A Breath Away (14 page)

No, Grady was grasping. And after twenty years, the bone would probably have disintegrated or been buried so deep in the muddy bottom of the well, they'd never find it or be able to trace it back to Darlene. He checked the crime scene photos again, but didn't spot the bone sliver.

Frustrated, he booted up the computer, then accessed the police database to see if anything new had been posted about the serial killings, or if any recent murders might have occurred similar to Baker's. The FBI profiler had posted an initial report, so he skimmed it, the Native American phrase and religious implications troubling him. Wheeler and his father instantly came to mind, and then Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins. Hmm. Any woman would trust them if they approached.

A lot of Tennessee communities had Native American residents. Crow's Landing certainly had a few of its own. The Longhorse family, for one.

Joseph. The man had always seemed intense, angry, bitter toward the Caucasians. Not that he hadn't had a right. In fact, he'd hated Grady growing up, although Grady hadn't understood the reason. He assumed it was because he was from the wealthy side of the tracks, that Joseph associated Grady with the other snobby kids who'd teased him. Had he hated Darlene back then? Had she somehow shunned him and made him angry enough to kill her?

“Pin peyeh obe,”
Grady murmured, thinking about the phrase.

“Look toward the mountain,” Logan said.

He snapped his head around. “What?” He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. “How do you know what it means?”

Logan shrugged, not quite meeting his eyes. “My great-great-grandfather was part Cherokee,” he admitted.

Grady studied Logan's features. Now that he looked, he could see traces of a Native American heritage. Logan was dark-skinned. He had high cheekbones. Dark eyes.

Logan chuckled without humor. “In fact, my old man named me Logan because it means friend of the white man.”

Grady's mind cataloged the knowledge. Logan had been in trouble before, but his records were sealed. He seemed particularly antagonistic about the televangelist. And he had secrets. Maybe Grady needed to find out more about his deputy and his past.

He'd definitely check out Joseph Longhorse, too. Then he'd question Mayor Tate and see what he remembered about Darlene's case.

After that, he'd confront his father.

* * *

N
ERVOUS ADRENALINE HAD
kicked in, after Violet visited the funeral home and chose her father's casket, so she went home and cleaned her father's house from top to bottom. She'd even gone to the dollar store, found slip-covers for the furniture and bought a new set of kitchen curtains. Anything to liven up the place. She'd have to ask her grandmother what she wanted to do with it. Maybe they'd sell it.

The low hum of elevator music drifted toward her as she reentered the funeral home later. Moving on shaky legs toward the room where her father lay, she tried to prepare herself. She'd imagined seeing her father a million times over the years, but a raw ache clawed her insides at the sight of him stretched out in the casket.

His brown hair had thinned, his skin had turned a yellowish tint—probably from drinking too much—and wrinkles had softened his angular jaw. Age spots marred the once smooth surface of his crossed hands. When she hadn't found a suit in the closet, the funeral director had offered to have the church send one over.

“He looks at peace now,” Melvin Pearce, the funeral director, said as he moved up beside her. “Finally at peace.”

Maybe he was, but she certainly wasn't. How could he have died and left things unresolved between them? Why had he never contacted her? Tears pricked her eyelids, but she blinked to stem them. She refused to cry over a man who'd virtually abandoned her.

But she was helpless to stop the memories from bombarding her. When she was four, washing her father's old pickup truck together. Having a battle with the water hose. When she was six, sitting on his lap. He'd never been one to listen to music, but he'd loved one
particular song back then. What was it called? “The Men in My Little Girl's Life.” He'd hugged her and she'd thought he'd always be the only man in her life….

Then she'd met Darlene and their friendship had changed everything.

“Why do you say he's finally at peace?” Violet asked.

“Did you know my father well?”

“Not well,” Pearce admitted. “But anyone could see he was miserable. Turned to the bottle after you and your granny left.”

“He sent us away,” Violet said, the pain cutting through her again. “And he never tried to see me again.”

Pearce's balding head reddened. “I'm sorry, I thought it was the other way around.”

