved or denied.

“We’re federal agents,” I hissed at the woman behind the counter. “I don’t think we need to fill this out. May I speak with your supervisor?”

She shrugged. “I am the supervisor. That’s the rules for everyone, FBI or not. I’ll call you when I know if you have been approved.”

I shook my head and then rolled my eyes at Lyndon as we left the building. “What’s the bet that our ‘application’ gets declined?”

“I’d say pretty good,” he said, casting a dark glance at the Gazette office as we headed back to the car.

“What now?” I asked, staring out of the front window and watching the townspeople mill about as they attended to their daily business. Lyndon didn’t reply, and simply squeezed my thigh with his right hand.

We were stuck. The town was stonewalling us; hiding every bit of information at every turn, and we had no idea who we could trust. Sighing, we headed back to the office at the police department to once again rifle through old files. There had to be something in there that we’d missed.

I had been hoping that when we returned to the office, Ted or one of the others would tell me they’d had some sort of breakthrough, but no such luck. Lyndon and I hadn’t shared our speculation with them yet, because we weren’t sure if we could trust even them.

We trudged into our little corner office and sat down, and a few hours later, I was almost asleep again. I leaned my head down on the large desk after a yawn for a power nap, and Lyndon peered at me.

“I’m almost getting the same idea,” he said. “All this shit is exhausting me.”

A knock at the door startled me awake a moment later. It was Sheriff Mills, looking rather pallid.

“Agents…you’re going to want to hear about this. A Mrs. Dora Hall has been shot in her front garden just minutes ago. We don’t get shootings like this in this town of ours. Reckon it might have some link to the cases?”

My heart sank into my stomach, and I looked across at Lyndon. His face was ashen. We leapt into action, grabbing our coats and following Mills out to his patrol car.

“Is she…is she dead?” I asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

“No,” he replied. My heart soared a little. Maybe she’d be able to identify her attacker and give us a solid lead. “She was unresponsive when the medics arrived, but they revived her. They’re rushing her to the hospital now.”

Mills sped along the main road and then took a sharp turn, skidding into the parking lot of the local hospital, and I could tell he was just as desperate as us to speak to Dora to see if she could pinpoint the shooter.

Dashing over to the emergency room entrance, we saw an ambulance parked right out the front, still flashing its emergency lights. A gurney was being pulled away, and we could see Dora lying on it, blood seeping all over the white sheets as doctors and nurses bustled around her.

“Doctor, is she awake?” Mills shouted as we approached. A grey-haired doctor looked up.

“Yes, but barely. Sorry, Sheriff, but we honestly don’t know how long we can keep her responsive. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Nurses held IV bags filled with blood near the gurney, and the doctor returned to whatever he had been doing to try and save Dora.

“We’re from the FBI,” Lyndon said as we moved closer. “Dora, can you hear me? Can you tell us who did this to you?”

She stirred and moaned.

“Who shot you, Dora?”

Finally her eyes fluttered open, and she murmured a response. “It was the… th…”

With that her eyes snapped shut again, and the nurses barked at us. “Get out of our way! We need to get her into emergency surgery right now!”

They wheeled the gurney away at breakneck speed through the glass emergency room doors, and Lyndon kicked at the ground with his boot. “Fuck!”

“What do you think she meant?” I asked.

“Fuck knows. The mailman. The neighbor. The
something.
Who the fuck can tell? Jesus, we just can’t catch a break!”

I gently squeezed his hand. “It’ll all be okay,” I said, even though I had no idea if it really would be.

We lingered in the parking lot for another hour, waiting for news, and Mills hurried over to us as soon as the hospital updated him on Dora Hall’s condition.

“She didn’t make it,” he said, grim expression marring his face. “She died during surgery.”

Lyndon didn’t even speak this time, let alone swear. He simply stood there, his hands bunching into tight fists by his side. I knew exactly how he felt. This case was an uphill battle with fear and death at every turn. And still no answers.

“Sheriff Mills, do you have any idea what her last words might have meant?”

