Whisper of Evil

CHAPTER SEVEN

FRIDAY, MARCH 24

Ethan Cole closed the file folder and scowled across his desk at the small group assembled uncomfortably in several straight-backed visitor's chairs. "So what're you telling me?"

Justin Byers glanced at the other two CID detectives — strictly speaking, only the three of them made up the entire Criminal Investigation Division for the Lacombe Parish sheriff's department, though the uniformed deputies helped out when necessary — and realized glumly that he was still expected to be spokesman. Whether he liked it or not.

"We're telling you that we don't have much more this week than we had last week," he replied matter-of-factly. "We know all four of the victims received a phone call the night before they were killed, the calls placed from different pay phones around town. So far, we haven't been able to find any witnesses who noticed anyone placing the calls. Other than that, there's nothing new to report."

If anything, the sheriff's scowl deepened. "Any of George Caldwell's secrets come to light yet?"

Lying without a blink, Justin said, "Not so far."

"Shit. I hate waiting for that."

The lone female detective, Kelly Rankin, offered, "Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Unnerving." She shook her head and absently pushed a wayward strand of pale hair off her face.

Ethan half nodded in agreement. "I'll say. Look, do we have any idea at all whether this bastard is finished with his little rampage?"

Justin said, "There's just no way to know that. Maybe he had only four names on his hit list, or maybe he's got a dozen. So far, we haven't found the common denominator — not a single person with any kind of a grudge that we can connect to all four men."

Kelly spoke up again, saying, "Granted, we haven't yet sifted through the victims' secret lives thoroughly enough to find everything there is to find; these guys kept their secret sins very well hidden. And those sins are all so… varied. I mean, we've got pornography, gambling, embezzlement — and God only knows what Caldwell's secret will be."

"All different," Ethan mused.

She nodded, her blue eyes intent. "Yeah. So maybe we're wasting time combing through the secrets looking for a common denominator, one enemy they all made."

Justin said, "Maybe the secrets are the common denominator."

The third CID detective, Matthew Thorton, agreed with a nod. He looked tired, which wasn't really surprising, his gray eyes bloodshot and graying dark hair somewhat rumpled. "That really is the only thing we're sure of so far — that at least the first three victims led some kind of a secret life. So maybe what we've got here is a killer whose only goal is to expose secrets. Maybe none of them did anything to him personally. Maybe he just plain doesn't like people pretending to be something they aren't."

"Which, if true, is not going to make our jobs any easier," Justin finished with a sigh. "Forget even trying to figure out who the next victim might be. And if this guy doesn't have a tangible connection to the victims, if there's no trail there for us to find, then we've got about zero chance of catching him, unless he makes a mistake."

The sheriff eyed him somewhat grimly. "That's a pretty defeatist attitude."

"Realistic. Serial killers with no connection to their victims get caught when they fuck up. Period." Catching himself belatedly, he added in a much more diffident tone, "At least everything I've read on the subject says so."

After a long moment, Ethan leaned his chair back until it creaked, and shook his head. "I'm still not convinced we've only got one killer here. For one thing, we've got four distinctly different causes of death: poison, drowning, electrocution, and gunshot. How often does a single killer vary his methods over that wide a range?"

"Not often," Justin admitted. "But it happens. Especially if one of his goals is to throw off the police."

"Maybe. But unless you people can uncover George Caldwell's secret life — assuming he had one — or discover some other connection to the first three victims, then I'm inclined to consider his murder as a single crime separate from the other three."

That surprised Justin somewhat. If Ethan Cole was indeed one of Caldwell's blackmail victims, would he be prodding his investigators to look for a motive specific only to that murder? Or was he convinced such a motive would both implicate someone else and surface before anyone could find evidence of Caldwell's secret vice?

Or was Justin totally wrong about the sheriff, seeing reluctance or interference in an investigation when none was actually there?

Kelly said, "He got a phone call from a pay phone just like the others the night before he was killed, that's certain." It wasn't quite an objection, merely a very careful reminder.

"People get calls from pay phones. It happens."

Justin exchanged glances with the other two, then said, "Well, we're bound to find the truth if we dig deep enough. In any case, there is one thing that sets Caldwell's murder apart from the others. He's the only one of the four who we can be reasonably sure saw his killer."

Obviously musing aloud, Kelly said, "I wonder if that means something. If the Caldwell murder is part of the series, then why was he killed so… directly? Face-to-face, I mean."

Justin said, "We're assuming that Luke Ferrier was either rendered unconscious by some drug while he was driving, and so accidentally drove into the water, or else was rendered unconscious beforehand, put into his car, and the car pointed at that bayou, right? That he probably had no opportunity to see his killer."

