Authors: Vicki Lane
Chapter 13
The Dark Angel
Friday, December 15
N
ola sweetie, time to get you ready-freddy for beddy-bye.”
Twisting away from the paper cup of water and the outstretched palm holding the sleeping pills, Nola Barrett growled her displeasure through clenched teeth, willing the proper words to float somehow to the surface of the inky pool that was her dwindling reservoir of speech. Intolerable! Yet another whey-faced minion in childish, pajama-like garb was here to torment her, to address her as if she were an infant, to handle her as if she were a large, insensate rag doll. But without speech, she was powerless. Oh, for the words that had once flowed trippingly from her tongue! The words, the words, where were the words?
“Ooh, look what you got!” Busy fingers prying open the tin of cookies, investigating the contents of the basket, pillaging the items heaped on the vacant bed. “Did Miz Holcombe bring you this nice afghan? Or was it one of the others? My goodness, you’re a popular girl with all these important visitors.”
Cookie crumbs fell moistly on her arm as moon-faced Michelle, for that was the name on the little plastic plaque pinned to the loose pink-and-green printed top, loomed over her. “Here, I’ll just lay it like this where you can see how pretty it is—all them soft blue and purple colors and that fancy fluffy yarn. My sister knits things like this.”
The new aide jumped back as, with a heroic effort, Nola worried at the woolly covering till it slid off the bed.
“Now why’d you want to push it on the floor? Too hot? That’s all righty; I’ll fold it over the back of your chair. We can leave the nice goodie basket right here on this bed. Did you know Miz Holcombe has fixed it where you get to have the room all to yourself? You’re a lucky girl to have a nice lady like that for your friend. Now let’s just tidy up a smidge.”
Nola watched in impotent fury as the horrible helper clattered and clanked and pawed through the two drawers and one closet that contained the sum total of her meager possessions. At last a string of suitable words presented themselves, the title of a children’s book—Dr. Seuss, was it? She had read and reread the cheerful, jingling rhymes, hoping to delight Little Ricky with them on that longed-for, and now never-to-be, second visit.
“‘Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go NOW!’”
The words were perfectly formed and spoken louder than she had believed herself capable of, but Michelle ignored her and went on flipping through the pile of cards from well-wishers, paying careful attention to each return address and message.
Nola gathered all her strength and slapped at the mattress. “Anoint thee, witch!”
The woman put down the card she’d been reading and gave Nola a sideways look from under her dark bangs.
“Nola sweetie, you’re hurtin’ my feelin’s. Didn’t Miz Holcombe tell you? She’s hired you a team of Angel Aides. There’s going to be one of us with you all the time, seeing you get taken care of just right.”
The Dark Angel moved to the door and pushed it shut, then turned and smiled cheerily at Nola’s helpless moan. “We’re goin’ to get along fine, Nola, if you’ll just be a good girl and help us help you.”
Nola watched as Michelle plucked a little satin-cased pillow from the accumulation of objects brought by various visitors, supposedly to add to the invalid’s comfort. “Let’s tuck this under your head all comfy and then we’ll swallow our pills like a brave girl.”
As the Dark Angel approached, holding the pillow out like an offering, Nola began to scream.
Phillip Hawkins pulled his old gray car into its accustomed parking spot alongside the corncrib. As expected, Elizabeth was there in her jeep, waiting to ferry him up the steep road to the house. She always insisted that she didn’t mind this little extra trip, but increasingly he was beginning to find that
he
did.
Cracking the door so that the overhead light would allow him to collect his possessions, he noticed the faded upholstery and the familiar Texas-shaped coffee stain on the seat beside him. Then there was the odd tilt the driver’s seat had assumed. The shabbiness of the car seemed to have increased exponentially since last he’d paid any attention to it.
Well, what the hell, it got him where he wanted to go, didn’t it?
Aging but serviceable, kinda like me.
