Dark Waters (10 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

L
ATER THAT MORNING
, a battered white Jeep parked at the curb behind the two police cruisers. The door opened, and a petite woman with straight black hair tied in a haphazard bun climbed out. She put on sunglasses and looked around the area.

Then she raised the yellow police tape at the perimeter and ducked under it. She called out to one of the workers. “Hi! I’m supposed to ask for a Mr. Walker, or a Detective Walker. Is it the same guy?”

The nearest man removed his hard hat and shook his head. “No, ma’am. They’re brothers.”

“Really?” she asked.

He gestured with the hat. “That’s Marty. He’s the cop.”

She turned as Marty Walker emerged from a door in one of the standing walls, then extended her hand to him and smiled. “Hi. I’m Amy Vannoy from the State Archaeological Commission. Lannie Boyd got called away at the last minute and asked me to come down in his place. Something about some artifacts discovered here?”

“Yes. Let’s find my brother, and he’ll show you what we found.”

“Wait, you
found
something?”

“Just a little while ago. Aren’t you here because of that?”

“No, I’m here to confirm there was nothing
to
find.”

As they crossed the grass toward the remains of the building, Amy nodded toward the picnic table, where technicians continued to look for clues. “What happened there?”

“A homicide,” Marty said simply. “A man was killed.”

“How?”

“Unpleasantly.”

“I’m sure. But I’m a scientist, not a squeamish housewife. You can share the gory details.”

“The victim was tied to that picnic table, his chest was cut open, and somebody cut out his heart. They also cut off his right hand.”

Before Amy could inquire further, Ethan emerged from the building. He held out his hand and said, “I’m Ethan Walker, the contractor doing the renovation. And you are … ?”

“Amy Vannoy,” she said to Ethan as they shook hands. “Lannie Boyd sent me down here to check out your site. But I think I can also help you. Pinning the right hand of a sacrifice to a tree is a very specific bit of ritual from the stories of the Lo-Stahzi.”

“Really?” Marty was suddenly interested. “Can you tell me more?”

“May I take a closer look at the crime scene?”

Marty raised the yellow tape around the table so Amy could duck under it. She looked at the table, then at the tree, and said, “Was he cut here, just under his ribs?”

“Yes.”

“And his heart was removed that way?”

“So it appears.”

She looked at the table again. “Which end was his head on?”

“This one.”

“Ah. That’s wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Lo-Stahzi always sacrificed their victims with the heads toward the water, so the souls could run downhill into the lake. They believed the water was a conduit to the afterlife.”

“Is that a fairly obscure bit of trivia?” Marty asked.

“That’s what you get with the Lo-Stahzi,” Amy said. “They’re an extinct tribe, so there’s no one to ask. There’s lots of bits and pieces, but many of them contradict each other. I’m probably the leading expert, and what I know with certainty wouldn’t fill one sheet of a legal pad. There’s only one real book on the subject, and most of it is nonsense. But my guesses are more educated than anyone else’s.” She turned to Ethan. “Lannie said you hadn’t found anything, but when I got here they said you had.”

“Yes, just this morning,” Ethan said. “It’s a little suspicious, since no one remembers it being there before, but I want to make sure it’s okay before we keep working.”

“Show me.”

Ethan led her to one end of the excavated foundation. Four workers stood in a circle around a shallow hole. They stepped aside for Amy, and when she crouched to examine the hole, they stared at the top of the pink thong that showed above the waistband of her slacks.

She picked up some dirt and filtered it through her fingers. “Why were you digging here?”

“Looking for an old sewer line,” Ethan said.

“Have you been digging here today?”

“No, not since yesterday. We were about to start again when we found those.” He pointed to two small stone arrowheads and pieces of what appeared to be broken pottery protruding from the soil.

She stood, wiped her hands on her pants, and said, “Fail.”

Ethan and Marty looked at each other, then at her. “What do you mean?” Marty said.

“This dirt isn’t native. Somebody dumped it here, along with these beauties.” She picked up one of the arrowheads, spit on it, and rubbed it clean. “I have no doubt this is a genuine artifact, but it’s not a rare one, and it sure as hell wasn’t originally buried here.”

Marty looked at her skeptically. “You can tell that without any lab testing or microscopic analysis or anything?”

