Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (36 page)
With a harridan at his back.
Shirley hadn’t grown any more accommodating as the time went on, but she had eventually stopped hovering and had attended to her other duties, leaving him alone for stretches of time. He found himself skimming large parts of text that recorded in painstaking detail daily life in these parts a century ago. Making candles and soap. Tanning animal hides. Curing meat.
And prayer. There was lots and lots written regarding prayer services and “daily devotions,” whatever the heck that meant.
Dev leaned back in his chair and consulted the notes he’d written. He’d thought about using his microrecorder, but with Shirley fluttering around, he’d decided to handwrite the notes.
From everything he’d read so far, Rufus Ashton had been regarded with near godlike status from the writers of the journals. However, given that each of the journal authors had shared the Ashton name, he had to figure in a certain amount of familial bias.
Among the man’s accomplishments noted were the start of the first church, the quarry, the original bank in town, and the first general store. Even in these days, he’d be regarded as something of an entrepreneur. He couldn’t find any reference to the man’s original home or what had brought him to Buffalo Springs, but he did find the date of his death. That gave him a place to start.
“We close at three o’clock sharp on Saturdays.” Shirley’s voice behind him was crisp. “It’s fifteen minutes to, and I really need to get these journals back into place before I lock up.”
“Okay.” He pushed back from the small table he was sitting at and stood, working his shoulders. “I think I’ve read enough for a start.”
The woman’s gaze traveled between him and the stack of journals on the table and back again. Curiosity apparently getting the better of her, she blurted, “Whatever has someone like you so interested in that old history?”
He stilled. “Someone like me?”
She had the grace to flush. “I mean, given your interest in ghosts and such, I can’t imagine what you hope to find by looking up our foundin’ father. I just hope you aren’t going to write somethin’ unkind about him. There are still Ashtons in these parts, and they wouldn’t appreciate their ancestors bein’ slandered.”
His smile revealed none of the emotion twisting inside him. “You’ve always been an expert on slander, so I’m gonna take your word on that.” He moved toward the door, leaving her with her mouth agape at his rudeness. “My regards to your family.”
Chapter 17
“You’re one of them Mindhunters, ain’t ya?”
Ramsey looked up from the copy of Cassie Frost’s police report to the young Lisbon police officer on the other side of the counter. His nametag identified him as Joseph Redmond. She’d bet her next paycheck he went by Joey. Although she’d have pegged him for late teens, the fact that he was on the force meant he was probably at least twenty. Maybe even a couple years older. “I work for Raiker Forensics, yes.”
“I thought so.” With a practiced move, the officer raked his limp blond hair back from his forehead before propping his forearms on the counter. “I’ve been followin’ that story on the Spring County murder. Heard the TBI was bringin’ in a special consultant.” He paused expectantly, but Ramsey had gone back to skimming the police report.
“So how’d you get in to that line of work?”
Without looking up, she responded, “I used to be with TBI before Raiker contacted me for an interview.” She noted the signature on the report. “This statement was taken by an Officer Elwin Uetz. Is he around? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Naw, Elwin retired eighteen months ago. He and his wife moved to the Ozarks so’s he could fish all year round. I recall hearin’ ’bout the case, though.”
It had hardly qualified as a “case,” since it appeared from the information in her hand that the incident had consisted of little beyond taking Cassie Frost’s statement. Still, she looked up at the officer’s earnest expression quizzically.
“Frost was pretty spooked by the time Elwin got there. She seemed to think the man lookin’ in her window was the same as one she’d seen ’bout town a few times.” Redmond paused for a breath, his protruding Adam’s apple bobbing. “Ol’ Elwin figured she was just more scared than accurate. Her description wasn’t much help. Tall guy, ’bout sixty, with gray hair. Jeans and dark shirt.” The young man shrugged. “Fact is, there’s probably no way to be sure, ’cuz the man tryin’ to break in her window wore a face mask. Plus she woke up from a dead sleep, and it was dark out and all.”
“So Uetz thought . . . what? That she’d dreamt it? That it was just a window peeper?”
The edge of impatience in her tone had the young officer rearing back a bit, eyeing her more carefully. “No ma’am, she didn’t dream it. There were fresh scrapin’s on the window. If’n Frost hadn’t woken and called 911, whoever was out there would have gotten in that window, no doubt ’bout it. Looked like he was takin’ the screen off to gain entry. She had the inside window cracked, and it would have been easy ’nough for him to pull it open farther, climb inside.”
Ramsey’s skin prickled. Frost had been asleep. Vulnerable. But not defenseless. She’d had the foresight to put a call in to the police.
Which bore out at least part of the story Sanders had run by them.
“What exactly did Uetz do about it?”
Redmond scratched at his smooth jaw, which probably didn’t need shaving more than once a week. “Well, he checked ’round, I ’member that. We’ve got a couple no-goods in town who aren’t above a free peepshow, if’n they can get one. Neither have ever done more than look, near as I’ve heard, but Elwin, he spoke to both of ’em. Followed up real thorough. Nothin’ ever came of it, though. Middle of the night, no one can dispute if a fella claims he was home in bed. Elwin figured one of ’em got brave when he saw the window cracked open and tried to get in. That happens sometimes you know.” The officer’s voice went solemn. “People think peepers are harmless, but there was an article in
Officer’s Quarterly
last year that said some rapists start out that way, so could be one of them peepers was escalatin’. Got scared off when Frost woke up.”
Officer’s Quarterly
last year that said some rapists start out that way, so could be one of them peepers was escalatin’. Got scared off when Frost woke up.”