The thought pleased him for a moment, but then a teasing inner voice whispered,
But
does
it get you where you want to go…really?
Phillip took his hand off the door handle. He’d been considering the purchase of a four-wheel-drive vehicle—not to avoid being met and driven up the hill to Elizabeth’s house, he told himself; no, it was for increased safety in the occasional icy driving conditions of the mountains.
And if—
he would not let himself say
when,
not yet
—if I take Mac’s offer and go to work for him full-time, I’ll really need four-wheel drive. But if I buy one now it might seem to her that…I don’t know, sometimes I get the feeling she really likes living where not just anyone can come calling. A little like there’s a moat…and she’s the one in charge of the drawbridge.
“Shit.” He tried to shake off the brooding thoughts. It had been his intention to come out for the weekend in a cheerful mood, ready to join in the holiday preparations—which were evidently a big deal in this family—and to have a reasonable, rational discussion about marriage with the drawbridge keeper over there. Instead, he was feeling pissed. Pissed and ill-used. Probably do himself more harm than good, the way he felt right now, but it was too late to invent a reason for staying at his own place this weekend.
The door of the jeep opened. In the frosty air, Elizabeth’s breath haloed her head, and in spite of the fading twilight, he could see her worried expression. Quickly he grabbed up the little overnight bag from the seat beside him and was out of the car just as she reached him. Trying to let go of the anger and frustration that had been building all week, he dropped the bag to the ground and opened his arms to embrace her.
“Phillip, I’m glad you’re here.” She flowed into his arms and they stood silently for a moment: two middle-aged people, much encumbered by heavy winter outerwear and vintage emotional baggage, but, for the moment, in perfect harmony.
“I missed talking to you last night. Your message said you’d be unavailable for the next twenty-four hours, so I didn’t try to call you today. I started to worry that maybe you weren’t coming out.”
She grabbed at his hand as they walked toward the house, and he felt a stab of compunction as he remembered the brusque tone of the message he’d left for her.
“I’m sorry, Lizabeth—something came up with Mac. I’ll tell you about it later; right now I’d just like to have a beer and find out what you’ve got planned for the weekend. When’re the girls coming?”
“Tomorrow afternoon—tonight, it’s just us.” As she pulled open the front door, she favored him with a suggestive wink. Then the dogs swirled around them, each one demanding Phillip’s full attention.
In the kitchen, a bowl of salted almonds, a wedge of Brie with French bread rounds, and two wineglasses were waiting.
“Let’s sit in front of the fire—supper’s in the oven and needs another half hour anyway.” She ducked into the pantry, opened the refrigerator, and stood pondering its crowded interior. “How do you feel about having some champagne instead of a beer? The last big Christmas order went out today and I feel like celebrating.”
“Champagne works—as long as you’re not trying to make me weak and silly and then take advantage of me.” He moved behind her and, wrapping her long braid around his hand, gently tugged till she turned to him.
“Lizabeth, listen—” Her blue eyes were full on him now, a little wary, perhaps, but she seemed ready to hear what he had to say. “Let’s not get into any discussions this weekend about our living arrangements. I’d like to postpone that till”—he made a show of looking at the ceiling and calculating—“till the twenty-first, when AB Tech goes on break. Then
I’ll
feel like celebrating. Let’s make a date for that day—go somewhere. If the weather’s decent, maybe take a picnic and go for a hike. Or just ride around the county. There’s still a lot I haven’t seen.”
She agreed, maybe a little too eagerly, he thought.
Anything to avoid that discussion for a few more days.
The sour suspicion bubbled up, but as they settled onto the sofa, he resolved again to enjoy the weekend without thinking about the unknown future.
Live in the Now, like Janie’s always saying.
Putting his arm around Elizabeth, he pulled her to him and began to practice his daughter’s precept.
“You looked so tired and so…I don’t know…so thoroughly
bummed
when you got out of the car I just didn’t want to even mention it till later and then the champagne and the…the….”
