DeMarco said, “Especially when the big mystery was how he managed to break Abernathy’s neck without leaving so much as a bruise.”
“Misdirection?” Trinity suggested. “Hoping we’d be so preoccupied with the locked door that the manner of death wouldn’t seem as interesting by comparison?”
“Not unless he knows virtually nothing about police investigations,” Hollis replied. “I mean, people not trained in crime scene investigation might have dwelled on something you generally hear of only in mystery novels, but cops? No. You noted it in your report, but you didn’t give it much importance. Neither did we. Why would we? We concentrate more on time of death and cause of death, on possible enemies, possible motives, possible witnesses. Who saw him last, what was the last thing we know he did. Who cares whether the door was locked?”
It was Trinity’s turn to frown. “Good point. I just considered it another oddity in a very odd murder.”
“Natural enough, especially given the murder that followed this one. And maybe I’m missing something, maybe there was a reason. But I can’t think of one.”
“Neither can I,” DeMarco said.
Trinity sighed. “Then I vote we put it in the column of mildly puzzling things and get on with the bigger puzzling things.”
“You won’t get an argument,” DeMarco said.
Hollis opened up the tablet she’d carried in with her, swore under her breath as she noted the already-diminished battery life, then studied the ME’s report for a moment, using two fingers to enlarge a particular section. “He wasn’t strangled, manually or with a rope or garrote, and his neck wasn’t exactly broken, not the way we’ve been talking about it. Literally, his spine was severed.”
DeMarco took a step into the room, noting abstractedly that Braden remained exactly where he was. “Wait a minute. His spine was severed? Not fractured or crushed or torn? Something that couldn’t have been done by twisting? Because that’s the only method I thought might possibly have broken his neck without leaving even a bruise, at least if it was done very quickly by someone who knew what he was doing.”
“Severed.” Hollis looked at him. “I don’t know why I didn’t see that word before, because it’s here. His neck was broken, all right. Between two vertebra that weren’t damaged. The spinal cord was very neatly and cleanly severed. As if . . . as if a razor-sharp knife slipped in between the vertebra and severed his spinal cord just below the base of his brain.”
“Without cutting his skin,” Trinity said slowly.
“Yeah. Without cutting his skin.”
“Which makes it more than possible,” DeMarco said, “that we’re dealing with a killer in possession of some kind of psychic ability.”
“Someone able to . . . slip a psychic knife into someone else’s brain?” Trinity asked, not quite incredulous.
Hollis nodded slowly. “It’s all about energy. And energy can be a force that dances, that swirls, that pushes or pulls . . . or forms an edge as sharp as a scalpel to neatly sever a spine.”
—
DEACON RAN HIS fingers through his hair and took a long drink of his coffee, but his eyes still appeared a little bleary when he looked at the others. “So, the mysteriously broken neck is even more mysterious than we first thought.”
“Yeah.” DeMarco eyed him. “Late night?”
“Late, yes. Fun, no.”
Trinity murmured, “How is Melanie?”
“A bundle of nerves,” he replied cordially. “And so are at least two of her friends. I know that because she got one call while we were having dinner, which sounded very enigmatic on my end, and then when I was about to leave her apartment after enough wine, I hoped, to settle her nerves, another friend showed up. Annabel. And she’d already had wine.”
“Still nervous?” DeMarco murmured.
“Scared half out of her wits.”
Hollis sat forward in her chair at the conference table. “What had scared her?”
“Her television.”
He realized he was being stared at, and grimaced. “Yeah, I know. But she was genuinely terrified, I felt that. And when Melanie managed to calm her down enough to get some sense out of her, I have to admit it creeped me out more than a little.” He explained what Annabel Hunter had experienced in her apartment.
Hollis rubbed her forehead, wishing the remnants of the previous day’s pounding headache would finally leave her in peace. “Spiritual energy has been known to affect electronics, even control them. It’s actually fairly common. If there’s no medium nearby, it’s one way they can try to make contact with the living, using as a conduit something electronic.”
“Annabel didn’t want to make contact,” Deacon informed her politely. “In fact, I got the sense her response of choice would have been to get the hell out of Dodge.”
“But not alone,” Trinity said. “Annabel’s family has lived in Sociable for generations, and she’s the last of the line. She sold the very large family home years back and netted enough to live comfortably for the rest of her life. Bought some investment property here because her roots are here. Occupies herself with volunteer and charity work. Everybody genuinely loves Annabel. She’s that sort. Has lots of friends, remembers birthdays and anniversaries, gives clever little gifts, sometimes for no reason, and if anybody needs to crash on her couch, they’re welcome—and get treated to home-cooked meals for the duration.
“Far as I know, Annabel never made an enemy in her life. And she’d never leave Sociable and strike out on her own, even to run away from something that scared her. Maybe especially not then. She’d run to friends, but not run away.”
“That was my impression,” Deacon said. “And Melanie obviously knew Annabel didn’t need to be alone last night.”
DeMarco said, “I gather you took the couch?”