He shook his head, shoulders sagging. “No idea. I know she’d recently had a bit of a falling out with her neighbors, but that was over a tree that had been growing over the fence and into their yard. Hardly something that would get her killed.”

My heart ached for little Rachel and her young brother. I’d always had two happily married parents, and I had no idea what it would be like for them now, with only one parent to raise them after the murder of the other.

Mills’ cell phone buzzed a moment later, and he swore under his breath after listening to the person on the other end of the line. “Christ. Okay, I’ll be right there. Yeah, I’m with them. I’ll let ‘em know.”

I looked at him curiously, eyebrows furrowed.

“We need to get back to your motel,” he said. “There’s been another incident.”

Chapter Fourteen

Mills sped through town to our motel, and before we even got there I had a sinking feeling. Smoke was hanging in the air, and when we pulled in to the parking lot, I saw other police vehicles and a big red fire truck parked out the front. Firemen were running around with big hoses and extinguishers, and I didn’t even have to guess what had happened. I somehow just knew.

“There’s been a fire,” Mills said as we exited the patrol car. “Seems something caught alight in your motel room, Agent Peyton.”

Sure it had.

I dashed over to the fire chief, a short, stout man who introduced himself as Rogers. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see flames licking up the blinds of my room, and two burly firemen smashed their way through the locked door before racing inside. Lights from the police and fire department vehicles lit up the parking lot and motel walls with red and blue flashes, and I stood and watched in silence. Everything I had was in there. My notes, my laptop. All of it, burned up in a very convenient fire. Convenient for someone, anyway.

Half an hour later, the firemen seemed to have the blaze under control, and I stared in despair at the blackened remains of my room. Glancing around, I saw Lyndon over to my left, his hands in his pockets as he muttered into his cell phone, occasionally looking up to see if anyone was watching or listening.

Part of me couldn’t help but wonder who he was talking to, and what about. He hadn’t done anything to arouse my suspicions, but he was a shifter just like the conspirators in this town most likely were. Was there a chance he was somehow in on it too? At this point, I felt as if I couldn’t trust anyone; even him. The only person I could really rely on was myself.

“Sir,” a young fireman said, racing over to us. He spoke to Rogers in a low voice that I couldn’t quite make out, and Rogers nodded and began to write something down on his clipboard.

“What happened?” I asked him.

He finished making his note and then dropped his hand to his side as he looked at me. “Seems as if some sort of hairstyling appliance was left on. Did you have a hair straightener or curler in there, Agent Peyton?”

I nodded. “I have a hair straightener, yes, but it’s just a little travel one. I only use it sometimes to smooth my hair out when it’s going nuts. I haven’t used it in days now. I haven’t had time!”

“Are you sure it was switched off?” he asked.

“Yes!” I replied, exasperated. “It was still plugged in, but I’d definitely turned it off and even switched it off at the outlet.”

“This is not exactly a new motel. Sometimes there can be old or faulty wiring, so maybe something happened and it tripped the switch. Not unheard of in older buildings.”

He made another note on his clipboard, and I kept my eyes trained on him. “How can a hair straightener start a fire?”

“Well, if it gets left on for a while, it can overheat,” he replied.

“Yeah, I get that,” I said. “But it was definitely all off this morning. Could it really overheat and start a fire that quickly?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ve seen it a few times. I’m sorry this happened, Agent, but it’s definitely going to be ruled as an accident.”

“Bullshit,” I mumbled.

“Sorry?” he said, looking right at me.

“Nothing,” I hastily replied. “Thanks for your help, Rogers.”

He patted me on the shoulder and then fell into conversation with the motel owner, who had just arrived to survey the damages. “Don’t worry too much,” I overheard him say to the owner. “Only one room was affected, and we managed to contain it. The other rooms are perfectly safe, and the guests can all return to them. You’ll need to get my signature on these forms for insurance purposes, and you’ll also need to…”

His voice trailed off as I walked away, and I leaned against the edge of Sheriff Mills’ patrol car. Lyndon was still on the phone talking in hushed tones, and I was joined by Ted a moment later.