Violet dragged her eyes from her father's face and stared at him. On her tenth birthday, a day she refused to have a party or celebrate, she had shown her work in her first art show. She hadn't cared if she'd won or not. She'd just hoped her father would come to see her pictures.

He hadn't.

She'd vowed then to forget her art. To forget him. But her art was therapeutic, and eventually she'd picked up a paintbrush, charcoal and a sketch pad.

“Is that what he told people?” Violet asked. “That my grandmother and I didn't want to come back?”

“No…it's just that he seemed so lonely all the time. I assumed your grandmother wanted you away from your father's drinking.”

Footsteps sounded behind them. “There's Reverend Wheeler now.” Mr. Pearce went to meet him, then ushered him over and introduced him. The preacher was in his late fifties, with thick, curly dark hair. A younger
man who resembled him stood beside him. His son, Ross. A faint memory surfaced—Ross had been nearer Grady's age. She hadn't liked him when she was little.

She didn't think she did now, although she had no real reason for her snap judgment.

“Do you have anything special you'd like me to say or incorporate into the service?” Reverend Wheeler asked.

“Not really.” Violet backed away, wanting to escape both men's presence. Reverend Wheeler's scrutinizing gaze made her uneasy. And his son's intense look was even more nerve-racking.

“Just something simple,” she said. “Maybe a song or two.”

“Do you know your father's favorite hymn?”

The question took Violet off guard. She didn't know anything about her father, not even if he'd attended church. “No, just pick something. I…I have to go.”

She turned and fled, Ross Wheeler's probing look trailing after her. Something about the man was eerie. Maybe even evil.

But how would she know? Unless she was evil, too, just like her father had said.

* * *

“W
HAT CAN
I
DO FOR YOU
, Sheriff?”

Grady ignored the sardonic edge to Mayor Tate's voice. It was no secret the two men didn't like each other.

“I just came from the M.E.'s office. Jed Baker didn't commit suicide—he was murdered.”

Tate's normally calm demeanor shifted slightly, for the briefest second. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“Nothing really. But I have reason to suspect his
murder might be related to my sister's death twenty years ago.”

Tate pulled at his chubby chin. “He left a confession, right?”

“There was a note, but if the suicide note was a fake, the confession might be, too.”

Tate frowned. “Looks like you'd want to let that case die.”

“I do,” Grady snapped. “But I want the real killer to pay.”

“Listen, Monroe, I did everything I could back then to find your sister's killer. Your daddy knows that.”

“I'm not saying you didn't. Just indulge me.”

Tate drummed his fingers on his desk, which was piled a mile high with papers. “All right. What do you want to know?”

“You questioned Baker about Darlene's disappearance?”

“He had an alibi—it's in the report.”

“Was there anything that indicated he might have been lying?”

Tate scrunched his mouth in thought. “The fact that he kept telling us places to look made me wonder, but Whitey Simms was a good man. There's no way he'd lie or cover up for a child killer.”

“You questioned Dwayne Dobbins and his mother?”

“She swore her boy was with her all night. I never could prove no different.”

But Mavis Dobbins would lie to protect her son, and they both knew it. “How about Ross Wheeler?”

Tate frowned. “He was a teenager then. We didn't question him, although the reverend joined in the search.”

Grady contemplated that information. “Was he involved with the search the entire time?”

Tate hesitated, as if thinking back. “No, he came after the revival ended that night. Led the town members in a prayer.”

“Did you find anything at the scene that seemed out of the ordinary?”

“Hell, boy, the whole damn thing was out of the ordinary. It was the only murder we'd ever had.”

And Grady had been haunted by it since. He reached inside his pocket, craving a cigarette so bad his mouth watered. “I know, but think back. The killer didn't leave a note, a souvenir of some kind?”

Tate snapped his fingers. “The only thing we found was a sliver of bone in Darlene's hand. We figured she picked it up when she was trying to claw her way out of the well.”