Phillip looked up from the pile of homework papers he had promised himself he would finish tonight. A golden pool of light from the lamp at her elbow fell on the hoop in Elizabeth’s hands, illuminating a square of randomly pieced jewel-tone fabrics. A block for a crazy quilt, she had said. Whatever that was.
He was amused to see a flush spreading across her face as she put down the embroidery. “…the…ah…fooling around put it right out of my mind,” she continued, ignoring his knowing leer and Groucho-esque eyebrow waggle.
“See what happens when you give me champagne, Lizabeth? I knew you were trying to have your way with me, you unprincipled wench.”
And quite a contradictory wench—the prim and proper widow with her embroidery now but an hour and a half ago—not so very proper and not prim at all.
“What did my manly attentions make you forget, sweetheart?”
Her face remained serious, unmoved by his teasing. She picked up the embroidery hoop again and resumed the delicate dance of needle and silk floss that she had told him was called a feather stitch.
He rephrased the question, this time matching her mood. “What’s wrong, Lizabeth?”
“Your business with Mac last night, was it something to do with Payne Morton?”
He stared. “Lizabeth…what do—”
“Miss Birdie told me that he’d killed himself.”
“Miss Birdie?” He blinked, trying to make sense of what she’d just said. It didn’t work; there was no way…“I don’t get it. Mac said he was keeping it quiet till he’d had time to break the news to the family. And when I talked to him right before coming over here, he still hadn’t been able to get hold of the brother. How in the name of—”
“Bernice called Birdie and told her. It seems Bernice’s boy—”
“Don’t tell me. Bernice’s boy heard it on the scanner.” The wildfire speed with which news spread through remote and straggling mountain communities was a constant amazement to Phillip. Modern technology had been a boon to these isolated folk. Though they chose not to live too close to one another, they were still keenly interested in all that befell their friends and acquaintances. With a sigh, he set aside the papers and quizzes.
“I might as well tell you all about it. No doubt Miss Birdie can fill in any missing details for you tomorrow.”
He stretched and, spreading his arms comfortably across the back of the sofa, launched into his story.
“You know Mac had already sworn me in as a deputy back when you and I first met. Well, I never got unsworn, you might say. And Mac is in a kind of a bind right now; he needs someone outside the department to look into a…well, an ongoing situation. I can’t say anything more about that right now. But anyway, when the call about the pastor came in yesterday afternoon, Mac got hold of me and asked if I could come along.
“I rode with him out to the scene. He was pretty ticked when we got there and found four, count them
four,
of his other deputies, contaminating the scene and blatantly ignoring chain-of-evidence procedure.”
Once more she had laid the embroidery aside and was giving him her whole attention, eyes fixed on him.
“Anyhow, just about then another call came through—some domestic dispute up on Spillcorn—and Mac sent two of the deputies off to deal with that. So there we are, securing the scene the best we can, and one of the old boys who’s still there sings out that there’s a note jobbed onto a nail in the wall. Before Mac can stop him, he’s pulled the note down, dropped it on the dirt floor, and managed to step on it, all in the space of about ten seconds. Mackenzie’s foaming at the mouth, trying to stop this fool from contaminating the evidence any further but the damage is done.”
She leaned toward him. “A note? Birdie didn’t mention a note…what was in it? Did it say why the pastor killed himself?”
Phillip took his time answering, happy to have beaten Bernice’s boy for once. “Well now, that was the interesting part. It wasn’t so much a suicide note as a kind of confession. Let me see if I can remember how it went—it was kind of disjointed, but I guess if you’re on the brink of shoving an automatic in your mouth and spattering—sorry, sweetheart—I shouldn’t have—”
Her pained expression reminded him that she had actually seen and spoken with the pastor recently. Inwardly cursing his own ex-cop lack of sensibilities, he hurried on with the story.