“Hey, Myla,” he said, handing me a warm blue thermos. “I’m so sorry about this. It’s like one piece of bad news after the other in these last few weeks. Here, I got you tea just how I’ve seen you make it down at the station. Weak as hell.”

“Thanks,” I said, gratefully accepting the warm beverage. It was just what I needed right now. “I can’t believe this happened. All my stuff was in there, including all my case notes.”

“The important thing is that you weren’t in there, and you’re safe,” he said.

I smiled and took a sip of the tea, and then looked at him, vague guilt wrenching at my stomach. “Ted, I have to be honest with you. I’m sort of involved with Lyndon. It’s all fairly new, but….you’re a really nice guy, and I’d hate for you to think I was leading you on.”

He slowly nodded, and then grinned at me.

“It’s all right, Myla. I sort of figured there was something going on there. I’m not as dumb as I look, even though I’m a blond,” he said, winking at me. “But he’s a lucky guy. I hope he knows that.”

“Mm…yeah,” I replied, staring over at Lyndon, who had finally hung up his phone. He saw me talking to Ted, and he headed over to us and shook his hand.

“Deputy. Thanks for taking care of her. Myla, you’re going to have to stay in my room tonight instead. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“We’ll go and pick you up some new clothes and essentials tomorrow,” he continued. “But for now, let’s just shower and get some rest.”

I nodded, finished the hot tea in one large gulp, and then handed the thermos back to Ted. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Ted. Thanks for the tea.”

I followed Lyndon back to his room, and he wrapped his arms around me in a bear hug.

“This will all be sorted out soon,” he said. “We’ll find the guys who are behind this. I promise.”

He headed into the bathroom to take a shower, and I was left staring at the spot where he had just been standing. Could he really keep that promise?

Ten minutes later, Lyndon was still in the shower. I could hear him humming as he lathered himself up, and I sat down on the bed, feeling lost without any of my belongings or notes. All I had now were the clothes on my back and the contents of my handbag, which thankfully included my cell phone and purse, so at least I still had the ability to communicate and purchase things if necessary.

A knock on the door startled me out of my miserable reverie, and I opened it to see Ted standing there.

“Hey, Myla. Now that the fire’s out, the guys have been able to pull a few things out of your room. They got your laptop, and while it’s a little singed around the edges, I think it’s salvageable. You might not have lost all your notes after all.”

“Oh, that’s great to hear,” I replied, my shoulders sagging with relief.

“You wanna come take a look?” he asked. “There’s a few other odds and ends they managed to save too.”

“Sure,” I said. Closing the door behind me, I followed Ted back out to the parking lot, and I noticed all the firemen had already packed up and left.

My head started to spin, and in that moment time seemed to slow to an excruciatingly slow pace. Ted turned on his heel to make sure I was right behind him, and then kept walking. Each heavy sound of his boots on the pavement seemed louder than the last as the whole world seemed to spin around me, and I faltered for a moment as stars began to appear in front of my eyes, clouding my vision as I stumbled forward and tripped over a loose stone.

The earth seemed to stop spinning the way it ought to and went the other way, and I closed my eyes as I fell, a stark realization dawning on me as fragmented images flashed in the front of my mind.

Dora’s pale face as she bled out on the gurney appeared before me, and her last words echoed in my mind. What had she been trying to say?

‘It was the…th…’

It was Theodore.

That’s what she’d been trying to get out. Not ‘the’ something. The sweet Deputy I’d come to know as Ted had shot her, most likely for speaking to us and helping with our case.

He grabbed me as I fell forward, and it occurred to me that he must have drugged the tea he’d given me earlier.

I tried to cry out but I was too dizzy and weak, and he held me tight as he dragged me to his car.

“Shh, Myla. I’ll take care of you. You’ll understand soon,” he murmured, and that was the last thing I heard before the world went black.