“Yeah.” Ted sniffed back tears and wiped his eyes with his jacket sleeve.
“Let me look inside, then I’ll call your folks.”
“I already did. They should be here by now.”
A car turned onto the street and skidded to a stop at the curb. Martha Blankenship erupted from the passenger side door before the vehicle came to a complete stop. Ted ran toward her. They met in the yard and embraced, tears flowing from both of them.
“What happened?” Martha asked through her tears.
Ted couldn’t talk. He buried his face into her shoulder and sobbed.
Paul Blankenship came up behind them and embraced them both. “What’s going on, Charlie?” he asked.
“Don’t know. I just got here. Haven’t been inside yet.” He jerked his head toward the house. “Let me take a look around.” He turned and headed toward the open front door.
“Want me to go with you?” Paul asked.
“No. You better wait here.” Charlie turned back toward the house.
*
The call came as Sam was halfway through her first cup of coffee and still trying to shake the lint from her brain. She had managed to fall back to sleep after her dream, but had slept fitfully. The remaining cobwebs in her mind evaporated with Charlie’s voice.
“Sam? You awake?”
“Barely.”
“You OK? You sound tired. Another rough night?”
Charlie. Always the father. “The usual,” she said. “Little sleep. Bad dreams. And a potted plant that needed killing.”
“What?”
“Long story. Why do I have the feeling this isn’t a social call?”
“Because you have good instincts.” She could hear Charlie’s heavy sigh. “Betty McCumber was murdered last night.”
Would she ever again awaken without a phone call, telling her someone had been murdered. Would this madness never end? she thought. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
She balanced a cup of coffee in one hand and shoved the last bite of Mrs. Blumenthal’s chocolate cake into her mouth with the other as she turned onto Church Street. Sheet metal clouds had rolled in from the north, bringing with them the promise of another shitty day. Betty’s house sat on a corner a block down on the left. Several members of the press and a small contingent of neighbors milled in the street out front.
The terror of her dream melted into anger. Anger with Garrett, Reverend Billy, everything. Mostly it was anger at her own inadequacy. She couldn’t make sense out of the events of the past week. She couldn’t make the puzzle pieces fit. She couldn’t even understand her own dreams, for Christ sakes.
Of course, everyone offered his or her opinions about the murders. Phone calls, letters, and notes passed to Thelma blamed everyone from the Mafia to space aliens to Fidel Castro.
Garrett blamed Satan, as did Reverend Billy. Walter Limpke blamed himself. Nita Stillwater blamed some mythological cave dweller and Nathan seemed to accept every explanation. He and his damn “perceptual distortion.”
As she stepped from her Jeep, she pushed her anger into a dark corner of her mind where she could control it. Somewhat. She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and crossed the lawn, keeping her head down, trying to avoid eye contact, hoping to find out what had happened before she had to field any questions, but Marjorie Bleekman, who lived across the street, captured her gaze and gave her an “I told you so” look. Several members of the press shouted questions, but she ignored them. Don’t these people ever sleep?
She walked through the front door, amazed how strongly the smell of death hung in the air. Not a true scent, nothing olfactory, but rather a feeling that the air had absorbed the fear and violence of what had occurred. It touched the skin and the tender tissues inside the nose and throat, depositing a coppery odor and taste where in actuality there was none.
She entered the bedroom where Charlie and Ralph Klingler stood.
Charlie turned when she walked in. “Sam.”
“Charlie.” She nodded. “Ralph.”
Sam absorbed the scene before her. Unlike the others, Betty had not been hung by her ankles. Instead, she lay in bed. Her eyes, dilated to two ebony discs by death, stared at the ceiling. Her life’s blood had ebbed from her, soaked the bed covers, and puddled on the floor. Sam studied the serene featureless surface of the maroon lake at her feet, which offered no hint of the savagery that had produced it.
One of Betty’s hands clutched a shredded and blood encrusted Bible as if she were beseeching it to save her. A deep cavity where her heart had once lain peered through her open chest. A thick-bladed butcher’s knife impaled the once active, now inert, organ to the wall above her.
“That’s not Garrett’s knife,” Sam said. “Is it here?”
“Haven’t seen it,” Charlie said.
“What do you think of the wounds, Ralph?” she asked.