Grady's blood ran cold. He forgot the cigarette. Darlene had been found holding a sliver of bone just like these recent victims? Maybe the killer had put it there. “Did you keep the piece of bone?”

“You'll have to ask your daddy. He was the one who found it.”

V
IOLET TOLD HERSELF
she was being paranoid about Ross Wheeler, but the man had unsettled her just as Donald Irving, the man she'd briefly dated in Charleston, had. She considered driving over and seeing Laney again, but decided to call and check on her grandmother instead, then drop by Lloyd Driver's office. The lawyer had left a message that she should come for the reading of her father's will.

She dialed the nursing home and spoke to a nurse. “How is she today?”

“Resting,” the woman assured her. “And she's beginning to regain mobility in her right arm.”

“How about her speech?”

“It hasn't returned yet, but don't let that upset you. It takes time for stroke patients to heal. We can't push her too hard.”

“I know.” Violet felt suddenly bereft and very much alone. Tomorrow she would bury her father; she couldn't lose her grandmother, too. “Please tell her that I called, that I love her. I'll try to get over to see her next week.”

The nurse assured her she would, and Violet hung up. Maybe by next week she'd know something more definitive.

She drove past the Redbud Café, then into the town square and checked the addresses. Five minutes later, she was seated in Driver's office. He was middle-aged, his face parched by the sun, his hair almost completely white. He shook her hand and introduced himself, then got straight to business.

“The will is pretty self-explanatory, Miss Baker,” he began. He skimmed through the opening paragraphs, then hit the highlights. “Your father left the house to your grandmother.”

“Good.” Although the place needed some work, at least he hadn't forgotten his own mother. “Did you know my father well, Mr. Driver?”

“I'm afraid not. We ran in different circles.”

Right. The price of his suit indicated that.

“He drew this document up years ago.” He scratched his neck, almost apologetic. “Unfortunately, he didn't have any investments, not even a checking or savings account, so there's nothing else there.”

She wasn't surprised. But as she returned to the house, she contemplated the fact that her father hadn't kept a checking account. Had he kept cash in the house? Hidden somewhere, maybe? If so, she could give it to her grandmother.

Earlier, when she'd been searching for a burial suit, she'd noticed a small metal box in his closet. Curious now, she went to the bedroom, took it off the shelf and noticed the lock had been broken. Probably by Grady and his deputy. Although Grady hadn't mentioned finding anything.

Receipts and check stubs filled the box, but it was empty of cash. A small red ribbon lay curled inside.

Another memory returned—her and Darlene tying ribbons in each other's hair. Had this red ribbon been hers? Had her father saved it all these years?

Then a receipt from a local mental hospital caught her attention.

She studied it, shocked to see the bill was for patient services—for her mother. When had her mom been in a mental institution?

Her heart pounding, she dug through the box and found other similar receipts, all dated about the same time—when she was two years old. That couldn't be.

Her mother had died in childbirth. At least that was what her father had told her.

She read the receipts again. There had to be a mistake. Maybe the bill was for her grandmother….

Unable to believe his deception, she phoned the hospital to check the information. Pretending that she wanted to donate money to honor her mother, she asked for verification on the dates and her mother's name. Seconds later, the clerk confirmed it.

Violet hung up the phone, stunned. Why had her father lied to her?

Reeling with questions, she nearly jumped out of her skin when the telephone trilled. She stared at it dumb-founded for a minute, then finally answered it. Maybe it was Grady with some answers. “Hello?”

“Get out of town and stop snooping around,” a low voice whispered. “Or you're going to end up just like the others.”

Violet's fingers tightened around the handset. “Who are you? What are you talking about?”

The phone went dead in her hands, the dial tone roaring in her ears.

* * *

S
WEAT DRIBBLED DOWN
Grady's back as he drove toward his old homestead. Hell, yeah, he'd ask his father about the bone. That piece of bone might connect his sister's murderer to the serial killer stalking the South today.

He searched his memory banks for his father's reaction the night Darlene had disappeared—had he given any indication he might know who'd kidnapped her? The details were so foggy….

