Faithless

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sara lay in bed on her side, looking out the window. She could hear Jeffrey in the kitchen, knocking pans around. Around five this morning, he had scared the shit out of her, jumping around in the dark as he put on his running shorts, looking like an ax murderer in t he shadows cast by the moon. An hour later, he had wakened her again, cursing like a sailor when he accidentally stepped on Bob. Displaced from the bed by Jeffrey, the greyhound had taken to sleeping in the bathtub and was just as indignant as Jeffrey to find them both simultaneously in the tub.

Still, she was somewhat comforted by Jeffrey’s presence in the house. She liked rolling over in the middle of the night and feeling the warmth of his body. She liked the sound of his voice and the smell of the oatmeal lotion he used on his hands when he thought she wasn’t looking. She especially liked that he cooked breakfast for her.

“Get your ass out of bed and come scramble the eggs,” Jeffrey yelled from the kitchen.

Sara muttered something she would be ashamed for her mother to hear as she dragged herself out from under the covers. The house was freezing cold even though the sun was beating down on the lake, waves sending coppery glints of light through the back windows. She grabbed Jeffrey’s robe and wrapped it around herself before padding down the hallway.

Jeffrey stood at the stove, frying bacon. He was wearing sweatpants and a black T-shirt, which set off his bruised eye nicely in the morning sun.

He said, “I figured you were awake.”

“Third time’s a charm,” she told him, petting Billy as he leaned up against her. Bob was splayed on the couch with his feet in the air. She could see Bubba, her erstwhile cat, stalking something in the backyard.

Jeffrey had already gotten out the eggs and set the carton beside a bowl for her. Sara cracked them open, trying not to drip the whites all over the counter. Jeffrey saw the mess she was making and took over, saying, “Sit down.”

Sara sank into the stool at the kitchen island, watching him clean up her mess.

She asked the obvious. “You couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” he told her, tossing the rag into the sink.

He was worried about the case, but she also knew that he was almost as troubled about Lena. Their entire relationship, Jeffrey had been in some state of concern for Lena Adams. In the beginning it was because she was too hotheaded on the street, too aggressive with her arrests. From there, Jeffrey had been worried about her competitiveness, her yearning to be the best on the squad no matter what shortcuts she felt she had to take. He had trained her carefully as a detective, partnering her with Frank but taking her under his wing, grooming her for something-something Sara thought the other woman would never get. Lena was too single-minded to lead, too selfish to follow. Twelve years ago, Sara could have predicted he would still be worrying over Lena today. That she was mixed up with that Nazi skinhead Ethan Green was really the only thing that had ever surprised her about the other woman.

Sara asked, “Are you going to try to talk to Lena?”

Jeffrey didn’t answer her question. “She’s too smart for this.”

“I don’t think abuse has anything to do with intelligence or lack thereof,” Sara said.

“That’s the reason I don’t think Cole went after Rebecca,” Jeffrey told her. “She’s too willful. He wouldn’t pick someone who would fight back too much.”

“Is Brad still looking over in Catoogah?”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding hopeful that the search would yield anything. He skipped on to Cole Connolly as if he had been having a different conversation in his head. “Rebecca would’ve told her mother what was going on and Esther… Esther would have ripped out Cole’s throat.” Using his good hand, he broke the eggs one by one into the bowl. “Cole wouldn’t have risked it.”

“Predators have an innate ability to choose their victims,” Sara agreed, thinking again about Lena. Somehow, the circumstances of her damaged life had taken over, making her an easy target for someone like Ethan. Sara completely understood how this happened. It was all logical; yet, knowing Lena, she was still having trouble accepting it.

“I kept seeing him last night, the panic in his eyes when he realized what was happening. Jesus, what a horrible way to die.”

“It’s the same thing that happened to Abby,” she reminded him. “Only she was alone in the dark and had no idea what was happening to her.”

