“No.”
“Why not?”
“If I need them, they’re only a half a block away.”
“Unless they leave town. Go back to LA. Disappear.”
“They won’t.”
“I hope you’re right, Sam. It would look bad if you had the killers and let them go.”
“I’m sure if I’m wrong you’ll let me know.”
“Don’t get defensive.”
“Look, Lanny. You’ve had a hard on for Charlie ever since he beat you in the last election. Actually, the last three elections. He’s a good Sheriff and you know it. Your support is needed more than your sniping.”
“I’m not sniping.”
“The hell you aren’t. Why did you come by here today anyway? What do you really want?”
“Just keeping up with what’s happening. The council expects to be informed.”
“Then, tell them we have everything under control.”
“Do you?”
No, she wanted to say. We don’t have a clue who killed Roger and Miriam. “If you have any suggestions on how we can better do our job, let us know. But, I’m sure you will.”
“Sam...”
She raised her hands to deflect his words. “Lanny, we have a problem here. Two murders to solve. We can use your help. And that of the council. If you can help, great. If not, then get out of the way and let us do our job.”
“Sam...”
She stood, leaned on her desk, and directed a glare at him. “Your not so subtle jabs at our competence are counterproductive. This isn’t a political issue. Roger and Miriam were murdered. You knew them. Everyone knew them. Just let us do our job and we’ll find out who did it. OK?”
He took a step back. “OK. But, I expect to be kept informed about your progress.”
“You know you will.” She escorted him to the front door and bid him a nice day. Jerk, she thought. Slimy jerk. Trying to make political hay out of Roger and Miriam’s murder.
After Lanny left, Sam tackled the phone messages and paper work on her desk. She then sifted through everything they had put together so far on Roger and Miriam’s murder.
An hour later, she pushed the stack of reports to the edge of her desk. Three trips through the pages and she knew no more about the Hargroves’ murder than when she started. She eyed the wall clock opposite her desk. Another hour to kill before her work out with Jimmy.
“Want some coffee?” Sam asked Thelma as she walked into the front office. “I’m going over to Starbucks for a caffeine fix before those reports put me in a coma.”
The kids had finished the pizza, actually cleaned up after themselves, and retreated to their position at the street corner to continue their vigil for Richard Earl Garrett.
“Sure. An Americano would be great.”
“Back in a sec.”
“Sam, you don’t think those kids had anything to do with these killings do you?" Thelma asked. "I mean, they’re so young and lost.”
“Kids do some pretty crazy things,” Sam said. “If you watched the news last night you saw that story about those two kids that shot up their classroom with automatic weapons. They were thirteen years old.”
“But, these kids seem sad, not angry or aggressive.”
“No, Thelma, I don’t think they’re involved. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but I doubt they’re the perps.”
“Thank goodness,” Thelma said, relief spreading across her face. “That Penelope girl asked about you.”
“Oh?”
“I think you made an impression on her.”
Sam shook her head. “All I got out of her was a sad tale of neglectful parents and blank stares.”
“Maybe listening to her was enough. I doubt most people give her the time of day.”
“True. Back in a minute.”
Sam walked out the front door wondering if Penelope had heard more than she let on. Maybe. She did seem indecisive and not at all convincing about her love for Satan. Perhaps Satanism was the first thing that came along that allowed her to escape her parents, and she took it. Too bad it wasn’t college, or marriage, or anything with a real future. Her home life had obviously been less than perfect. Of course, Sam only knew Penelope’s side of the story. Maybe her parents were actually ideal, like Ward and June Cleaver, and she was an angry, rebellious teenager. Sam didn’t believe that. Penelope was simply too sad, too passive to be a real rebel.
Three reporters yanked her from her reverie as they hurried toward her. She turned to retreat, but stopped when two others stuck microphones in her face. She threw her hands up in surrender. “Three questions, then I’m out of here.”
“Why were those kids in your office?” asked a man from the Los Angeles Times.
“We had a pizza party. Part of our new public relations program.”
“They said they were fingerprinted. Is that true?” the same man asked.
“Yes.”
“Are they suspects?” asked a woman from ABC News.
“Barely. But, so are you.” The woman recoiled as if struck.
“But, why...”
“Three questions are up,” Sam said and pushed past them, ignoring the questions that followed her.
