All Mortal Flesh (37 page)

He held out his hands in a placating gesture. “I’ve spoken with someone at the Millers Kill police twice so far today, and I’m going to call again before I go home. Believe me, the murder story is going to remain front page news.” Although the fact that the department refused to officially name anyone as a suspect was going to mean his part of the story would be two inches or less. Ciara French, who was covering the Audrey Keane murder–identity fraud investigation, would be getting the headline tomorrow.

“So that’s it?” Her mouth twisted. “Now she’s not lying in the morgue, the hell with my sister?”

“Debbie, I don’t track someone down unless I have to get a quote from him. Finding missing people isn’t my job. According to the woman I spoke with this morning, your brother-in-law is heading up the investigation into your sister’s disappearance. I suggest you call him and ask how it’s going.” Then he thought of her parked in the
Post-Star
lobby, emoting all over her cell phone. “Better yet, track him down and see what you can do to help.”

“I thought you
cared
! You were just
using
me!”

Now she was starting to sound like his crazy ex-girlfriend. “I do care. As soon as anyone knows anything, I want to hear about it. Go find Chief Van Alstyne,

and I promise you, if he’s uncovered any evidence of foul play, it’ll be in tomorrow’s edition.” He looked around for her coat, but of course all she had was the Be-Dazzled jacket she’d been wearing yesterday. “And get yourself something to wear before you freeze.”

She let herself be maneuvered toward the door. “What are you going to do?”

“While I’m waiting for word of your sister, I’m looking into another possible story. Not related to the Keane murder.”

She paused at the exit, and for a moment he thought she might brace herself against the edges of the door and refuse to leave. “About what?”

“Animal cruelty.” On that note, he got her out of the building and his afternoon back on track.

He had called about the animals on a hunch, really. Patterns tweaked at him, and although he couldn’t have articulated what he thought was going on when a minister involved in a murder investigation asked him about a pig-butchering because one of her people had a lamb killed, the weird three-sided symmetry of it all had him on the phone to the MKPD almost as soon as Reverend Fergusson had hung up on him.

Names of victims in hand, he started by calling his previous contact, Dr. Underkirk. He didn’t get through to the doctor, of course—he wondered who did: spouses? stockbrokers?—but it only took a few remarks and laughing at a few ham-fisted jokes for Underkirk’s garrulous nurse to reveal the only thing the minister had asked about: the doctor’s snowplowing service.

It didn’t take him long to go through the remaining people on the list. Of those he could reach, every one had the same service.

Interesting.

He went on the Internet. It took him fifteen minutes to find Quinn Tracey’s LiveJournal, half an hour to read the entries, and no time at all to realize the kid was seriously torqued.

Ben discounted the poorly spelled, ungrammatical complaints about fascist parents, irrelevant teachers, and stuck-up, snooty girls. He had felt pretty much the same way when he was in high school, and it had never sent him out gutting livestock.

He also ignored the tedious recounting of television episodes and the pretentious album reviews. Half the Web sites and blogs on the Internet consisted of people telling you what they liked and didn’t like in excruciating detail.

But the other stuff the kid was putting up there—that was different. In a dark and unpleasant way. Spiels glorifying war and pain and the unkillable soldier dealing death at every turn. Rants against terrorists, Middle Easterners, immigrants. Fantasies of claiming vengeance against his enemies, with detailed descriptions of what that vengeance would be. Reading it was like picking through the mind of a skinhead who had seen one too many movies where a lone American hero gunned down a moving-van’s-worth of faceless baddies.

Ben knew that young men like to fantasize about the glory of carnage. Some of them daydreamed about martial arts prowess, while others pictured themselves infiltrating behind enemy lines with the SEALs. Violent but essentially harmless. Some kids acted on it and joined up; most enrolled in college and discovered getting laid instead.

Quinn Tracey’s stuff wasn’t like that. It made Ben want to scrub out his eyeballs.

He sent the entire slag heap to the printer and, as it was purring out into a stack of paper, went to find someone who could confirm what time kids would be getting home from Millers Kill High.