“Anyway, it wasn’t so much a note as a kind of series of phrases—‘eleven years of agony and guilt…pay the price…she was willing…an accident…not right that no one knows…’ Stuff like that—nothing that made any sense but it was bagged as evidence. But what kept me busy all last night was the piece of the note that we picked up after they’d removed the body and Mac and I were having one last look around. It was just a scrap—a corner of the note that must have gotten torn off when Deputy Doofus stepped on it. The first part was all smudged and illegible—all we could make out were the words ‘in the silo at the old stand.’”
Chapter 14
The Silo
Friday, December 15
T
he what?” Elizabeth was staring at him, as if he’d suddenly begun to speak in tongues. Then recognition dawned. “Do you mean that old abandoned thing in the field next to the parking lot at the bridge? It hasn’t been used as a silo as long as I’ve been here—it doesn’t even have the little dome thing at the top they usually—”
“That’s the one.” Phillip stood and bent to add another log to the fire. “And I gotta say, going down into that sucker after dark is high on the list of things I don’t want to do again.” An involuntary shiver ran over him as he remembered the previous night.
“How are you with heights?”
As the ambulance, followed by the unit carrying the other two deputies, had disappeared down the rutted, hard-frozen dirt road that curled away from the sagging barn, Phillip had found himself the object of Mackenzie Blaine’s shrewd, assessing stare. The question was unexpected and Phillip’s reply was suitably cautious.
“Why? What kind of heights?”
“Oh, nothing major. Say about the height of that silo at the old stand.”
Phillip groaned. “You’re not thinking of…”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows and waited.
“You
are
thinking of…oh,
man,
it’s almost dark now!” Realizing that his objection was sounding regrettably like a whine, Phillip had switched to reason. “Listen, Mac, if there’s anything in that silo—I say
if—
don’t you reckon it could wait till morning?”
But Mackenzie was shaking his head and turning back toward his cruiser. “Morton’s note said ‘eleven years of guilt.’ And that letter I got, the one that disappeared off my desk, it was talking about a gang rape eleven years ago. Now”—the sheriff stopped in his tracks and turned to wag a gloved finger in Phillip’s direction “—that makes me wonder if maybe there isn’t a connection between whatever caused the late pastor to eat his gun and the accusation in the letter. It also makes me wonder why Lester was so damned clumsy handling that suicide note.”
The sheriff scowled. “If there’s a connection between the silo and that letter I got, then I want to make sure I get there first. All four of those clowns who were on the scene when we got here are deputies I inherited from the previous sheriff. And they had plenty of time to read that note before I got there—for all I know they could have set up that 10-80—a phony domestic disturbance call—to give them time to get to the silo first. But I’m hoping that’s not what happened.”
Abruptly Blaine stalked off to his car and Phillip hurried to catch up with him. “Mac, what the hell are you expecting to find?”
Mackenzie stopped, his glove resting on the door handle. “I have no idea, Hawk. Probably nothing. If I had reason to believe there was”—he pursed his lips “—anything significant, I’d be obliged to call in the SBI and let them handle it. But at this point, I have no reason to suspect there’s a…there’s anything in there. Matter of fact, this is probably nothing but a wild-goose chase, and you’re going to be completely justified in calling me six kinds of crazy. But if there’s anything at all in that silo that has to do with whatever it was went down eleven years ago, I want it to be us that find it.”
He opened the door. “Get in; time’s a-wastin’.”
Turning the ignition key, Mackenzie grinned. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The silo had glimmered palely in the fading light as they parked at the far end of the riverside park, deserted now, even by the Canada geese. As he followed the sheriff into the weedy field that surrounded the lonely concrete structure, Phillip looked back over his shoulder at the old stand on its ledge overlooking the park, the river, the bridge, and the deserted fields. The last rays of the sun, sliding behind the mountains beyond the river, were caught in the upper windows of the old building, momentarily giving the impression of blazing fire within, then blinking out and leaving the glass blank, as if the house had closed its eyes.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s been down this way recently.” Blaine’s words floated back to him on the icy air. Phillip followed, trying to shake off the memory of Nola Barrett’s black-clad figure tumbling from the upper gallery of the old house.
