The Atheist's Daughter (19 page)

“I know what you are.” The words escaped from Kristin in a whisper.

“No, you don’t, girl. You only think you do.” She stretched a clear hand out to her. “Let’s join the others in the kitchen. Don’t you want some pumpkin bread?”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Although he hadn’t run patrol in years, Sheriff Archer believed he still knew every alley and side street in Winterhaven. Even if he was flattering himself, he remembered this particular dirt road well. He’d made his first collar here. He could still visualize Aaron Peters, his rear end sticking half out the window of Tyler Feed and Grain while a ten dollar burglar alarm whistled over his head.

Poor Aaron Peters, always one DUI away from a steady job. Now he was every bit as dead and gone as Tyler Feed and Grain itself.

Old Tom Tyler had gotten sick and sold out, letting a bait-and-tackle shop take over the property; in due time, the bait-and-tackle shop was replaced by Martin Piotrowski’s restaurant. Only the grain store had enjoyed any kind of success. Even in its heyday, Tom Tyler hadn’t cared enough to build any kind of barrier to secure his property.

The newest owners, though, they’ve built one heck of a fence
, Archer thought.
Then, when they finished with it, they dug deep into their wallets to buy a top-of-the-line tubular key lock to pin the gates closed. Seems like a lot of protection for such a modest enterprise.

Not that the lock or the fence was doing the café’s owners any good at this particular moment. On this day, early in the morning, the fence’s double gates were wide open.

Ain’t it the way?
No matter what you want to protect, no matter what you hope to hide, you can’t do much about trash day. Doors have to be opened if you want the sanitation crew to bring in their big brown trucks and empty the dumpsters.

Parking the patrol car in the alley, he got out to check the premises. A double-wide dumpster sat beside the fence on a hard-packed dirt surface. The rest of the area was empty. Empty of life, empty of weeds, empty of a single piece of litter on the ground.

Empty of clues.

He wondered if he was wasting his time. Was there even a crime for him to investigate?

Susannah Guitierrez was still on ice, waiting for the Country Coroner to appear. The only thing unusual about her death was her missing tooth. It wasn’t much to go on. She could have broken it a half-dozen different ways before losing it down the disposal or flushing it down the toilet. Even if she’d lost it as a result of her headlong plunge toward the bathtub, its disappearance remained a weak mystery.

She probably swallowed it
, he thought.
Unless the coroner orders an autopsy, nobody’s gonna see that piece of enamel again.

Unwilling to abandon his quest so quickly, he approached the dumpster. His nose wrinkled as the smell of decayed food greeted him. Holding his breath, he inspected the empty produce boxes and browned lettuce leaves filling the container.

“What’d you think you’d find in there, anyway?” he asked himself, letting the lid drop. “Susannah’s gold filling?”

A tall man appeared at the rear service door, watching him. Framed in the doorway, he said, “This is private property.”

“I’m Sheriff Archer.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Hefting a large garbage bag, the man drew closer. “What’s it take to be elected sheriff in this county, anyway? How many asses you gotta kiss?”

Oh, I definitely don’t like this one.
“What’s your name, friend?”

The tall man threw open the dumpster’s lid. “None of your business,
friend
. Not that your kind knows when to mind its own business.”

“My kind?” The Sheriff felt his shoulders stiffen. “What ‘kind’ is that? The black kind?”

“The kind who go digging through other people’s rot. Rutting through their trash.”

Archer’s hand dropped to the butt of the baton at his waist. He looped his fingers through its leather thong. “Maybe we should have a private talk.”

“Downtown? Or right here, right now, just you and me?”

“Mr. Locke!” It was a girl’s voice, thin but sharp. The speaker, every bit as thin as her voice, hurried out of the restaurant.

Irritably, the man asked, “What do you want, Alice Poe?”

“We need you in the kitchen.” The girl glanced at the Sheriff, anxiety filling her face. “We need you to be... inside. Not here.”

On closer inspection, Archer realized this person, this Alice Poe, was no longer a girl. She was probably in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, and, he thought uncharitably, nobody’s idea of a beauty. She was skin and bones, had nothing in the way of breasts, and barely carried enough in her hips to escape being mistaken for a boy.

To Mr. Locke, Alice Poe said, “Please.”

“Yeah.” Mr. Locke dropped the bag of trash at Archer’s feet. “I can always take care of the garbage later.”

“Later can be arranged.” He relaxed his grip on his baton.

Mr. Locke sauntered into the building, his shoulders wide and his arms swinging. He wasn’t just talking. He was ready for a fight.

Doesn’t take much to provoke this one
, the Sheriff thought.
Might be fun to watch him dance at the end of a Taser’s wire.

Alice Poe remained with the Sheriff. “Is everything okay?”

“Afraid not.” She acted pained by this response. “Tell me where I can find Mr. Brass.”

“He’s not here.”

“I didn’t ask where he wasn’t.” Archer reached into his pants pocket. He withdrew a pen and notepad.

“He’s in Ashfork,” she said. “He had to drive Mrs. Norton to the import shop.”

“Mrs. Norton?”

“She owns the café.”

He scribbled the name down. “Mr. Brass have a first name?”

“Stephen.” Alice Poe’s face twitched in mild panic. Her fingers played over her lips, almost as if she was touching something.

Be interesting to see how this one does with a drug test
.
A strange little bird, that’s for sure.
“When will Stephen Brass return?”

“Return? To the café?”

“No, to my house.” On her bewildered expression, he said, “Yes, here. At the restaurant. This is where he lives, right? Where all of you live?”