“Have there been similar reports since?” At Redmond’s furrowed brow, she went on. “Seems like if one of them was escalating, they would have made another attempt.”
That gave Redmond pause. “No-o-o,” he admitted slowly. “Can’t say that there has been. But Uetz didn’t get nowhere checkin’ on the stranger Frost claimed she saw ’round a few times, neither. And she moved a few weeks later, so there wasn’t much follow-up.”
Ramsey digested the information silently. No way to tell if the incident was connected to the victim’s murder a couple weeks later. But it seemed coincidental, to say the least. She’d never been fond of coincidences.
On the other hand, the description she’d given sure hadn’t matched Quinn Sanders. If the man had hired someone to off Frost, would that person be dumb enough to speak to her first? Be caught watching her? And what connection did the man have with Spring County? Because whoever had killed Cassie Frost had been thoroughly familiar with the woods and Ashton’s Pond.
Since there would be no answers to those particular questions to be found here, Ramsey rolled the copy of the report up loosely and used it to gesture to the man. “Thanks for this. I have a few other stops to make, so I’ll be moving on.” She turned for the door. Was stopped by Redmond’s voice before she took more than a couple steps.
“Miz Clark?”
She turned to aim an impatient glance over her shoulder. Officer Redmond shot a look to either side of him, as if to check for interested ears in the empty office. “Maybe you could tell a fella just how to get on with Adam Raiker.” A sheepish grin lit up his face. “I been readin’ up on him since I was knee high to a tadpole. Memorized crime details the way most boys collected baseball stats.” His expression went hopeful. “Always been my dream that someday I’d end up workin’ with one of the best, just the way you do.”
“You don’t apply to work with Raiker,” she told him bluntly. “He doesn’t accept resumes. He handpicks his people.” And she was still bemused that she’d come to his attention to warrant an interview, much less to be deemed worthy of joining his team. Raiker’s standards were as legendary as his background.
Taking in Redmond’s crestfallen face, she hesitated for a moment. Then, with a kindness that usually eluded her, she added, “The best way to attract his notice is be outstanding in your field. Flawless police work. An exceptional reputation. That’s what catches his eye.” That, and an uncanny intuition that seemed to allow the man insight into his operatives’ deepest darkest secrets. An insight that never failed to leave her feeling raw and exposed in his presence.
The young officer was beaming again. “That’s real good advice, Miz Clark. Thank you for that. I’m gonna take it, too. Gonna make somethin’ of myself here, and who knows? I may be workin’ with you one of these days.”
“Good luck,” she said, and headed out the door. Although truthfully, the best luck he could have was to not come to the legendary ex-FBI agent’s notice at all.
Raiker would eat him alive.
“Devlin Stryker, you old dog. You still chasing ghosts and goblins and whatnot?”
Dev grinned and settled more comfortably into the worn leather recliner at his granddaddy’s house. The sound of Denny Pruett’s voice was so welcome, he was kicking himself for not calling his friend more regularly.
It didn’t take much imagination to picture the man on the other end of the phone. With dark geeky glasses and thinning black hair, he’d be sitting behind a desk that would be piled with research books, his students’ essays, and at least two computers. Wouldn’t matter that it was the weekend. From his recollection, Denny’s home office was nearly identical to the one he kept in his ivory tower on the NYU campus. He’d be in one office or the other.
“Are you still looking for God ’round every corner?”
Denny’s laugh was hearty. “That’s no way to talk to the head professor of theology, son. Matter of fact, it’s downright blasphemous.”
“Head professor?” Pure delight ran through Dev. “Congratulations. I’ll bet Patti’s proud, too.”
“She is. She just got a grant to do a longitudinal study on the effect of group prayer on terminally ill patients, and . . .” The man trailed off abruptly. “And that isn’t why you’re calling, so I’ll shut up and let you get to it.”
“It’s not, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Got a little research to do on one of the foundin’ fathers of the town down here. Looks like he was heavy into religion, and I thought of you.”
“How old?”
Dev could hear the clacking of computer keys on the other end. “A bit before the turn of the century—1892 or thereabouts. What I have been able to uncover is a man by the name of Rufus Ashton came down from Pennsylvania and settled Buffalo Springs, Tennessee, in what’s now Spring County.” He checked the notes he’d taken today at the museum and library. “Among other things, he started the first church down here, which is still standin’. It serves the Methodist congregation now. But that doesn’t seem to match up with old records regardin’ their faith. I was wonderin’ ’bout the man’s beliefs back in the time he began it.”
“I’ll check into it for you. But only because I like having you in my debt.”
Dev toed off his shoes and slouched down, preparing for a long catch-up with his old college buddy. He hadn’t had dinner yet, and dusk was already falling, but it had been too long since he’d heard the other man’s voice. “Shoot, the way I figure it, we’re even. I did rid your office of the ghost that was hauntin’ it.”
“Rigging up a camera to catch Professor Hammond on tape using my office to diddle his grad students hardly qualifies as an exorcism.”
“It does if it . . .” The crash that sounded then had Dev bolting upright in his chair. Had the man on the other end of the line halting midsentence.
“What the hell was that?”
“I’m gonna have to call you back, Denny.” Unmindful of the glass scattered on the floor, Dev flipped the cell phone shut and ran to the shattered front window and peered out. Just in time to see a dark rusted-out pickup tear around the corner and out of sight.
His gaze turned to the room. Seeing the brick that had been thrown through the window had his mouth flattening. There was no note tied around it. Nothing that dramatic. The brick was message enough.
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