Kelly frowned at him. "Well, I'm assuming. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing to indicate that Ferrier put up any kind of a fight. So it only makes sense that either it was suicide or else he was out cold and couldn't struggle. And since he'd clearly been making plans to leave Silence, I'm not buying the suicide theory."

Justin nodded. "Okay. But if we assume the killer was there with Ferrier even if he wasn't seen, that he put the man in his car and pointed it at the bayou, then the only murder of the four that really sticks out in terms of how it was executed is the first one — the murder of Peter Lynch."

"The killer didn't see him die," Ethan realized. "If, that is, the poison was mixed in with his vitamins at some earlier point so there was no telling when he'd get to those particular pills."

"Not that we're certain it was." Justin sighed. "We're not certain of a hell of a lot."

Kelly shook her head. "Is anybody else getting the feeling this guy is just playing with us?"

"I've got that feeling," Matt said, dispirited.

"A direct challenge to us?" Justin considered, then shrugged. "Maybe. But it feels to me like he's got his game plan all laid out and means to stick to it, no matter what we do. Like each murder is designed as part of the victim's punishment. Peter Lynch, the health nut, is poisoned; Luke Ferrier, so proud of his college swimming trophies, is drowned; Randal Patterson, famous for his personal vanity, is electrocuted in his tub; and George Caldwell, who did community ads and school presentations on gun safety and owned an extensive collection of firearms, is shot in the head."

Kelly bunked at him. "Jesus, you're right. I never thought about it that way, but… it all fits."

Ethan was also eyeing him, and very thoughtfully.

As offhandedly as possible, Justin said, "It may fit, but it's just another theory and it doesn't help us a damned bit as far as I can see. We're still no closer to being able to either I.D. this guy or predict his next move or his next victim."

"But you think he's not done," Ethan said.

"I think it would be a mistake for us to assume that. Because even if his personal hit list had only four names on it, the truth is, he's getting away with murder — so far, at least. And whatever his reasons were for starting all this, success can only encourage him. If he's bent on punishing the wicked, the fact that we haven't been able to stop him is bound to encourage him to keep right on doing it. He might even decide he's been chosen by God to do just that. And we all know that if you look for wickedness, even in a nice little town like Silence, you're bound to find it."

"Shit," Ethan said. He sighed. "Okay, people — whether Caldwell's murder is part of the rest or not is something we need to know, and pronto. Find out."

Carefully neutral, Justin said, "It might be a good idea to talk to his widow. I know the timing's lousy, but —"

The sheriff swore again, but under his breath. "Do it. Talk to anybody you need to talk to, but find the truth."

"No matter what that is?" Justin asked.

"No matter what."

"You see what I mean?" Shelby indicated the photo she'd just placed on the butcher-block table in Nell's kitchen. "I got a couple of other shots of you, but this was the only one where something I couldn't explain showed up. Definitely what I'd call weird."

Nell bent over the picture, frowning. The word she would have picked to describe it was unsettling. To see herself walking down the courthouse steps, completely unaware of the shadow looming over her… She felt a little chill crawl slowly up her spine. The sense she'd had of being watched was beginning to feel like a lot more than nerves at being back home again.

She said, "And there's nothing you can find to account for it? It isn't just a shadow of something, some object, outside the frame, or a problem with the lens, or —"

Shelby shook her head, bright-eyed. "Nope. I've considered every possibility that might account for it, and none of them fits. That shadow was not visible to the naked eye — only the eye of the camera. And it is definitely there. So unless you believe in ghosts… Do you, by the way?"

Nell smiled slightly without looking up. "As a matter of fact, I do. But according to everything I've heard on the subject, it's rare to find photographic evidence of a ghost outside in the open. Not unheard of, mind you, but rare."

"The scale's wrong too," Shelby said. "I mean, if we're talking the ghost of your average human being. My estimate is that the shadow is about seven feet tall. Or long. Whatever."

Nell traced that threatening shape with a finger, then sat back with a sigh, trying not to make it obvious that the slow chill was leaving icy tracks up and down her spine as if it meant to stay awhile. "And it's on the negative too?"

"Yeah." Shelby sipped her coffee, watching the other woman with those bright, speculative eyes. "This happened to be the only shot I took of you yesterday, so I have no way of knowing if the shadow was… following you around. Like Max was."

"Max I can handle," Nell said lightly.

"Can you?"

"You don't think so?"