Mina Norris snorted at him. “Don’t you pay any attention to anything you’re not working on? Today’s a snow day. Didn’t you notice half the office is out?”

“Huh. It did look a little underpopulated. So, all the high schoolers would be home already?”

“Uh-huh. The only reason I’m here is because my two are old enough to stay by themselves.”

He went back to his desk singing, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful…” He flipped open his notepad, ready to transcribe first the listing, then the conversation. There were only two Traceys in the Millers Kill/Fort Henry/Cossayuharie directory. One was unfamiliar, the other the number he had called Tuesday afternoon to interview the woman who had found Linda Van Alstyne’s body. Well, Audrey Keane’s body, but they hadn’t known that then.

Beagle’s pencil went still over his notepad.

Meg Tracey. That was the name of the woman who had found the body.

Quinn Tracey was her
son
?

His hands shook as he punched in the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Tracey? This is Ben Beagle, with the
Glens Falls Post-Star
. We spoke on Tuesday?”

“Of course. I remember.” The woman laughed. “If you want my reaction to the latest development, it’s ecstatic. I can’t tell you what a miracle it is, having Linda restored to life like that.”

She sounded so emotional, Ben wondered if they were talking about the same “latest development.”

“Have you… heard from her?”

“No, no, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of time.”

“Ah. Great. I’m happy to get a quote from you, but as it stands, I called on a different matter. I understand you have a son who runs his own snowplowing business.”

“Quinn? Yes. He inherited it from his big brother when Seamus went off to school. Why? Do you need a plow?”

Ben wanted to be politic. “No. I’m doing a story, and I was hoping to interview him.”

“About his snowplowing? It is unique, isn’t it? The thing I like is how eye-catching it’s going to be on his college applications. Imagine admissions officers, seeing one fast-food job after another, and then a young man who ran his own business! Of course you can interview him. Hang on.”

The earpiece clunked as she put her phone down. Ben realized he was thwapping his pencil at high speed against the notepad. He forced himself to relax.

“Hi…” The young man who picked up the other end sounded like someone who had been frogmarched to the phone to talk with an unloved relative.

“Hi, Quinn. I’m Ben Beagle, with the
Post-Star
. Your mom said it was okay if I asked you a few questions. Is that okay with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great. You run a snowplow business, right? Can you tell me how long you’ve been doing it?”

“This winter’s my first one by myself. Last year Seamus and I did it together.”

“Getting the experience, yeah. How many customers do you have?”

“Uh… twelve regular, and two guys who call me if they’re too busy to snowblow their drives themselves. Plus I get a lot of pickups when I’m doing the plowing. Like, I’m doing one of my regulars and his next-door neighbor will coming running out with a twenty and ask me to do his drive, too.”

“Sounds profitable. How do you get your customers?”

“Most of ’em Seamus got, and they, you know, just kept calling up in the fall. My mom and dad talk it up, so I get some people who know them.”

“What do you use for the plowing?”

“I have an ’88 Ford Ranger with a fifty-four-inch Deere plow and cement blocks in the bed to weight it down.”

“Is it yours, or do you borrow it from your folks?”

“It’s mine. I bought it off of my brother.”

“Do you use it just for the business?”

“Naw, it’s how I get around. I mean, I don’t get great mileage during the winter, with the plow and the weights on, but I never get stuck, so it’s a good trade-off.”

“Especially on a day like today.”

The boy huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ll be way busy as soon as this lets up.”

Ben slid the list of reported animal losses in front of him. “Do you plow for John and Zoë Kavenaugh?” The couple he hadn’t been able to reach.

“Yeah.” Tracey sounded surprised.

“And Dr. Irving Underkirk.”

“Yeah…” Surprise turning to suspicion.

“And Herbert Perkins.”

“How do you know all this?”

“All three of them have had an animal killed within the last month. Throat slit, body hacked up, but the meat uneaten. So we know it’s not a starving coyote or panther coming down from the mountains. I’m thinking it must have been done with a knife.”

He could hear fast, heavy breathing across the line. Nothing else.