“Dirt is a huge part of archaeology, and I can tell that
this
dirt did not come from this sediment. Besides, look at the fence. You can see some of the dirt stuck to the razor wire where they dumped it over.”

“So whoever did this was in a hurry,” Marty said.

“Probably. If it was the same person that killed the guy, I could see why he wouldn’t want to dally.”

Marty nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Ms. Vannoy. If you’ll excuse me, I need to call our forensics people about this.” He went outside the gate and down the hill for privacy.

“So is there any reason we can’t continue working?” Ethan asked her.

“Nah. I’ll take these pieces with me and see if I can figure out where they came from. Do you have a card? I’ll let you know what I find.” And she walked back up the hill toward her waiting Jeep.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

K
YLE STILLWATER STAGGERED
out of his apartment into the sun, leaving the patio door open behind him. He squinted into the light and stumbled over his rusted hibachi grill. He wore a T-shirt with a motorcycle on it and jeans that were split at the knee.

“Hey, bro,” his neighbor Darius said. The middle-aged black man sipped coffee in his bathrobe and slippers. “You all right?”

“Huh?” Kyle turned and saw his friend. “Oh, hi, Darius. Just a little out of it.”

Darius shook his head. “On a weeknight, even. You kids have no sense of responsibility, do you?”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m just … I feel like crap. I think I’m getting sick, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Eighty-proof sick. You know, if you ever need to talk instead of sitting in that apartment by yourself, you come on over. I’ll grill us some burgers, and we can hash out the world’s problems.”

Kyle smiled. Darius was on disability from his diabetes and always reached out to his troubled neighbors. If only everyone in the world was so kind. “Thanks, man. I may take you up on that.”

Kyle’s truck started after he raised the hood and wiggled the ignition wire. He always promised himself that after he got his big break, he would send that truck off the nearest cliff. He headed north out of Madison, toward the little farm owned by Henry Hawes.

He stopped at a convenience store and left the engine running while he gassed up. The news on TV that morning had rattled him. Garrett Bloom had been murdered in the same park where everyone said he, Kyle, had shown up on Saturday. Yet he hadn’t. He had been hired to, but he’d somehow slept through it. Hadn’t he? No one had any pictures, and the guy they described was older, with white hair. Was it just some coincidence that he called himself “Kyle Stillwater”?

His dreams this past night were just as troubling. He was making love to a beautiful white woman on the grass in the dark, and he could smell the water nearby. His memories of touching her were as vivid as any real sexual experience, yet the words he heard himself say came only partly from his own head. Someone else seemed to be speaking through him—someone whose personality was filled with hate and anger, and who delighted in causing pain.

The final straw had been finding the policewoman’s business card on his refrigerator. He had no memory of talking to the cops, but surely they wouldn’t have burst in while he was sleeping, only to leave a card where he could find it. He knew he needed help—the kind only Henry could provide.

He tried Henry on the store’s pay phone. He’d lost his own cellphone sometime in the last couple of days. Once again neither Henry nor his wife answered, but the old man seldom left the farm. Kyle would find him there.

He
had
to.

PATTY PATILIA THREW
open the diner’s door so hard it almost knocked the little bell from its mount. “Have you
heard
?”

Rachel looked up from filling ketchup bottles. She realized she had no idea how long she’d been doing that; her thoughts were thin and scattershot. “Heard what?”

Patty’s face shone with sweat and eagerness, and she was so out of breath she could barely enunciate. “Someone was killed over at Olbrich Park.
Murdered
. Where they’re building that new community center.”

The few post-lunch diners all turned to listen. Even Jimmy poked his head out of the kitchen.

“Who?” Helena asked as she stood beside Rachel.

“Garrett Bloom,” Patty said. “You know, the guy who hired me to sing? We went to the ground-breaking on Saturday.”

A girl with tattoos on both arms said, “Was that the hottie in the loincloth? I saw him. That’d be a real shame.”

“No, it wasn’t him. Mr. Bloom personally sought me out for the show. He said he wanted a local artist of my caliber to set the tone for the day.” This seemed to affect her anew, and she paused. “Wow. He was alive then. Now he’s dead.”

“Who killed him?” asked Mrs. Boswell, one of the regular customers.

“I don’t know. I just heard about it from one of the boys who plays Frisbee golf at Olbrich Park every morning. It’s been on the news, but there’s nothing on the
Lady of the Lakes
.”