“Maybe not recently, but in the past eleven years there have to have been kids climbing it like kids do, on a dare or—”
“Don’t think so, Hawk. Till just a year or so ago, this field was used for pasture—feller in the house down that way kept cattle here. And between the bull and the five-strand electric fence and the fact that the old boy just despised a trespasser—kept a shotgun loaded with rock salt—kids around here had to find some other way of working out their daredevil tendencies.”
The frozen vegetation around the base of the old silo was undisturbed, and a thin frosting of snow lay unblemished on the metal rungs that ran to the apex of the concrete cylinder. Phillip’s eyes traveled up the meager ladder, lingered at the open top, and then returned to Sheriff Mackenzie Blaine.
“I’ve got a real feeling that question about heights wasn’t just to make small talk. But there oughta be a way in around here…” Phillip began to circle the silo, then stopped, seeing the sheet metal that completely sealed off the rectangular opening.
Blaine called after him. “The old boy who kept the cattle here put that up years ago. Probably worried about a cow getting stuck in there. Once the cap was gone, I reckon the bottom got pretty boggy.”
Phillip pried at the edges of the rusted metal, but the heavy bolts securing it to the concrete wall wouldn’t budge. At last he abandoned the attempt and returned to Blaine. “Okay—so you want me to climb up that ladder—”
“Hawk, I’d do it myself if it weren’t for my right knee. It’s not back to full strength after the surgery. Still, if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll just have to—”
Phillip held up a hand. “Please, Mac, spare me. Did you bring a flashlight?”
But the sheriff was pulling something from his jacket pocket. “I’ve got you a headlamp right here. Free up your hands for climbing.”
With the air of one bestowing a medal, he arranged the elastic bands over Phillip’s watch cap. When the light was settled to his satisfaction, Blaine gave it a twist. An intense blue-white beam shot out, glancing off the nearby trees and momentarily making them look like photographic negatives.
Phillip swung his head from side to side, enjoying the ease with which he could pick out shadowy objects.
“Dammit, Hawk, watch where you point that thing!” The sheriff jumped back, an arm raised to shield his eyes. “How ’bout you use it to find your way up the ladder? The temperature’s gonna drop like a son-of-a-bitch, with night coming on.”
The iron rungs of the ladder were mercifully sturdy.
So far, anyway.
Climbing steadily and carefully, his gloved hands testing each rung before trusting his weight to it, his booted feet feeling carefully for a firm purchase, Phillip made his way up the silo’s side at a stately pace.
The main thing is not to look down.
And then he was at the top. Turning his head from side to side to relieve the growing tension in his neck and shoulders, he was startled and momentarily dizzied by the sight of the blue-white beam dancing crazily over the nearby leafless trees and the river beyond. Closing his eyes, he clung to the ladder, waiting for the feeling of nausea to subside.
“You okay, Hawk?” Blaine’s voice sounded very far away.
How tall is this thing, anyway? It can’t be more than forty, fifty feet.
Phillip tried to concentrate on breathing slowly.
Get a grip.
He had gotten a grip and, calling down reassurances, laced with a little mild invective, had negotiated the tricky business of getting first one leg and then the other over the open top of the silo to begin the slow journey down.
“And you actually climbed right down
into
that old silo? At night? In the black dark?”
As he resumed his seat on the sofa, Elizabeth moved to sit beside him and he felt a tingle of pleasure at her incredulous gaze. Taking hold of her hand, he leaned back into the soft cushions, determined to make a good story of it.
“Well, I had a headlamp with a powerful beam, and before I started down, I took a good look at what was down there.”