Slowly now, Shelby said, "I think you and Max have a lot of history between you. And probably quite a few unanswered questions. But, Nell, what can be excused, even forgiven, of a seventeen-year-old girl isn't so easy to overlook in a woman pushing thirty. And Max isn't twenty-two anymore, forced by a very young girlfriend and her… unusual family to keep his distance and maybe not ask too many questions."

More briskly, Shelby added, "Of course, there were things he had to ask when you ran off. And since you weren't around for him to ask… From what I heard, he confronted your father that night. Did you know?"

"No." Nell refused to ask for more information about that, and a part of her hoped Shelby wouldn't offer it. But that was hardly Shelby's style.

"Max has never been one to complain publicly or tell his business to other people, we both know that. So everything I heard was second- or third-hand. But my own father told my mother that Adam Gallagher bragged about how he'd kicked Max Tanner down his front steps. Literally."

Nell winced.

Watching her, Shelby said, "My own feeling is that Max wouldn't have fought back, not against your father, not if he couldn't be sure what had made you run away like that. He might have a hell of a temper, but Max doesn't strike out blindly. Maybe he even thought it was his fault, that he'd done something to drive you away. I know your father always claimed he didn't know why you'd run and blamed Max for it."

"It wasn't Max."

"No. I never thought it was. But some did, Nell. There were lots of theories, everything from date rape or an unplanned pregnancy to the idea that you found yourself caught between two domineering men and couldn't take it anymore."

Rather than answer the implied question of what had actually happened, Nell merely said, "It sounds like Max has… every right to be bitter."

"Yeah. But there he is." Shelby tapped the photograph with a finger, smiling faintly. "Couple of days after you're back in town, he's following you, maybe even watching over you. I guess he's the forgiving sort."

Again, Nell didn't answer the implied question of why Max might believe she could be in any kind of danger. "I guess he is. Or maybe he just wants a few answers."

"Maybe. And maybe you can handle him — at least this time around. But I'd be careful if I were you, Nell. Like I said, he isn't twenty-two anymore. And whatever he was twelve years ago, I don't think he's a man to be left behind now."

"He never was," Nell murmured. "Some things stay with you no matter how far you run." Before Shelby could pounce on that, she added in a stronger voice, "So maybe this… shadow… is following me, or maybe I just happened to pass by it yesterday. An old courthouse like this one is at least as likely as any other old building to house ghosts, I'd say."

"And the jail used to be in the basement," Shelby reminded her, accepting the change of subject without a blink. "I seem to recall at least one old story about an unjustly accused man committing suicide there. Aren't wrongful deaths supposed to be more likely to — inspire? create? — spirits?"

Nell dredged through the bits of knowledge and information her mind had absorbed in recent years. "Wrongful deaths. Sudden or violent deaths. Or people with some kind of unfinished work they desperately want to complete. At least, I think those are the most likely candidates to stay and make their presence felt rather than move on."

Shelby pursed her lips thoughtfully. "So this is just a ghost hanging around the courthouse, is that what we're saying?"

"Could be."

"Mmm. And are ghosts like that prone to loom over passersby in a threatening manner?"

"I'm not an expert, Shelby."

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"You don't have a crystal ball?"

"I'm afraid not."

"No tarot cards?"

Beginning to smile, Nell answered, "Sorry."

"Well," Shelby said in mock disgust, "of all the disappointments. And here I was expecting wild and mystical things of our returning witch."

"Yeah, Max told me that was the general attitude."

Shelby grinned at her. "Don't tell me you thought this town might have changed. Oh, no. Still narrow-minded and frightened of anything perceived to be too different, that's Silence. Or most of Silence, anyway."

"I'm surprised you choose to stay here," Nell offered.

"Are you? It's not so surprising, really. I'm perceived to be different — but not too different to present a threat. I like it here, all things considered." She cocked her head to one side like an inquisitive bird. "What about you? Any yearnings to stay put now that you're back home?"

"I've thought about it once or twice." Nell shrugged. "But I don't much like knowing I frighten people. Even ignorant people, afraid I'll put a curse on them or something."

"But you are psychic," Shelby said matter-of-factly.

In the same tone, Nell said, "Lots of people are psychic."

"I'm not."

Nell laughed under her breath. "Has it occurred to you that this shadow being visible might have had nothing to do with me and everything to do with you?"

Shelby frowned briefly, then shook her head. "No, because if that were so, I'd have seen something like it show up in my pictures long before now."

"Maybe. But psychic ability isn't always obvious from childhood, you know. Sometimes it… appears… fully blown in adulthood."

"Really?"

"So I've heard."

"Appears out of nowhere?"