“Can’t say for sure until I get the body back to the lab, but I’d bet the stab wounds were made by that knife.” He nodded toward the knife that pinned Betty McCumber’s heart to the wall. “I don’t see any that would match Garrett’s. Size and shape are totally different.”
“Great," Sam said. "The way things have been going, Garrett’s knife is probably sticking out of somebody across town.”
“Of course some of the wounds could match Garrett’s knife,” Klingler said. “That’ll require a little closer look to be sure.”
“Anything else?” she asked.
“Looks like whoever did this was right-handed,” Ralph said.
“Too bad. That means Walter didn’t sneak out of ICU and do it and we have another killer on our hands.”
“Looks that way,” Charlie said.
“Who found her?” Sam asked.
“Ted Blankenship,” Charlie said.
“How’s he doing?”
“Not well.” Charlie lifted and reseated his hat, shifted the toothpick that dangled from the corner of his mouth. “He’s out front with his parents.”
“Have you talked with him yet?”
“Just briefly. Why don’t you go chat with him while Ralph and I finish up here.”
When Sam walked out the front door, she noted the crowd had thickened and several more reporters had joined the curiosity seekers. She saw Ted, sitting on the edge of the front seat of his parents’ car, feet on the curb, elbows on his knees, head hung down. He wore a red and brown checked flannel shirt, letter-jacket, blue jeans, and frayed high-top tennis shoes. His mother stood next to him, gently stroking the back of his head. His father, grim-faced, leaned against the car’s front fender, arms crossed over his chest, keeping the reporters at bay with a stern glare.
As Sam approached, Ted looked up, eyes puffy and red from crying. “Ted. Martha.” Sam nodded to them, then to Ted’s father. “Paul.” She knelt down next to the boy. “How’re you doing?”
“Not well,” he said, his voice scratchy, thick. He cleared his throat and sniffed.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
“I was delivering papers as usual. Got here about a quarter till six. I noticed Mrs. McCumber’s front door was wide open.” He sniffed. “It never is. Not this time of day. So, I went up to the door and yelled for her and rang the doorbell, but she didn’t answer.” He swallowed hard. “I got scared.”
“Why?”
“I just knew something was wrong. Like when Grandma died.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if suppressing tears.
“What do you mean?”
Martha Blankenship ran her fingers over her son’s head, comforting him. “Mother died a couple of years ago. She lived with us. Ted went to get her for breakfast. She didn’t answer when he knocked so he went into her room and found her. She had passed in her sleep sometime during the night.”
“I see.” Sam caught Ted’s gaze. “So, you felt something might be wrong with Betty McCumber?”
“Yeah.” He sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I started to go get help, but I thought maybe she might be sick and I’d better check on her.”
“And?”
“I went inside. I yelled a few more times, but there wasn’t any answer. Then, I found her.” He dropped his face into his hands and sobbed. Martha pulled his head against her hip, fighting back her own tears.
Paul Blankenship uncrossed his arms and looked at Sam. “It’s like those others we’ve heard about, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“When are you and Sheriff Walker going to put an end to this?”
“Soon, I hope.” Sam stood to face him, sensing his growing anger.
“Not soon enough,” he snapped.
Why wouldn’t he be angry? she asked herself. His son just witnessed something that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Something senseless, frightening. “Paul, we’re doing everything we can.”
“That’s the point. Maybe we should have elected Lanny last time. Maybe he could do more.”
Sam realized arguing with the angry man would be useless and only make things worse. She turned back to Ted. “Ted. Did you see anyone this morning? Here or elsewhere on your route?”
“No. It was quiet.”
“Did you touch anything in the house?”
“Just the phone in the kitchen. I used it to call 911. And Mrs. McCumber’s bedroom door knob.”
“OK,” Sam said. “Why don’t you guys go on home.”
“Thank you,” Martha said. Paul scowled as he picked up Ted’s bike and carried it toward the car’s trunk.
Sam rejoined Charlie in the house, telling him what Ted had said.
After completing their evidence gathering, Sam and Charlie walked out the front door. Reporters shouted questions from beyond the crime scene tape, but they ignored them.
Lanny Mills waved them over to where he stood beside his car. Marjorie Bleekman stood behind him, clad in pajamas, a ski parka, and fuzzy pink house slippers.