He didn’t mention the sudden lurch his stomach had given as he stared down, far down into the core of the cylinder that echoed and magnified the clang of his boots on the ladder, amplifying even the sound of his breathing, coming faster and faster. He went on with his story, feigning matter-of-factness.
“From what I could see, the silo was about a third full of god knows what—old silage, leaves—just a bunch of gray-brown vegetable matter. And there was a weird musty, moldy kind of leathery smell—not awful, just not good.”
“So, did you find anything?” In the flickering light of the fire, her face was that of a child entranced by a ghost story—apprehension and excitement teetering in a delicate balance.
“From up at the top it didn’t seem like there was anything to find. But I kept on coming down the ladder. Then as I got closer to the bottom, I started to worry that all that leafy stuff would be like quicksand or something and I’d just sink into it. So when I got down to its level, I kept good hold of the ladder and eased one foot out onto the surface. The leafy part was about ankle deep but underneath there was a fairly firm footing—a little spongy and wet, but it could hold my weight.”
He described how he had shuffled cautiously around the edges of the cylinder and then, realizing that it would have to be done, had gone down on his hands and knees and slowly crawled round and round, tightening the circle to examine every inch of the compost-covered floor.
“I even took off my heavy gloves and put on some rubber ones Mac had given me.”
“Just in case,” the sheriff had said, and Phillip had been happy to have them as he thrust his fingers into the rotting leaf-duff and scanned the lower level, groping about for whatever it was that the dead man had felt was worth mentioning in his final words.
“And?” The big-eyed kid-around-a-campfire look was still on her face.
“Well, there I was, inching along, pushing the leaves to the side, and feeling around like some obsessed snail who’s lost a contact lens. I’ve got a pretty good rhythm going—sweep, feel, inch forward, sweep, feel, inch forward—and I’m thinking about how I’m going to get even with Mac, when all of a sudden my hand hits something different.”
The half-buried, brown-stained object that the last sweeping aside of the leaves had revealed was lying on its side, just inches from his face. The one exposed eye socket was filled with dirt and what looked like a beetle’s egg case. And though finding something of the sort was a possibility he’d considered, the sight had jolted him back onto his heels and he had let out a sudden, startled yelp that magnified and echoed within the concrete chamber.
Then, as his adrenaline level eased to normal, the shape of the skull registered.
“It’s a friggin’
deer!
Mother of God, is
this
what the late rev felt guilty about—hunting out of season maybe?”
Snorting with disgust, he had grabbed at the forlorn relic to lift it out of the dirt, entertaining a fleeting notion of dropping the skull on Blaine’s head.
“And then, just when I’d wrenched this damn deer skull up out of the dirt, I saw what was underneath it—and it wasn’t deer bones. I didn’t touch anything but I could see enough to recognize part of a pelvic girdle—a
human
pelvic girdle.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes and he saw that the little girl listening to a ghost story was gone. This was no longer delightful scary entertainment, her face said. This is death and tragedy and sorrow close to home. Tightening his arm around her, he hurried his tale to its conclusion.
“And that was it. I scrambled back up the ladder in record time and hollered down to Mac that we had remains. By the time I was back on the ground, he had the SBI on his cell.”
She opened her eyes and frowned at him. “The State Bureau of Investigation? How come?”
“Lizabeth, the Marshall County Sheriff’s Department is fairly limited in terms of investigative resources, and the sheriff always has the option of calling in the SBI. In a case like this, it’s more like an obligation. Morton’s death was fairly straightforward—ninety-nine percent of the time, a bullet wound of that sort
is
suicide—self-inflicted lead poisoning. But this—remains that may be linked to a suicide, that may have been hidden all of eleven years—that’s going to take some expertise. Hell, they’ll likely have to figure out the cause of death for the deer too.”
He could feel the shudder that swept over her. She bowed her head and he had to strain to catch the words she whispered.
“They’ll have to find out about her as well…the girl…the one the pastor said was willing.”