Fracture: A Sylvia Wilcox Mystery: The Sylvia Wilcox Series, #2

By Braylee Parkinson

A corpse, a missing woman, and a mysterious religious group…

 

When Delaney Whitby doesn't return from a routine errand, private investigator Sylvia Wilcox is hired to find her. Initially, it looks like Delaney left on her own, but by the time the case reaches Sylvia's desk, the situation appears more sinister.

 

Clues lead Sylvia out to Utah, a place she is entirely unfamiliar with. Once there, she must rely on the hearsay of Delaney's acquaintances. Still, the trail seems to be leading to a situation that indicates Delaney may be in Utah against her wishes. Did Delaney travel to Utah on her own accord? Is she being blackmailed? Or something worse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Braylee Parkinson
• Release date: Sep 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393590880

Book preview

1

Clem Robertson stuck the iPod in the back pocket of her faded jeans. The little first-generation device blasted Tom Petty singing about an American girl. She crooned at the top of her lungs, swinging her arms and rocking her hips from side to side before sweeping her golden, gray streaked hair up to the crown of her head. She pulled her hair into a bun and let out a short, forceful whistle. The two dogs— a Border Collie and a German Shepard— Bennet and Milo, raised their heads.

She grabbed a travel mug, filled it with coffee, and snapped on the top. She looked at the waiting dogs.

Come on, if you’re coming, she said, as she slipped her subcompact Glock 9-millimeter, a few personal protection rounds into the holster around her waist. On her way out she snagged a bath towel and pushed the door of the old Airstream trailer open. The dogs rushed after her, jumping out of the trailer and running ahead.

The sun was already beating down on the desert near Lund, Utah. Clem had called this vast isolated landscape home for five years and she’d never been happier. This area was much more suitable for her than the previous place she’d camped. The fewer eyes, the better. It only took one noisy tourist, or a kid recording her location with their cellphone and uploading it to the stupid Internet, to ruin her life. That was why she was several miles outside of Lund. People drove through the ghost town and rummaged through the ruins on a regular basis. Clem made sure she was far enough away that the casual explorer wouldn’t find her.

But it wasn’t lost on Clem that she had a charmed life. Her days began when she woke up. There wasn’t an alarm clock or a job waiting for her, and no one nagging her about cooking breakfast—or anything else. She fed Bennett and Milo on her schedule, made her coffee, and settled into the day. If she wanted to run a few miles, she did that. If she wanted to spend a lazy day sitting out front of her camper, she was free to do so. As far as necessities, went hunting in the fall and was always able to keep the freezer full. Of course, she didn’t bother with the government’s ridiculous hunting licenses. It was the one-time during the year Clem would put on makeup and curl her hair. She had yet to run into a wildlife division official who wanted to check her credentials. She’d turn on the charm and keep the conversation going until the official moved on. Implementing a strict carnivore diet had made it easy to live off the grid and, in the desert, because it eliminated all grocery store trips. She drank water, had coffee shipped to a PO Box, and ate wild game.

That day Clem made her way to the hot springs near the spot she’d temporarily claimed five years ago. There had once been hot springs all throughout the area, but most had dried up due to an extended drought. She’d stumbled upon a few hot pots near a Geo thermal factory one day when she was out running. She couldn’t bath in the water because it was too hot, but she would gather water in her jug and let it cool for a while. After that, Clem would strip off her clothes and pour the water over her body. She loved how free she felt shedding her clothes and living life on her terms. Most days she was completely alone and she loved it. The geo-thermal plant was out in the distance, and there were a few pigs farms a couple of miles south, but the desert had turned out to be the perfect place to hide. Other stragglers that roamed around Lund knew her as Priscilla. She’d given it as her name at a diner in Cedar City when an overly friendly waitress had asked her name. Priscilla had rolled off her tongue. She’d been listening to Elvis all day long, so Priscilla was the first name to come to mind.