“I think he knew,” Jeffrey said. “At least, I think he figured it out in the end.” There were two mugs in front of the coffeemaker and he filled them, handing Sara one. She saw him hesitate before taking a sip, and wondered if there would ever be a time when he could drink coffee without thinking about Cole Connolly. In the scheme of things, Sara had a much easier job than Jeffrey did. He was out there on the front line. He saw the bodies first, told the parents and loved ones, felt the weight of their desperation to find out who had taken away their child or mother or lover. It was no wonder that cops had one of the highest suicide rates of any profession.

She asked, “What’s your gut feeling?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, mixing the eggs with a fork. “Lev admitted that he was attracted to Abby.”

“But that’s normal,” she said, then backed up. “Well, normal if it happened the way he said it did.”

“Paul says he was in Savannah. I’m going to check that out, but that still doesn’t account for his evenings.”

“That could just as easily point to his innocence,” Sara reminded him. She had learned from Jeffrey a long time ago that someone who had a pat alibi was generally a person to look at closely. Sara herself couldn’t come up with a witness who could swear Sara had been at home alone all night when Abigail Bennett had been murdered.

“No news on the letter you were sent yet,” he said. “I doubt the lab will find anything anyway.” He frowned. “It’s costing a fucking fortune.”

“Why do it?”

“Because I don’t like the idea of somebody contacting you about a case,” he told her, and she could hear resentment in his tone. “You’re not a cop. You’re not involved in this.”

“They could have sent it to me knowing that I would tell you.”

“Why not just send it to the station?”

“My address is in the phone book,” she said. “Whoever sent it might have worried that a letter would get lost at the station.” She asked, “Do you think it was one of the sisters?”

“They don’t even know you.”

“You told them I was your wife.”

“I still don’t like it,” he said, dividing the eggs between two plates and adding a couple of slices of toast to each. He veered back to the original subject. “The cyanide is what’s hard to connect.” He offered her the plate of bacon and she took two pieces. “The more we look into it, the more it seems like Dale is the only possible source.” Jeffrey added, “But Dale swears he keeps the garage locked at all times.”

“Do you believe him?”

“He may beat his wife,” Jeffrey began, “but I think he was telling me the truth. Those tools are his bread and butter. He’s not going to leave that door open, especially with people coming through from the farm.” He took out the jelly and passed it to her.

“Is it possible he’s involved?”

“I don’t see how,” Jeffrey told her. “He’s got no connection to Abby, no reason to poison her or Cole.” He suggested, “I should just run the whole family in, split them up and see who breaks first.”

“I doubt Paul would allow that.”

“Maybe I’ll tag the old man.”

“Oh, Jeffrey,” she said, feeling protective of Thomas Ward for some unknown reason. “Don’t. He’s just a helpless old man.”

“Nobody’s helpless in that family.” He paused. “Not even Rebecca.”

Sara weighed his words. “You think she’s involved?”

“I think she’s hiding. I think she knows something.” He sat beside her at the counter, picking at his eyebrow, obviously mulling over the niggling details that had kept him up all night.

Sara rubbed his back. “Something will break. You just need to start back at square one.”

“You’re right.” He looked up at her. “It keeps going back to the cyanide. That’s the key. I want to talk to Terri Stanley. I need to get her away from Dale and see what she says.”

“She’s got an appointment at the clinic today,” Sara told him. “I had to fit her in during lunch.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Her youngest hasn’t gotten any better.”

“Are you going to talk to her about the bruises?”

“I’m in the same boat as you,” she said. “It’s not like I can back her into a corner and get her to tell me what’s going on. If it were that easy, you’d be out of a job.”

Sara had experienced her own guilt last night, wondering how she had seen Terri Stanley all these years and never guessed what was happening at home.

She continued, “I can’t really betray Lena ’s confidence and for all I know, it’ll scare her off. Her kids are sick. She needs the clinic. It’s a safe place for her.” Sara assured him, “If I ever see so much as a hair disturbed on those kids, you’d better believe I’ll say something about it. She’d never leave the building with them.”

He asked, “Does she ever bring Dale with her when she comes to the clinic?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“Mind if I stop in to talk to her?”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with that,” she said, not liking the idea of her clinic being used as a second police station.