Nell hesitated, then said, "Well, there's usually a trigger. A shock or some other kind of trauma."

"I haven't had anything like that," Shelby said, more disappointment than relief evident in her voice. "I've had a pretty boring and uneventful life, on the whole. And since this hasn't happened before, I think we can safely assume this shadow appeared on the picture because you were in it, not because I took it."

Giving in, Nell said, "Well, if we assume that, the question becomes — why? Why did this particular shadow appear in this particular shot on this particular day? Am I being haunted? Because I never have been before. Is it the courthouse being haunted? If that were true, it's at least possible you would have seen a shadow on other pictures before now. You have photographed the courthouse before?"

"Lots of times. With and without people. But I've never gotten a shadow like this one before."

Nell studied the photograph, trying to see some identifiable shape without imposing one created by her uneasy imagination. The shape was vaguely manlike but elongated somehow, distorted. And Shelby was right, it did almost seem to… loom over her.

A charitable soul might say the shadow curved over her almost as though sheltering her.

Nell thought it looked more threatening than protective.

"It gives me a bad feeling," Shelby said.

Hearing the seriousness in that statement and sharing the sentiment, Nell nevertheless said, "A shadow can't hurt me."

"If that's what it is. But there's nothing there to cast a shadow, Nell. Nothing with a physical presence, that is. So maybe it's something else. And maybe it can hurt you." She frowned. "I didn't want to say anything before, but you're looking a little… brittle today."

"I didn't sleep well, that's all."

"Just last night, or since you got home?"

Nell shrugged, the gesture itself an answer.

Grave, Shelby said, "Is that why you believe in ghosts? Because if so, I have a very comfortable guest room you're welcome to."

"No, this house isn't haunted." Nell grimaced slightly. "No footsteps on the stairs or chains rattling in the night or unexplained cold spots. I haven't seen or heard anything — out of the ordinary." She wasn't about to mention the vision of her father here in this room or admit that several times she could have sworn someone had whispered her name; there were no ghosts in this house, she was sure of that.

Besides which, though Shelby had been the closest thing to a female friend she'd had as a kid, her own secretive nature had prevented her from confiding much at all of her life or her abilities, and she wasn't willing to go into any of that now.

Still grave, Shelby said, "Then maybe it's emotional ghosts disturbing your sleep. Coming home after so many years can't be easy."

Nell shied away from the tacit invitation to talk about whatever might be bothering her, wondering grimly if it was the discretion recently learned because of her job or the old reluctance to open up that kept her silent.

Whichever it was, she heard herself say, "I never sleep well the first few nights in a strange bed. It'll pass. And this place really doesn't feel like home, you know. Far as I can tell, Hailey changed just about everything from the rugs to the wallpaper; I don't even recognize half the furniture."

"She liked to shop," Shelby observed with a grin.

"No kidding."

"The word in town was that with only one of his girls left, your father sort of went overboard trying to keep her here. Gave her anything she wanted, pretty much."

Nell could have said that her sister had always been good at turning circumstances to her benefit, but all she said was, "I'm not surprised."

"It seemed to work too. I mean, she seemed pretty happy. Until there were a few whispers about her and Glen Sabella, and the next thing we all knew the two of them ran off."

"Our father was always… very unforgiving. If she had done anything to disappoint him, he wouldn't have hesitated to let her know how he felt about it."

"And disowned her?" Shelby shook her head. "Jeez, talk about being hard-nosed. He didn't disown you, though."

"I didn't run off with another — I didn't run off with a man." Nell saw Shelby's eyes narrow, and added quickly, "Anyway, like I said, this doesn't really feel like home. But I do have a lot on my mind, so it's not surprising I haven't slept well."

Shelby looked at her a moment, then tapped one finger on the photo still lying between them on the table. "And this?"

"I don't know how to explain this," Nell confessed. "Maybe we're both… making too much of it. We may not be able to explain it, but that doesn't mean it isn't… just a shadow."

"And if it's something more?"

"Then I have no idea what that would be. But — I may know someone who could figure it out for us. Do you mind if I keep this?"

"No, of course not. I made myself a print to brood over, but this one's yours." Shelby rummaged in her shoulder bag and produced a manila envelope. "I even brought you the negative. Hey, you will tell me if this expert of yours figures it out, won't you?"

"Sure." Nell slid the photo into the envelope with its negative, her gaze on the other woman. She debated for a silent moment, but since it was something she'd been considering ever since the day she'd arrived and spoken to Shelby, she abruptly decided to follow her instincts. "Shelby… these murders. They interest you, don't they?"