There were of course some people were curious about who she was. Now and then, rockhounds searching for geodes or someone retracing the Pony Express route stumbled upon her little piece of heaven. She was friendly to a point, but kept the 9-millimeter close—just in case someone got too nosy. So far, no one had required her to deal with them. Clem’s removal from modern society — and all its inhabitants — was working out just fine. She kept the trailer stocked with water and meat from her yearly hunting trips, explored the desert during the day, star gazed at night, read the few books she’d shuffled into the RV before setting her foreclosed home on fire, and lived a peaceful life with her dogs.

Leaving the world behind had been easy for Clem. She’d seen the writing on the wall with the signing of the Patriot Act. Clem and her husband had both been working at a military base and they saw firsthand what was coming down the pipeline. That was when she started downsizing and rolling back the hands of time. She sold her 2007 Jeep Cherokee and purchased a 1949 Jeep Willys, she’d disconnected the Internet, destroyed her cellphone and tried to convince her husband, Harry, that time was running thin. They needed to move fast.

Something’s going down soon. I can feel it. We should start thinking about moving off-grid. We could settle in the desert and become self-sufficient. That might be the only way to avoid the worst of it.

Clem, we have a life here. What are you talking about? Stop listening to those conspiracy theorists. Harry said.

After a few years of fighting about whether the government was systematically stripping them and everyone one else in the country of their fundamental rights, Clem had come home from a local militia meeting to find a note on the kitchen table.

Clem,

This isn’t what I signed up for. I don’t want a divorce, but I need some time away. When you are ready to talk, please call me—or use a carrier pigeon—or whatever means you deem appropriate for communication since you destroyed your cellphone. We can start taking trips to the desert and spend time there, but we live in a house in Tooele and we love it. Our kids and friends live close, and frankly, I don’t see why you can’t recognize all our blessings. I am willing to reconcile, but a few things have to happen. First, try to get your old job at the base back. It’s far-fetched, but I think I can pull some strings. Next, you absolutely must stop listening to that whack-job guy who was talking about chemicals in the water changing the sex of frogs, and you need to drop out of that weird militia you’re a part of. You know that puts my job at the base at risk. I can’t have a wife who is delusional about what’s happening with the government. I have the number of a good psychiatrist and if you need some time somewhere quiet to think, we can arrange that. I love and miss my wife. Please come back.

Clem had read the letter once, turned on a stove burner, waited until the coil was red hot, and dropped the paper onto the hot element. The charred bits of the paper floated onto the kitchen floor. Clem watched for a moment, but quickly switched her thoughts to her next move. A few suitcases filled with clothes, guns, and books were sitting in her bedroom closet. She rushed upstairs, grabbed her belongings, and threw them into the old Ford F-250 they used to pull the Airstream. Working quickly, she climbed into the truck, backed it close to the trailer and latched it to the hitch. She hated double towing, but she needed the jeep Willys too. After she got the jeep and trailer situated, she grabbed a gas can from the garage and doused the kitchen with gasoline. It was necessary. After she left, Harry would probably call the police and report her missing. They’d look for clues about where she’d gone. Harry would immediately assume she’d gone to Overton, Nevada, where her sister lived, but no one—not even her sister—understood what was coming. Everyone thought she was crazy. She wasn’t sure she could trust anyone— even the militia members. She’d get in touch with them if she needed anything, but right now she just needed to move. Clem grabbed the rest of the notepad and lit in on fire from the stove. Then she tossed it onto the floor and watched the flame spread in a square. I really poured the gasoline in straight lines. Good job, she thought, heading out the door.

Now seven years on, Clem was sure no one was looking for her. After a few months in the West Desert, she’d realized she needed to be somewhere more secluded. That prompted her to torch the F-250, get an old 1970s Ford F-150, and pull the Airstream and Willys into the desert near Lund, Utah. A few years back, she’d gotten a few puppies from a man named Jack, who raised dogs while squatting in various properties left over from windswept ghost towns. Now and then, when she felt lonely, she’d drive fifty miles to his place, and they’d spend a few nights together. He was at least fifteen years her junior, but they’d never discussed age, or anything else personal. Jack was what she called him, but it probably wasn’t his name. Clem didn’t care. He was accessible when she wanted to bothered and not around when she didn’t feel like company—the ideal relationship in her eyes. As Clem reflected on her current state of being a smile spread across her face. Life was good.