He told her, “Dale has a loaded gun in his shop, and something tells me he doesn’t like cops talking to his wife.”

“Oh,” was all she could say. That changed things.

“Why don’t I just wait around in the parking lot for her to come out?” he suggested. “Then I’ll take her to the station.”

Sara knew this would be a lot safer, but she still didn’t relish the thought of being involved in setting up Terri Stanley for a surprise attack. “She’ll have her son with her.”

“Marla loves children.”

“I don’t feel good about this.”

“I’m sure Abby Bennett didn’t feel good about being put in that box, either.”

He had a point, but she still didn’t like it. Despite her better judgment, Sara relented. “She’s scheduled to come in at twelve fifteen.”

Brock’s funeral home was housed in a Victorian mansion that had been built in the early 1900s by the man who had run the railroad maintenance depot over in Avondale. Unfortunately, he had dipped into the railroad’s coffers in order to finance the construction and when he had been caught, the place had been sold at auction. John Brock had purchased the mansion for a ridiculously low sum and turned it into one of the nicest funeral homes this side of Atlanta.

When John died, he passed the business on to his only son. Sara had gone to school with Dan Brock and the funeral home had been on her bus route. The family lived above the business, and every weekday morning, she had cringed as the bus pulled up in front of the Brocks’ house-not because she was squeamish, but because Brock’s mother insisted on waiting outside with her son, rain or shine, so that she could kiss him good-bye. After this embarrassing farewell, Dan would clamber onto the bus, where all the boys would make smooching noises at him.

More often than not, he ended up sitting beside Sara. She hadn’t been part of the popular crowd or the drug crowd or even the geeks. Most times, she had her head in a book and didn’t notice who was sitting beside her unless Brock plopped himself down. He was chatty even then, and more than a bit strange. Sara had always felt sorry for him, and that hadn’t changed in the thirty-plus years since they had ridden to school together. A confirmed bachelor who sang in the church choir, Brock still lived with his mother.

“Hello?” Sara called, opening the door onto the grand hall that went the full length of the house. Audra Brock hadn’t changed much in the way of decorating since her husband had bought the mansion, and the heavy carpeting and drapes still fit the Victorian period. Chairs were scattered down the hall, tables with Kleenex boxes discreetly hidden beside flower arrangements offering respite for mourners.

“Brock?” she asked, setting down her briefcase on one of the chairs so that she could dig out Abigail Bennett’s death certificate. She had promised Paul Ward she would have the paperwork to Brock yesterday, but she’d been too busy to get to it. Carlos had taken a rare day off, and Sara didn’t want to keep the family waiting one more day.

“Brock?” she tried again, looking at her watch, wondering where he was. She was going to be late getting to the clinic.

“Hello?” There hadn’t been any cars parked outside, so Sara assumed there wasn’t a funeral taking place. She walked down the hallway, peering into each of the viewing parlors. She found Brock in the farthest one. He was a tall, gangly man, but he had managed to lean the entire upper part of his body into a casket, the lid resting on his back. A woman’s leg, bent at the knee stuck up beside him, a dainty, high-heel clad foot dangling outside the casket. Sara would have suspected something obscene if she didn’t know him better.

“Brock?”

He jumped, smacking his head against the lid. “Lord a’mighty,” he laughed, clutching his heart as the lid slammed down. “You near about scared me to death.”

“Sorry.”

“Guess I’m in the right place for it!” he joked, slapping his thigh.

Sara made herself laugh. Brock’s sense of humor matched his social skills.

He ran his hand along the shiny edge of the bright yellow casket. “Special order. Nice, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” she agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“Georgia Tech fan,” he told her, indicating the black pinstriping along the lid. “Say,” he said, beaming a smile, “I hate to ask, but can you give me a hand with her?”

“What’s wrong?”

He opened the lid again, showing her the body of a cherubic woman who was probably around eighty. Her gray hair was styled into a bun, her cheeks slightly rouged to give her a healthy glow. She looked like she belonged in Madame Tussauds instead of a lemon-yellow casket. One of the problems Sara had with embalming was the artifice involved; the blush and mascara, the chemicals that pickled the body to keep it from rotting. She did not relish the thought of dying and having someone- worse yet, Dan Brock- shoving cotton into her various orifices so that she wouldn’t leak embalming fluid.