After buying two Cafe Americanos at Starbucks and dodging the reporters that had returned to interviewing the groupies at the corner, she slipped into the department and placed Thelma’s coffee on her desk.
“There’s someone here to see you,” Thelma said.
“Who?” Sam looked around, but saw no one.
“Nita Stillwater. She’s in your office.”
“Nita Stillwater? What does she want?”
“Wouldn’t say. Just that it’s important and she had to speak to you and no one else.”
Awinita Stillwater, was the local Cherokee spiritualist, soothsayer, fortuneteller, or whatever she was. Sam had never talked to her, but knew of her. Everybody knew of her.
Sam dropped into her chair behind her desk, facing Nita who sat quietly in the chair across from her.
“Mrs. Stillwater, what can I do for you?”
“Please, call me Nita. Everybody does.”
“OK, Nita.”
“Do you know who I am?” The woman leaned forward, resting a weathered hand on Sam’s desk.
“Of course.”
“I mean, do you
really know
who I am?”
“What do you mean?”
Nita was in her early sixties, but appeared much older. Sam looked into the woman’s eyes, which peered over high cheekbones from her dark, sun-ravaged face, creased, cracked, blotched, like old leather. The eyes were deep, intelligent, experienced, and sad. Her once black hair, now streaked with gray, swept backwards into a braid that hung to her waist. Seven flint arrowheads, four bear claws, and a large centerpiece of raw turquoise hung from a leather necklace.
“I have powers. Powers that I can’t explain, but they have been with me since I was a child. My mother had the same gifts.”
“What powers?” She had work to do and didn’t need to sit here chatting nonsense with an old Indian woman. As soon as she released the thought, Sam wanted to suck it back into her mind. Why? Did she think Nita could read her thoughts? Of course not. Yet, something about the woman unsettled Sam. Maybe it was her reputation or her piercing eyes or maybe this whole damn situation had her spooked to the point that she would fall for all sorts of nonsense.
“You do not believe,” Nita said. “I see that. Most don’t...at least not at first.”
“At first?”
“It does not matter that you believe me, but you must hear what I have to say and heed my warning.”
“Nita, you’re not making sense. What warning?”
“The demon. The demon with the iron finger. He is here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“The demon has escaped from his cave and resides here. That is why these murders have visited us. It is his work.”
“Nita, I appreciate you telling me this, but I assure you these killings are the work of a flesh and blood human being not some mysterious demon from a cave. Now, I have a lot of work...”
“Listen to me,” the old woman commanded, her black eyes stabbing Sam defiantly. “I came to warn you. The demon is here. The killings will continue until he is slain. I know. I feel him, I see him, I know him.”
“OK. Who is he?”
“I do not know whose soul he has taken, what form he is, but he is here and he is strong and relentless.”
“I see.” Sam hooked her finger under her sleeve, lifted it, and glanced at her watch.
Nita exhaled, her shoulders drooping as if her necklace was of lead. “You do not believe. You do not listen.” She pulled herself up and walked to the door, where she turned and fixed Sam with her dark eyes. “You must be careful. I sense the demon will come for you. Soon.” With that, she turned and disappeared through the door.
The hairs on Sam’s arms and the back of her neck snapped to attention and the faint tingling she had felt since Nita began talking erupted into a full blown shiver. She sat back in her chair and released a long sigh.
First, Satan’s disciples and now a Cherokee mystic. What next? An alien landing? Little men with windshield-like eyes and cabbage heads? Even her own humorous thoughts fell flat as Nita’s words echoed in her head. It was not so much Nita’s words, but the absolutely certainty with which she delivered them that bothered her. The tingling crept down her arms and legs.
Damn it. She hated this feeling, but didn’t know how to stop it. Maybe a workout would help.
*
After two hours of running and circuit weights and a three round sparing session with Jimmy, Sam met Charlie Walker and Lisa McFarland at Millie’s. She ordered a turkey sandwich and a beer, then gulped down the glass of water Millie placed in front of her. “Jimmy’s going to kill me, I swear.”
Charlie and Lisa laughed.
Sam crunched on a piece of ice. “He’s trying to toughen me up before the bout in four weeks, but I think he enjoys beating the hell out of me.”