“He’ll be home soon. Tonight, I think.”

“Then why don’t I come back tonight?” Closing the notepad, he returned it to his pocket. “Would this be okay with you, Alice?”

At his question, her eyes flared with anger. She puffed up her tiny chest, so mad she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – speak.

Alice Poe and Mr. Locke were quite the curious pair. He wondered if Mr. Brass and Mrs. Norton could possibly prove half as interesting.

He wondered, too, what was really going on at Piotrowski’s Café.

Touching the brow of his hat, he nodded at the woman. “See you later, then.”

* * *

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Kristin hit redial on her cell phone. From the other end, she heard a ring.

Almost immediately, the Reverend Howard Hawkins’ voice came on the line:
“We’re not home right now. At the tone, leave a message and may God be with you.”

His voice was followed by a sharp, short
beep
.

She ended the transmission. Having left three messages without a response, she didn’t see any reason to leave another.

“I’m in serious distress here, Hawk.”

The night before, she’d driven past Hawkins’ house. The outside porch light was on but the house was dark. She’d even driven to the Galilee Church which, without front lights, appeared gloomier still.

This morning, neither Hawkins was answering the telephone. She couldn’t even call Hawk’s cell phone. The last she’d seen of it, it was squirting out of his hand and plunging to the bottom of Vulture’s Gorge.

Liz, too, was ignoring her. Liz, who counted food, air, make-up and cell phones among the necessities of modern life, suddenly couldn’t be bothered to respond to a text message. From all appearances, the ever-available Liz Wheeler had gone incommunicado.

What do I do now?

There were bad, evil creatures in Winterhaven and no one knew it but her. The ghost people had already claimed Susannah Guitierrez’s life. Now Mrs. Norton was making arrangements to come into her home, twice a week, for who knew how long.

Maybe if she stayed quiet, they’d go away. If she pretended not to notice them, maybe they’d pretend to ignore her.

Unless it was already too late.

Mrs. Norton had made it clear she wasn’t happy with Kristin. Nor were any of the others. From her observations, she thought Mr. Locke was the most aggressive and Mr. Brass appeared the strongest. But their middle-aged master scared her the most.

Did she plan to drain her like Mr. Brass drained Susannah? Or did they have a different victim in mind? Like, maybe, her mother?

I’ve got to do something about them
, she thought.
But what? There’s nothing I can do by myself.

I have to get help.

Not Sheriff Archer, no. She couldn’t stand the sight of another body bag, thank you. Her mother? No chance. She’d want to believe her but she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

No one could, probably.

With her history, anyone in authority would want to surround her with psychologists and counselors. They’d try to fix her by giving her another year’s vacation in the rubber room. While she was locked up, Mrs. Norton and her family would be free to feast upon the people she loved.

Liz and Hawkins wouldn’t believe her story, either, but at least they’d listen to her. Liz was always reading books about telekinesis and spontaneous combustion and other pseudoscientific nonsense so she might be open to her story.

Or she might punch the speed-dial for the guys in the white coats. With Liz, it was hard to say.

Hawkins was different. Of her two best friends, he was her
best
, best friend. Indoctrinated in the Good Book, he’d grown up believing in supernatural forces and miracles. Why should one more fantastical tale bother him? Were ghostly killers any less believable than a burning bush that talked or someone turning into a pillar of salt?

Okay, maybe so
.
But he had to believe her, anyway.
Someone
had to believe her. Or she really would go crazy.

There was one more number she could dial. It wouldn’t get her any closer to Hawkins but it was a direct link to Liz.

Suck it up
, she told herself.
After all, maybe Liz is sick. Maybe she’s had her cell phone cut off. Only one way to find out.

Quit being a coward. Dial the number.

On the other end of the airwaves, the phone rang once before a frail, reedy voice responded. “Hello?”

“Nana Beggio?” she asked. “This is Kristin. Kristin Faraday. I’m trying to find Liz.”

Thirty minutes later, she disconnected the call. Liz wasn’t answering because she was in summer school. Each calculus class was a four hour math marathon followed by a short lunch break and another two hour study session. Dr. Silva prohibited cell phones in his classroom. If he heard the first chirp of a ring tone, the unfortunate student involved could count on his or her latest homework score dropping by ten percentage points.

She’d learned this gush of information within the first five minutes of her call. Nana Beggio used the rest of the time to share the long and involved history of her arthritis pain, her dry skin, and a few of the challenges involved in owning a free-spirited cat and a half-deaf bulldog named Winston.  In the end, solely to get off of the telephone, Kristin promised to visit the Beggio house within the next two weeks.

Nana Beggio couldn’t have been more pleased. “Why, we can talk for hours.”

Bottom line, Liz isn’t available. Hawkins has disappeared. If you’re going to do something, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

“Damn it!” Kristin threw her cell phone.

It smacked into the opposite wall, its red cover plate snapping off on impact. It fell onto the carpet, a dent visible in the upper corner of its aluminum body.

The cell phone rang.

She looked at it blankly.
Is this what happens when a cell phone breaks? Is this a last jingle of protest?

It rang again. Scrambling from her bed, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

“Hey dere, hi dere, ho dere.”

“Hawkins!”

“Got my new phone,” he said. “It even has quasi-decent reception from Oklahoma City.”

“Where are you?”

“At the seminary,” Hawkins said. “Shaking hands, filling out forms, signing papers.” He sounded proud of himself. “By mid-September, I’ll officially be a second-generation Oklahoma Trinity college student.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow morning. Red of eye and full of caffeine, I’m teaching Dad’s Bible class at church.”