Only thirteen at the time, Grady had been battling guilt over not coming home to watch her. And then his father had turned to him with accusing eyes, placing the blame on his shoulders. Search parties had been organized. The town had been in an uproar. And the calls from Baker had started, suggesting places for them to search.

Had Jed Baker led them on a wild-goose chase? Had Walt suspected Baker all these years, or did he know something else he wasn't telling?

Struggling with unanswered questions, Grady opened the car door and jogged up the porch steps, knocked, then let himself inside. The house was dark, quiet, the emptiness swelling like a vise, closing around him. Echoes of Darlene's childlike voice drifted from the walls, an image of her racing down the steps materializing like a ghost. He hated this house, the memories. The ache of wanting his father to be proud of him. The fear that his dad would abandon him just as his mother had.

“Dad?”

There was no answer, so Grady walked down the hall, knowing somehow he'd find his father in the same place he had the last time he'd visited. His workshop.

Seconds later, the familiar sound of a knife scraping wood seared his consciousness. Had his father ever whittled a whistle out of bone?

For God's sake, what was wrong with him? His father had not killed his little sister. And he certainly wasn't a serial killer.

“Dad?”

The knife paused, his father glanced up, then back down. He was carving another lamb. The sight of the carving gnawed at Grady. Weren't lambs some kind of religious symbol? The sacrificial lamb…

“What do you want?” Walt asked.

“The truth about what was going on with you and Baker.”

His father's hand shook slightly, but he resumed his carving. “What truth?”

“You two had a secret. I heard you arguing the night before he died. What were you afraid of?”

His dad shrugged, his cotton shirt wrinkling at the shoulders. Grady noticed suddenly that his father had lost weight. He appeared almost gaunt, his clothes hanging off of him. “You know why I hated him.”

“Because you thought he steered you wrong in finding Darlene?”

He nodded.

“There's more.”

His father's hand hesitated again, then he lifted his eyes. They looked like flat pieces of glass. Devoid of any emotion except bitterness.

“I spoke to the M.E., Dad. Baker didn't commit suicide…he was murdered.”

A flash of panic filled his father's face before it slipped back into impassivity. “And you think I care?”

Anger churned Grady's stomach. “Tell me you didn't kill him, Dad.”

A small smirk twisted Walt's lips. “Get out, Grady.”

“Not until you answer me.”

“I didn't kill him,” he said coldly. “But I'm not sorry he's dead.”

Relief tried to break through Grady's worry. “You argued with him the night he died.”

“I argued with him every time I saw him.”

“But that night there was something different,” Grady insisted. “Baker was scared and so were you. Had you figured out who really killed Darlene?”

“You said Baker left a confession?”

“But I don't think he did it, and neither does Violet,” Grady said in a low voice.

“Is that what this is about? You've taken that crazy, white trash girl's side.” His father stood now, his craggy features strained. “Or are you in her pants?”

Grady balled his hands into fists. He'd never wanted to hit his father so badly in his life. “I'm not on anyone's side,” he said. “But I'm trying to get to the truth, and I think you're hiding something. You don't believe Baker killed Darlene, either.”

“Believe what you want.”

Grady glared at him. “What the hell kind of answer is that? I thought you wanted to see Darlene's killer pay.”

“I do.” His father sighed, sounding defeated. Once again, he resumed his carving. “I did.”

“Then tell me about the piece of bone you found in Darlene's hand.”

His father's head jerked up. “What?”

“Tate told me Darlene was holding a piece of bone when you found her. Do you have it?”

His father blinked as if he was trying to remember. Or think of a lie.

“For God's sake, Dad, if you do, why wasn't it filed as evidence? It might be a vital clue.”

“It was nothing,” his father said. “Just some bone sliver she picked up trying to fight her way out of that well.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Grady sighed. “Besides, I thought Darlene was already dead when the killer put her in the well.”

His father paused, rubbed at his forehead with the back of his arm. “We didn't know, not for sure.”