“Why do you do that? Why not aerobic dancing? Something less painful?” Lisa asked.
“Aerobic dancing is for wimps,” Sam said with a smile, knowing aerobics was Lisa’s favorite exercise routine.
“Yeah. But, I leave with all my brain cells intact,” Lisa jabbed.
“But, not your knee joints,” Sam countered.
Millie set a sandwich that teetered with four inches of turkey, lettuce, and tomato in front of Sam. Sam mashed it to a manageable height with the heel of her hand and took a bite. “Hmmm. I’m hungrier than I thought. Anything new?” she asked Charlie.
“I went through the prints of those kids you took today. None of them matched. Ralph Klingler doesn’t have anything new, but he did compare the wounds on Miriam and Roger Hargrove with the photos of the kids and he’s certain the weapon was the same.”
“Great,” Sam said. “We’re back to square one. We have an unknown killer and a missing weapon.”
“Anything on the knife?” Lisa asked.
“Nothing,” Charlie said. “Hector specifically remembers returning it to the lock-up and neither Judge Westbrooke nor I have authorized its removal.”
“Who has access to the room?” Lisa asked.
“Me. Sam. Thelma. That’s it,” Charlie said.
“Someone must’ve broken in and stolen it,” Lisa said.
“No evidence of tampering with the lock.”
“Maybe it sprouted wings and flew away,” Lisa said. She slipped from the booth. “I’d better call my voice mail and see if anything’s going on.”
Sam and Charlie sat silently while she finished her sandwich and he downed his second cup of coffee.
“Now what?” Sam asked.
Charlie stuck a fresh toothpick in his mouth. “Hope and prayer. Hope that we catch a break and pray that no one else gets whacked in the meantime.”
Earlier, when Walter Limpke entered the sanctuary of his home, he had taken a shower in a futile attempt to wash away the cold fear that gripped him. The hot water soothed his sore muscles, but did little to steady his shaking hands or to release the tension that gnawed at his frayed nerves.
Afterwards, even though he rarely drank, he dug the bottle of Chivas Regal he kept for guests from its hiding place behind the Corn Flakes and Cheerios in the kitchen cabinet. He downed two gulps straight from the bottle, grimacing as the golden liquid burned his mouth, stomach, and everything in between. Two more shots were followed by one of his wife’s Xanax tablets.
He then retreated to his bedroom, closed the drapes, and crawled into bed, pulling the covers under his chin. After tossing for an hour, he finally fell into a fretful sleep.
But, each time he drifted into the deep waters of exhausted somnolence, nightmarish visions would drag him into the shallows and finally to a sweat-slicked wakefulness. He would kick back the covers, flip the pillow over to the cool, dry side, and with effort descend toward sleep once again. But, not for long.
Near sunset, he sank into his deepest sleep of the day, settling into a soft velvety blackness, seeing, hearing, feeling nothing except warmth and comfort. Finally, he began to unwind as if a Gordian Knot deep in his psyche had loosened, allowing fear and anxiety to drift away into the black void.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he detested a pinprick of light. Yellow, then orange, and finally red, it flickered like a distant candle flame kissed by a gentle breeze. Its intensity grew until it became a sharp laser of light, cutting into his brain. He tried to look away but could not. The red point of light held him as fear returned in a cold wave.
The pinpoint expanded, exploded, as if a supernova and he found himself in a dream world of such intensity that it burned his eyes, scorched his skin into a mass of blisters and black eschars, and seared his lungs with each breath he took. Winds of brilliant colors, some ice cold, some excruciatingly hot, swirled around him. Droplets of blood, carried by the winds, peppered his face and chest, causing his skin to sizzle and pop as if struck by molten metal. The coppery taste of blood mixed with the sour salt of his own panic-driven sweat.
From the chaos, a face appeared, half-human, half-reptile, or perhaps it morphed from one to the other. He couldn’t be sure which.
He recoiled when a beam of light struck a knife blade honed to such sharpness that it sliced the light into thousands of colors, which painted the reptilian man’s face as if he were viewed through a kaleidoscope. Its gaping mouth revealed sharp conical teeth, dominated by long carnivorous canines as the beast rocked back its head in laughter. Its bellows reverberated like thousands of church bells simultaneously ringing in an enclosed bell tower.