"I've always loved mysteries, you know that." Shelby grinned. "The more murky the better. And this one's about as murky as they come. Why?"

Nell drew a breath and let it out slowly. "Because I have a favor to ask. And a story to tell."

Business was slow on this Friday, so Nate McCurry left his secretary in the office doing paperwork and went off toward town on the pretext of calling on a few customers. What he actually did was stop in at the cafe for a cup of coffee and the opportunity to listen in on the latest about the investigation.

He wasn't the only one doing that either. The place was unusually busy on this weekday morning roughly halfway between the breakfast and lunch rush hours, with most of the customers having coffee like Nate or some sort of light snack they could pretend was brunch.

Other than that, however, nobody was trying to pretend.

"I heard the cops found all kinds of shit George Caldwell had stashed away," one customer announced, sitting at the lunch counter with his back to it so he could see everyone else.

"Like what?" another demanded.

"Porn is what I heard. Really nasty stuff too."

"Naw, I heard it was diamonds."

Somebody laughed, and another man, older and heavyset, said incredulously, "You saying poor oid George was a jewel thief? Setting aside the fact that he was about as light on his feet as I am, I wouldn't say there'd be much to interest a jewel thief around here."

"Plenty of people put their money in gold or jewels, Ben. You might be surprised at just how many."

Ben Hancock shook his head and said, "Wasn't jewels. Or porn. I'd be surprised if they'd found anything at all. Yet, anyway."

"Okay, but what do you think he was into? He must've been into something, Ben, or he wouldn't have got his head blown off."

With a shrug, Ben replied, "If I had to guess, I'd say George's biggest problem was that he was nosy. Always poking into things that didn't concern him. Always writing things down and making those lists of his."

"But why'd somebody want to kill him for that?"

"I'm just saying, he might've found something that somebody didn't want him to find, that's all. This whole thing's about secrets, isn't it? So maybe it wasn't George's secret that got him killed. Maybe it was somebody else's."

"Like whose?"

"Hell, I don't know. The killer's, maybe?"

Someone else said, in a hopeful tone, "Maybe it's not about secrets. Maybe it's just about something usual. Like money."

Nate McCurry spoke up then, making sure his voice sounded only mildly interested. "If you believe the newspapers, people get killed because of money every day. But there are other reasons too. And if you look at the other three dead men, two of them had secrets that had nothing to do with money."

"That's true enough," Ben allowed. "And George had been separated from Sue for a long time, so you know the marriage had been in trouble — for whatever reason. Maybe it was just a midlife crisis, the way she kept saying, or maybe it was something else."

One of the few women in the cafe said, "I heard there was another woman, but if there was, he sure didn't show her off around here."

"Married," Ben guessed. "Either that or he didn't want to give Sue any ammunition to use in court."

Obviously speaking from bitter experience, another man said, "The judge does tend to award the wife a bigger settlement if the husband has been screwing around, especially if he's doing it so that everybody knows he's doing it."

Patiently, Nate said, "Yeah, but would cheating on a wife he'd already left and hadn't lived with for two or three years make George a target for this killer? Is that a big enough secret — or a big enough sin — to make this killer want to punish him?"

Ben grimaced. "Jesus, how many of us can say we don't have at least a little secret or two and a few minor sins laying around? If that's the yardstick this guy is using, then nobody is safe."

Trying not to sound as desperate as he felt, Nate said, "The police haven't found any other connection between the men except that they all had secrets?"

"We don't know about George yet," Ben reminded.

"Yeah, but the others?"

"According to the papers there's no other connection. Of course, we don't know that the police are making all their information public. Maybe Ethan and his people know something they aren't telling."

"I don't think they know squat," somebody else muttered loudly. "Running around chasing their own tails, if you ask me."

They were still pondering that when a tall man rose from a shadowed booth at the back and came to the front to pay his bill. He had a pleasant word with Emily when she emerged from the kitchen to take his money, then saluted the others with a cheerful, "Have a nice day, folks," as he left the cafe.

The bell on the door jingled, the waitress returned to the kitchen, and the customers were left staring at each other.

"Was he here the whole time?" someone asked uneasily.

"The whole time," Ben confirmed. "Didn't you see him back there?"

"No, Ben, I didn't see him back there. Jesus."

Somebody else muttered, "They ought to make them all wear uniforms, even the detectives."

"Guilty conscience?"

"Hell, no. But he shouldn't eavesdrop."

"Part of his job," Ben pointed out, obviously enjoying the chagrin all around him.

"Shit."

Nate McCurry looked out the window beside his table to watch Detective Justin Byers strolling away.

He was scared.

He was really scared.