“That’s a strange coincidence. Three of your customers reporting an outdoor animal butchered. And those are just the ones who called the police. I know of at least one other person who had an animal mutilated who hasn’t involved the cops. Yet.” He should have called Clare Fergusson back and asked for the name of the parishioner she mentioned. He would have had to trade information, but right now he’d give just about anything to have another name to throw at Tracey. “Do you have any comment?”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“I didn’t say you did. Just that it was strange. And another strange coincidence. Your mom discovered the body of a woman who also had her throat slit and got hacked up. Just like those animals. Were the Van Alstynes customers of yours as well?”

His answer was the blank buzz of the dial tone.

Storms can come to the Adirondacks from any of the four compass points. Soggy and slow from the south, doily-sized flakes dropping straight as beads on a string from the sky. Canadian clippers from the north, with air straight off the arctic circle and fine dry snow that scours whatever it touches. Rarely, the wheeling nor’ easters that pound the New England coastline will fall in tattered remnants over the easternmost edges of New York.

But the storms that wrack come from the west. Massive low pressure systems rumbling out of Canada, crossing five Great Lakes before breaking over the shoals of the Adirondacks. Winds that have gathered speed for a thousand miles come howling through the ancient hills. Snow crystals that may have formed over the arctic regions of Hudson Bay hurtle downward, looking for their namesake river. As the snow falls faster and the winds continue to rise, the truck driver on the Northway and the shopper walking down Main Street may be caught in a whiteout, a spinning, shifting blankness that wipes the world away.

Smart people stay inside, watch through windows as the drifts mount two, five, eight feet against the barn door and rising, and shake their heads when a vehicle rolls down the road. “Damn fool,” Margy Van Alstyne says, as an SUV rumbles past her drive. She knows, however, that some folks have no choice but to be out in the storm.

Sergeant Ogilvie would have just as soon put off picking up the Shambaugh computers from the Millers Kill Police Department, but his guys from the state cybercrime analysis team were leaning on him to bring in the hardware. When he stomped through the hallway, shedding snow, he thought the station was deserted, but he found the dispatcher, who sent him downstairs to the evidence room. Durkee, the officer who had been working on the preliminary downloads, was overjoyed to meet him, and Ogilvie could see why: The poor bastard was working inside the small evidence cage to preserve the chain of custody. He had to admire the guy’s dedication. The room’s heat and lighting system must have been installed a century ago; compact fluorescents screwed into overhead bulbs flickered as if they were about to blow, and Ogilvie could almost see his breath in the cold.

He and Durkee both signed off on the custody sheets, and Ogilvie twisted no-release plastic straps around the CPU and sealed them with his department’s lead slug. Durkee helped him tote the things up the stairs, through the building, and down another set of stairs. They ducked heads and raised shoulders and stalked through the driving snow to get to Ogilvie’s van, then hightailed it back inside and did it again.

The three CPUs secured in a locker in the back, Ogilvie followed Durkee back inside one more time to get the hard-copy transcripts the Millers Kill officer had prepped and to take him up on the offer of a hot refill for his traveling mug.

“Crappy weather,” Durkee said, leading Ogilvie to the coffee machine. “I’m glad I’m not headed down to Albany.”

“I’ll take it slow. My boss thinks your perp might be part of an areawide identity theft ring. He’s practically wetting his pants over those CPUs.”

“I hope he finds some leads, then, because when we catch Shambaugh, he’s going down for Man One, not fraud.” Durkee crossed the squad room to his desk and retrieved a thick plastic document box. “Here’s the printouts.”

“Thanks.” Ogilvie hefted the box one-handed and slipped it beneath his arm. “So… word is this guy was ripping off your chief when he sliced and diced his partner.”

Durkee frowned. “He was there, all right. We’ve got the prints. The funny thing is—”

Ogilvie’s ears perked up. He did enjoy a juicy piece of information. “What?”

“It’s probably because I’m not real skilled in this. I’m sure you guys will uncover something. It’s just… I couldn’t find any trace of any of the Van Alstynes’ information in there. No SSNs, no card numbers—nothin’.”