“Sheriff. Sam. Is it like the others?” Lanny asked.
“Afraid so,” Charlie said.
“I knew it,” Marjorie said. “He’s going to kill us all.”
“Who?” Charlie asked.
“Garrett.”
“He’s in jail,” Charlie said.
“That’s what Sam told us...me and Betty...just the other day. I told you,” she turned to Sam, “that it was Garrett or those hippie kids that were doing all this. But, you didn’t believe me.” She choked back a sob. “And now, Betty is dead.” Her lips trembled and her voiced cracked. “They’re killing off the jury.”
“Marjorie, that’s not true,” Sam said.
“The hell it ain’t,” Marjorie said. “And you two aren’t doing a Goddamn thing about it.”
“Don’t get upset,” Sam said. “Why don’t you go back home and let us handle this?”
Undeterred, she jutted her jaw defiantly. “What if they come after me? What then? It could have been me last night. All they had to do was cross the street.” She pulled the parka tightly around her.
“Relax,” Sam said.
“Like hell I will. I want this stopped before Garrett and his people kill the rest of us.”
Lanny took her hand and patted it. “Why don’t you go inside where it’s warm. I’ll stop by in a couple of minutes.”
Marjorie straightened her shoulders, sniffed back angry tears, glared and Sam and Charlie, turned, and stomped toward her house. Her pink slippers flapped against the pavement with each step.
Lanny looked at Charlie and shook his head. “Any idea who did this?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d like you two to do me a favor,” Lanny said.
“What?” Charlie tilted his hat back and cocked his head toward Lanny.
“Can you come by and give the council an update on your investigation. We’re getting a lot of heat and don’t really know what to say.”
“Tell them to call me. Or Sam.”
“Still, if you could drop by, the council sure would appreciate it.”
“I thought your meeting wasn’t until next week.”
“It isn’t. But, we feel a special meeting might be in order. In view of the circumstances.”
“What time?” Charlie asked.
“Say, two o’clock. Council chambers.”
“We’ll be there.”
*
Sam and Charlie sat at a booth at Millie’s.
“What do you make of this meeting?” she asked.
“Probably like Lanny said. They want an update. Course, they ain’t going to get one. Not while the investigation is going on. But, we can go by and have a chat with them. They’re probably just scared like everyone else.”
“I suspect there’s more to it than that. An update could be gotten over the phone. I smell trouble and I’d bet it’s about 6-6 and 300 pounds.”
“Reverend Billy?”
“Last night he and Lanny had a little chat.”
“Oh? About what?”
“Don’t know.”
“Maybe he was trying to sell him a Bible or one of those little plastic Reverend Billy dolls.”
Sam laughed. “Maybe he complained to them about me leaning on him a little.”
“So what if he did.”
“If that’s it, I’m sorry. Not for tweaking the bastard, but for getting you and the council involved.”
“Don’t worry. They don’t pay our salaries. The county does. All they can do is piss and moan a little.”
“Sorry anyway.”
“Don’t be. Truth is, if any of those clowns on the council want this job, I’ll give them my badge and gun right now.”
The statement shocked Sam. Charlie had been sheriff for over two decades. Virtually from the day he moved to Mercer’s Corner from Houston, Texas, where he had also been a cop. She couldn’t remember anyone else ever being sheriff, nor could she envision the town without Charlie wearing the badge.
Charlie and her father had been good friends and, as a child, she had immediately gravitated toward the sometimes gruff sheriff. Maybe it was because of the respect her father showed for him or maybe it was because Charlie had let her wear his hat and play in the jail after school. Whatever the reason, Mercer’s Corner and Charlie Walker were, in her mind, synonymous.
“You don’t mean that.”
“The hell I don’t. I’m fed up with this job anyway. This case is about the last straw. I’m up for reelection next year and I just might pass on it.” He smiled at her and winked. “Why don’t you run?”
“Me?”
“You’d make a good sheriff. You’re qualified.”
“You’ve just had a bad week. You’ll feel better about everything once we pack Garrett off to the big house.”
“Maybe.”
“You will.” She drained her coffee cup. “I’m going to the gym and pound on Jimmy for a while. See you at the office later.”