Emotions froze Grady's throat. He imagined Darlene lying in the well. Frightened. Alone. Hurting. Was that what Violet had seen?

“Just tell me what you did with the bone.”

“I threw it away. I couldn't stand to think about—” His father choked, then reached for his bourbon. “Drop this, Grady. Let it go before someone else dies.”

Grady locked his fists tighter. Had his father just threatened him or had he meant his comment as a warning?

* * *

A
FTER THAT PHONE CALL
, Violet couldn't stay at the house alone. Her nerves on edge, she drove back to town. If she didn't learn anything here, tomorrow after her father's funeral she'd visit the mental hospital.

When she arrived at the diner, the sun had faded, as if it, too, had drawn its last breath. A crotchety-looking old man she heard someone call Bart occupied the same bar stool he had the last time she'd been there. Two elderly women were laughing over thick pieces of apple pie, and another half-dozen people she didn't recognize filled the booths.

She claimed the only vacant one, wondering where the pretty young waitress she'd seen before was. Joseph Longhorse was talking to a man in khaki slacks and a navy shirt, although she couldn't see his face.

Reverend Wheeler and his son walked in and took the table across from her. A knot of anxiety pinched her belly. Another man in an expensive black suit joined them—Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins. She'd seen him preach on TV but didn't care for his overly dramatic hellfire and damnation sermons. And she'd heard he took half of each offering to feed his own ostentatious lifestyle.

Laney strode toward her with a wave, and Violet relaxed. “What can I do for you today, dear?”

Violet ordered a bowl of homemade vegetable soup. “Laney, I have to ask you something.”

The woman's pensive eyes narrowed. “You're still troubled by your gift?”

“Yes, and I found something unusual in my father's house.” She inhaled deeply, then explained about the bills for the mental hospital. “Did you know my mother?”

The older woman shook her head. “No, I'm afraid not.”

Violet glanced around the diner. “Who in town did know her?”

“Doc Farmer. He was a young man then, just starting his practice.”

Laney nodded. She should have thought of him right off. “He also might know my mother's medical history.”

A TV blared from the bar, and Violet's gaze flew to the reporter on the screen. “Yes, folks, it appears we have a serial killer in the South. So far, this man has murdered two women, the first victim a coed in Savannah, the second, a young woman in Nashville. FBI pro
filer Special Agent Amelia Adams states that the killer is a male in his twenties with a strong religious upbringing. It's also possible he has Native American roots. If you have any information that might help find this killer, please call your local police.”

Violet shivered. Loud voices broke out, and she and Laney both turned to see the Barley boys in a heated argument with Joseph. The other man angled his head slightly, and Violet saw his face.

A cold chill slid up her spine.

It was Donald Irving, the man who'd practically stalked her in Charleston. Had he followed her here?

“My boy.” Laney tsked. “He has such a temper.”

“Those Barleys have always had it in for him,” Violet said.

The heaviest of the men—Chuck, if Violet remembered correctly—turned and bellowed, “Did you hear the earlier news report, folks? A serial killer is on the loose, and the police suspect he's an Indian.” He pointed toward Donald. “And this here's Bernie Morris, a reporter from the Charleston paper. He thinks the killer might be here in Crow's Landing.”

Several of the townspeople gasped. The two white-haired women huddled together in the corner. Violet stared at Donald Irving in shock. He was a reporter? And his name wasn't Donald, but Bernie?

He'd lied to her. Or was he lying now?

“Hell, we always knew he was trouble,” Chuck's brother, Leroy, yelled. “Now he's killing women.”

“Maybe we ought to take care of him ourselves,” Chuck shouted.

They jumped on Joseph with thrashing fists, grunting obscenities. Laney stepped forward to break up the
fight, but Violet held her back, afraid the men would hurt her. Bart Stancil scooted off his stool to get out of the way. The white-haired women squealed and ran toward the door. Two teenagers gawked as if they were enjoying the show.

Reverend Billy Lee Bilkins jumped up and raised his hands. “Lord God, please come down and bless these people. There's evil in this town, take the devil out of here.”