“Yeah. I think Melanie would have been okay locked in, even alone, but Annabel was shaking like a leaf and still talking nervously at three this morning. They finally went to bed, and I caught a nap on the couch. Everybody was up early. Melanie insisted on going to work, and since Annabel was still too frightened to be alone, I escorted them both to the bank. Then I went to my room, showered, shaved, dressed, and got my gun—consider that official notice, Sheriff, that I’m now armed.” He had returned DeMarco’s second gun to him before leaving the sheriff’s department the previous day.
“Noted.” Trinity clearly wasn’t surprised.
“I plan to stay armed from now on.”
“I’ll make sure your boss knows you’re officially on the investigation, at my request.”
Deacon shook his head slightly. “You can call. I doubt he’ll be surprised. He’s probably already taken me off the leave list and put me back to active duty. Whatever you want to say about Bishop, he’s scrupulously fair about stuff like that. If I’m working a case, it’s not taking up any of my leave time.”
“Sounds like a good man to work for.” Almost absently, Trinity added, “If you want to see Scott’s apartment later on, it’s no problem. But Hollis and Reese didn’t see or sense anything I missed. Unless they’re holding out on me.”
“We aren’t,” Hollis told her. “Where does Annabel live? I mean, does she live here in town?”
Trinity met her gaze. “She lives in a duplex, one of those conversions from what was once a very large single-family home. About seven streets down from the church.”
Deacon said, “So that weird energy up there might have affected her electronics? Look, I’d buy that for the channel-scanning thing, but she said it had never happened before, and from what you say, Trinity, if it had happened before, it isn’t likely she’d still be living there.”
“True enough.”
“Besides, what about the direct threat to her? ‘I’m coming for you next, Annabel’?”
“She could have imagined it,” Trinity said slowly. “All those scenes from horror movies and her own nerves on top of losing two friends in the last week? Plus wine? Possible, at least.”
&nb
sp; Hollis chewed on a thumbnail absently until she caught DeMarco watching her, then reached out for her coffee, frowning. “With a killer on the loose, I say we err on the side of believing her. She was friends with the two victims, a friend of Melanie’s—I take it she’s in the right age bracket to be a potential target?”
Deacon nodded. “So is the other friend, the one who called Melanie last night while we were having dinner, also shaken, though I didn’t get details. Toby Gilmore?”
“Shit,” Trinity said, her tone both resigned and, curiously, almost angry.
“What is it?” Hollis asked.
“Two things,” the sheriff replied readily. “First, Toby plays at being a fortune-teller. Tarot cards, mostly. Except that she can be uncannily accurate, and I’ve suspected more than once that she has some precognitive or clairvoyant ability.”
In a slightly accusing tone, Deacon said, “Yeah, about that. Telling me about Melanie sort of shoved everything else out of my mind yesterday, but when we met, you told me you hadn’t experienced anything paranormal.” He jerked a thumb to indicate the chair across from him at the table, a chair occupied by Braden. “Just before you introduced him, as a matter of fact.”
“I lied,” she responded, calm. “Besides, whatever I’ve seen in Toby is completely normal. For her.”
“And Braden?”
“What about him?”
“Oh, come on,” Deacon said. “He’s led you to two murder victims. And I was in the Jeep with you yesterday, so I can state with fair certainty that he was guiding you. Very specifically. He knew exactly where he was going, and he knew exactly how to direct you where he wanted you to go.”
“He’s a dog, Deacon. A very smart dog, admittedly. An unusual dog. And I haven’t yet figured out how he knew about the victims before any alarm was raised. But unless and until someone tells me different, Braden has remarkable faculties for a dog, and a remarkable sense of . . . duty. And that’s all.”
Deacon knew she was daring him to question that. He could feel her daring him to—with his shields up. He decided not to question, at least for now.
Hollis waited him out for a moment, then said to Trinity, “There were two things?”
“Yeah. I honestly didn’t think much about it when the idea first occurred, but with Deacon adding in Melanie, Annabel, and Toby . . .” She pushed a couple of folders out of the way, drew a legal pad and a pen within reach, and began to write quickly. When she was finished, she pushed the legal pad to Hollis, who was sitting nearest her. “Meet The Group,” she said.
It was a list. Fifteen names. Two of them neatly crossed out.
Scott Abernathy
Cathy Simmons
Barry Torrance
Melanie James
Jeff Stamey
Toby Gilmore
Dana Durrell
Trinity Nichols
Xander Roth
Caleb Lee
Annabel Hunter
Patrick Collins
Rusty Douglas
Skylar Pope
Jackson Ruppe
Steadily, Trinity said, “We were all in high school together, same graduating class. Some of us moved away for college or even jobs for a while, but we all either stayed here or came back to work and live within the last few years. And we were the last graduating class to have so many to settle in Sociable. Oh, there are a few adults in town not many years older and younger than us, but we’ve always been a kind of unit.
“Cathy dubbed us The Group because we tended to hang out together, use the same gym, have the same or similar hobbies, invite each other to parties, stuff like that. Some of us were even in relationships at one point or another, and still managed to stay friends when they were over. More or less.