Her blog’s name sent a jolt through Rachel. She put down the ketchup bottles and said, “Well, I’m sure it’ll be all over the Internet by tonight.”

Patty was still lost in her reverie. “I’ve never known anybody who was
murdered
before,” she said, essentially to herself. “I didn’t really know Ling Hu, and Korbus didn’t
mean
to kill her. Gosh, I barely know anyone who’s
died
. Even most of my childhood pets are still alive.”

“You live in a blessed state, child,” Mrs. Boswell said seriously.

Rachel’s foggy consciousness tried to process this information. Whatever was wrong with her was not going away but seemed to be growing in intensity, putting distance between her and the world with every passing moment. It was almost as if Sylvia Plath’s symbolic bell jar had been lowered around her, smeared and stained and impenetrable, reducing the rest of the world to vague, almost unrecognizable shapes.

And inside the jar, she could think of only one thing:
him
.

“So where was he killed?” Rachel finally asked.

“I told you already, at the park, where they had the big ceremony,” Patty said. “They found his body on one of the picnic tables.”

Okay, focus
, she told herself. The park. Where the old building was being torn down to make way for the new one. And both tasks were the responsibility of Ethan Walker. “Did you happen to hear anything about him?”

“Him who?”

Kyle
, she almost said without thinking, but she caught herself. “Ethan Walker.”

“Ethan? No. Why? Oh—right. But no, nobody mentioned him.”

Rachel nodded. The others continued to discuss the murder while she took the full ketchup bottles and put them back in the refrigerator. The cold air seemed to penetrate the haze for a moment, and she realized how serious this was. Garrett Bloom was a mover and shaker; his death, especially by foul play, would send ripples in every direction.

She opened the freezer and pressed an ice cube to the hollow of her throat. What was
wrong
with her?

ETHAN CLIMBED THE
hill to the curb without looking at the crime scene. It was blazingly hot, and he was starving. He’d had no breakfast or lunch, and wanted food, a shower, and a nap. His truck would be like a kiln, but he was glad it didn’t have vinyl seats like his first two cars.

He unlocked the door just as another vehicle parked behind him. Julie Schutes emerged, dressed in a short skirt and summer blouse, her smooth flesh displayed to great advantage. She tossed her golden hair and said, “Well, hello there. Just the man I was after.”

“Your timing sucks, then. I’m on my way home right now, so—”

“Five minutes for old times’ sake,” she said, and threaded her arm through his before he could move away. “Walk me down to the scene of the crime.”

“Marty’s still down there. You can talk to him.”

“Ethan,” she said in almost a purr. Julie was a wildcat in bed, and when they dated that was the same tone she used to let him know she was in the mood.

“Julie—” he protested, and pulled away.

“C’mon, just walk down the hill with me.”

“Why? Can’t you find the bottom on your own?”

“What, are you afraid you can’t restrain yourself?”

The heat made him quick to anger, but he controlled it. He would go along just to shut her up. Once she started talking to Marty, he should be able to get away. “All right,” he agreed.

As they started down the slope, Julie said, “So, Mr. Walker, how does it feel to have another of your projects involved in a capital crime, like with the Arlin Korbus kidnappings?”

“I’m not going on the record with you, Julie, so just turn off the tape recorder.”

“You know I don’t record things. I do it the old-fashioned way.”

“You make it up?”

“Ouch. Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“Because I’m
tired
. First my condo project was delayed because of that kidnapping, and now the guy who hired me for
this
job is found dead on the site.”

She nodded toward the men in hard hats going about their tasks. “Doesn’t look like you’ve stopped this time.”

“No. Not today, at any rate. I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.”

They reached the yellow tape around the bloody picnic table. She pointed to a figure down by the lake, staring out at the water. “What’s Marty doing?”

“You know how he is. He likes to think, to make sure he doesn’t overlook any details.” Ethan recalled how furious Marty had been after he realized the crucial clue in the kidnappings of five local women had been right in front of him all along.

“Well, at least he’s got a prime suspect in this one,” Julie said.

“He does?”

“That guy who disrupted the ground-breaking ceremony. Kyle Stillwater. Everyone heard him threatening Bloom.”

“I have no comment on that. Or about anything else. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He pulled his arm free of her grasp and turned to leave.