“I was trying to pull it down,” Brock told her, indicating the woman’s jacket, which was bunched up around her shoulders. “She’s kind of husky. If you could hold up her legs and I could pull…”

She heard herself saying, “Sure,” even though this was the last thing she wanted to do with her morning. She lifted the woman’s legs at the ankles and Brock made quick work pulling down the suit jacket, talking all the while. “I didn’t want to have to tote her back downstairs to the pulley and Mama’s just not up to helping with this kind of thing anymore.”

Sara lowered the legs. “Is she okay?”

“Sciatica,” he whispered, as if his mother might be embarrassed by the affliction. “It’s terrible when they start getting old. Anyway.” He tucked his hand around the coffin, straightening the silk lining. When he was finished, he rubbed his palms together as if to wash his hands of the task. “Thanks for helping me with that. What can I do you for?”

“Oh.” Sara had almost forgotten why she came. She walked back to the front row of chairs where she had put Abby’s paperwork. “I told Paul Ward I’d bring the death certificate over to you by Thursday, but I got tied up.”

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Brock said, flashing a smile. “I don’t even have Chip back from the crematorium yet.”

“Chip?”

“Charles,” he said. “Sorry, Paul called him Chip, but I guess that can’t be his real name.”

“Why would Paul want Charles Donner’s death certificate?”

Brock shrugged, as if the request was the most natural thing in the world. “He always gets the death certificates when people from the farm pass.”

Sara leaned her hand against the back of the chair, feeling the need to grab onto something solid. “How many people die on the farm?”

“No,” Brock laughed, though she didn’t see what was funny. “I’m sorry I gave you the wrong impression. Not a lot. Two earlier this year-Chip makes three. I guess there were a couple last year.”

“That seems like a lot to me,” Sara told him, thinking he had left out Abigail, which would bring the tally to four this year alone.

“Well, I suppose,” Brock said slowly, as if the peculiarity of the circumstances had just occurred to him. “But you have to think about the types of folks they’ve got over there. Derelicts, mostly. I think it’s real Christian of the family to pick up the handling costs.”

“What did they die of?”

“Let’s see,” Brock began, tapping his finger against his chin. “All natural causes, I can tell you that. If you can call drinking and drugging yourself to death natural causes. One of ’em, this guy, was so full of liquor it took less than three hours to render his cremains. Came with his own accelerant. Skinny guy, too. Not a lot of fat.”

Sara knew fat burned more easily than muscle, but she didn’t like being reminded of it so soon after breakfast. “And the others?”

“I’ve got copies of the certificates in the office.”

“They came from Jim Ellers?” Sara asked, meaning Catoogah’s county coroner.

“Yep,” Brock said, waving her back toward the hall.

Sara followed, feeling uneasy. Jim Ellers was a nice man, but like Brock he was a funeral director, not a physician. Jim always sent his more difficult cases to Sara or the state lab. She couldn’t recall anything other than a gunshot wound and a stabbing that had been transferred to her office from Catoogah over the last eight years. Jim must have thought the deaths at the farm were pretty standard. Maybe they were. Brock had a point about the workers being derelicts. Alcoholism and drug addiction were hard diseases to manage, and left untreated, they generally led to catastrophic health problems and eventual death.

Brock opened a set of large wooden pocket doors to the room where the kitchen had once been. The space was now his office, and a massive desk was in the center, paperwork heaped in the in-box.

He apologized: “Mama’s been a little too poorly to straighten up.”

“It’s okay.”

Brock went over to the row of filing cabinets along the back of the room. He put his fingers to his chin again, tapping, not opening any drawers.

“Something wrong?”

“I might need a minute to try to think of their names.” He grinned apologetically. “Mama’s so much better at remembering these things than I am.”

“Brock, this is important,” she told him. “Go get your mother.”