“It started out as a joke, that name. After a while, it was just something that stuck.” Trinity drew a breath and let it out slowly. “And now it seems The Group is unique in another way. Looks like it’s quite possible we’re the killer’s hit list.”
After a long moment, Hollis pushed the legal pad toward her partner and said, “That’s not all it means, Trinity. If The Group is that specific in age and interests, and these are the people the killer is targeting, then the victim pool is a lot smaller than we first believed. And if that’s the case . . .”
“If that’s the case,” Trinity finished, her voice still steady, “then it’s likely that the killer’s name is on that list as well.”
Melanie went into the bank’s employee lounge, carrying two hot lattes, and as soon as she saw two of her friends instead of the one she’d left there, her uneasiness climbed. Especially when she saw what one friend was doing.
“Toby, the tarot cards? Here?”
“I didn’t think anybody would mind. Everybody knows me, Melanie, they know I read tarot for fun. Besides, I didn’t want to be at the office alone, and Annabel wanted me to read them.”
“I thought it might help, Melanie,” Annabel confessed. She sat very still across from Toby, but her hands were writhing in her lap, betraying her nerves.
Sitting down at the end of the table, Melanie handed one of the cardboard cups across to Annabel. “I didn’t know you were here, Toby, or I would have got one for you.”
“I’m okay,” Toby replied, her gaze on the cards she was dealing. “I had coffee earlier.”
“But again—tarot, Toby? Here?”
“Why not here?”
Melanie tried to hold her voice steady. “Look, we all know you do this for fun. But in case you hadn’t noticed, most everybody is more than a little anxious, even creeped out, today. However badly Barry was . . . mutilated . . . gossip has it even worse.” She frowned. “At least, I hope gossip has it worse. Anyway, everyone I’ve seen today has been really shaken up. I wouldn’t be surprised if whispers about demons or shit like that aren’t already spreading.”
Annabel made a little inarticulate sound, but Toby looked at Melanie with a frown. “Seriously?”
“Toby, which would you rather believe? That someone you know and possibly speak to every day is an insane killer, or that something evil that doesn’t belong here is doing these horrible things?”
“Neither,” Toby said, serious.
Annabel made another little sound, and Melanie absently reached over to briefly grasp her knotted hands.
“Toby, trust me when I tell you that when things get as bad as they are right now in Sociable, people start looking for someone or something to blame. I was the prime suspect for a while there, being a relative newcomer, but since I was highly visible in town all day yesterday during the time Barry was murdered, I seem to have lost favor as a possible killer. Thank God.”
“I never thought you were that, Melanie.”
“Neither did I,” Annabel murmured.
“Yeah, you two, my brother, and possibly Trinity.” Melanie sighed again. “The point is that how Barry was killed seems to any sane person to be either absolutely insane or purely evil, and nobody really wants to deal with that. They want something to blame, and the wilder the stories get, the wilder the speculation will be. Tarot for fun is all well and good, Toby, but some people still look at those images on the cards and think witchcraft.”
Toby blinked. “I sing in the church choir,” she objected.
Melanie almost laughed, except that what she felt was too grim to allow for humor. “And the devil can quote scripture for his own uses. Fear makes people look in unusual places for answers. It’s not rational, it just is.”
“But—”
“Listen, just put away the cards for a while, okay? You two can do something else to occupy your time. I’ll get my tablet, and you can play mahjong or solitaire or something.”
Annabel’s glance sort of skittered over the partial tarot card layout, then away nervously.
Toby bit her bottom lip, then said, “Never mind the cards. I didn’t tell you this last night, but . . . I saw Scott. Yesterday.”
Melanie shook her head. “We both know you can see what you w
ant in the cards—”
“He wasn’t in the cards. He was standing in my office, not three feet away from me. Melanie, he was trying to tell me something.”
Annabel was staring at Toby, her eyes huge.
Melanie studied her friend for a long moment, hoping her inner struggle wasn’t visible. Then she said calmly, “Ask me, you two had some unresolved issues when he died. Guilt and regret can manifest itself in a lot of ways, Toby.”
“So you don’t believe me.”
“I believe you believe you saw Scott.”
Annabel spoke up then, her sweet voice not as steady as it normally was. “Melanie, do you believe what I told you and Deacon about what happened at my house last night?”
“I believe something scared you.”
Toby gathered up her cards, her face still but her lips pressed together firmly.
Annabel bowed her head.
Melanie felt like she had kicked a puppy. And guilty as hell, because she had seen Scott—and didn’t want to admit it even to herself, much less out loud.
Toby said, “She told me about what happened, Melanie. I’m the one who has the weird experiences, remember? Not Annabel. I know odd things happen on her street, but nothing like that has ever happened in her house.”
“There’s a storm coming,” Melanie said slowly. “Just saw the weather. Maybe that was it.”
“An approaching storm told Annabel she was next?”
Melanie really wished Toby hadn’t brought that up, because she could see Annabel’s pale face lose even more color.
“Toby, we’re all having it rough right now. Our friends have been horribly murdered. And I think we’re all afraid that the killer is probably somebody we know. It’s natural for us to try to cope with all that the best way we can.”