“Why are you so angry with me, Ethan? Is it because I went to see your girlfriend in the hospital?”

He stopped and faced her. “She’s not my girlfriend. And yes, actually, that still kind of pisses me off.”

“Do you know what we talked about? I’ll tell you. We talked about how she wasn’t good enough for you.”

“And
you
are?”

“I don’t know, but I’m better than her. I’m not some glorified fry cook.”

“She owns her own business, Julie.”

“She owns a cheap diner frequented by college students. I’ve seen it.”

“Whatever. That has nothing to do with anything now.”

“Then what about you and me?”

“There is no ‘you and me.’ ”

“Can I quote you on that?” And when he glared at her she added, “Oh, come on. I’m just teasing.”

“Well, I’m not laughing.”

She met his angry glare with her own. “I know she dumped you. And while I’m not saying I’ll take you back, I am saying I’m willing to talk about it. We make a good pair: the war hero businessman with the arm candy–worthy reporter by his side. Great for both our images.”

“That’s not my definition of great.”

“Okay, forget it. I’ll go talk to Marty. And don’t feel obligated to wait around and walk me to my car.”

“I don’t.”

She strode across the park, and he was delighted to realize that such an excellent backside no longer entranced him.

THE DINER DOOR
slammed open again. Startled, Helena gasped and dropped a lunch special on the floor. Rachel whirled toward the interloper, ready to lay into him. Then she froze.

Becky Matre stood in the doorway. She leaned heavily on the frame, sobbing so hard she could barely stand. “Rachel,” she forced out.

Rachel darted around the counter and caught her just as she was about to fall. Becky was shaking as if she’d just come in from a blizzard. “Becky, are you hurt?”

Becky shook her head. “No, I … It’s … Garrett’s dead!”

Rachel held her close and stroked her hair. “I know, sweetie, I heard.” She
had
heard, yet her hazy mind had completely forgotten this morning’s visit, when Becky confessed her love for the dead man. Then she realized the whole place was silent as everyone stared at them.

Becky curled in on herself. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“
Shh
, honey, it’s all right,” Rachel said. “Let’s go upstairs so you can lie down.”

Patty came over to help, but Becky angrily shrugged her off. Rachel gave her an apologetic look as she and her sister went up the narrow stairs to her apartment.

EVERYONE IN THE
diner stared after them in silence until they heard the door open, then close. Becky’s sobs were still audible through the ceiling.

“I just wanted to help,” Patty said. The hatred she’d seen in Becky Matre’s eyes made her want to cry.

“Don’t take it personally,” Helena said as she cleaned up the dropped order. “Becky’s a handful on a good day. She always has been.”

“Why does Rachel put up with it?”

Helena shrugged. “She’s family. You know?”

“No. I’m an only child.”

“Really? Well, like Mrs. Boswell said, you live in a blessed state. Be thankful.” Helena turned to the others. “Okay, show’s over. Don’t be rude and ask about it either. Who wants more coffee?”

BECKY COLLAPSED ONTO
the couch and continued to cry in long, keening sobs. Rachel poured a glass of wine and held it to her sister’s lips. Becky took several small sips between gulps of air.

Rachel hadn’t seen Becky this upset since they were children. “Okay, honey, calm down and tell me what happened.”

She expected a defensive bit of sarcasm, but evidently Becky was too shaken even for that. “Like I told you, I left Garrett a message, telling him how I feel about him. I know he heard it, he checks his voice mail every five minutes. And now … now he’s
dead
!” She began to wail again.

“Where were you?”

She sniffled, then looked up in surprise. “Me?”

“When it happened?”

“I was at home—where do you think?” Through the tears, her eyes blazed with familiar fury. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Honey, I just wondered.”

She pushed Rachel away to the end of the couch. “You think I had something to do with it?”

“No!”

Becky jumped to her feet, fists clenched. “You do, don’t you?” Then her anger changed to fear, and she collapsed on the couch again. “Oh my God, if
you
do, then the police will, too, won’t they? When they hear that message … Maybe he deleted it? Can they get it back if he erased it?”

Rachel reached for her hand. “I don’t think you had anything to do with it.”

Becky looked at her desperately. “I didn’t! I swear! I can’t go to jail, I just can’t, I couldn’t bear it, I—”