It would take about forty-five minutes for the water from the hot springs to get to a temperature of her liking. While she waited, she’d rockhound, play with the dogs or search for items left behind by reckless explorers. She’d found money—just change, but it all mattered—articles of clothing she’d rehabbed, furniture, and books. It was surprising some of the things people called junk.

The dogs, who were trained well enough that they didn’t run after the wild horses anymore, would lay at the end of the hot pot, waiting for her to finish her bath. But on this day, Milo took off just as the hot pots came into sight.

Milo! Get back here! she yelled, using the sternest voice she had. Milo was hard to control at times. He was only a year old. Bennet, who was five, tried to teach him how to behave, but the dog had a mind of his own.

What’s gotten into him? she asked Bennet, but as if on cue, he ran off behind Milo, disappearing into the desert. Stunned, Clem ran back to her camp, jumped in the Jeep Willys and took off in the direction the dogs had run. She couldn’t see them, but she heard the cacophony of barks in the distance.

No treats for you two tonight, she muttered to herself, pushing the jeep over the sand. After a few minutes, she saw the dogs at the edge of a ravine, both barking viciously.

Quit your barking! she yelled as she parked. Clem was about to get out and round up the dogs when something stopped her. She froze and waited to make sure she was correct. Yes. That was the smell of decomposition. The only question now was if it was animal—or something else. She took a few more steps and spotted a filthy rag of a dress with floral patterns, ripped and blowing in the breeze. The emaciated body and needle thin arms stretched out above the body, as if the person had lifted their arms in surrender before being killed. Clem moved closer, her heart beating wildly. Milo approached behind her.

Get back! She yelled at the dog, holding up her hand to let the dogs know she meant business. Two more steps forward and she could see the eyes wide with what could only be described as primal fear. The mouth, drawn and gapping open, caused Clem to yelp as if in pain. This person had suffered. Something terrible had happened.

Something shiny and broken caught her eye. She wasn’t sure what it was—a necklace, maybe—but it looked like it might be worth something. She inched closer, debating whether to not she should take the glistening piece of jewelry. If she took it to a pound shop in Nevada, she could probably get a decent amount for it. Clem stepped down into the ravine, held her breath, swiped up the broken pieces of the object, and rushed back towards the dogs.

2

U m… I don't know if I'm in the right place.

Okay. Are you looking for Sylvia Wilcox, the private investigator?

Yes.

Nice to meet you. I held out my hand.

The woman crinkled her nose and forehead before shrugging her shoulders and saying, I guess I'm in the right place.

Her voice betrayed anxiety and fear. I smiled to ease the tension, but my friendliness seemed to increase her level of discomfort.

What brings you in today?

She sighed and folded her arms tightly over her chest.

I—I'm sorry. I've never done this before, and I'm just so nervous.

I flashed a smile and nodded my head.

That's normal. No worries. I will help you. Please have a seat, I said, motioning toward the red plush chair in front of my desk.

I grabbed a notepad and pen and sat across from the woman, ready to hear her story. 

Your name? 

What type of experience do you have?

I sat the notepad down and suppressed the anger I felt rising from the bottom of my soul. You walked into MY office, I thought. But I kept that to myself and went through a familiar spiel of my credentials.

I have a B.S. in Criminal Justice from the University of Detroit Mercy, an M.S. from EMU, and five years on the Detroit Police Department. I've owned this agency for five years. Your name? I asked, hoping my voice was stern enough to produce a response.

Sounds impressive. Raina Whitby, the woman said, but she didn't seem moved. We sat in silence for a few minutes. I decided to wait her out.

I don't mean to be this way, the woman said before dropping her face into her hands.

I pulled out a box of Kleenex and pushed it across the desk. She raised her head and pulled the box of tissue onto her lap.

Take your time, I said.

Thank you for your kindness.

I nodded, counted to ten in my head, and said, Let's start from the beginning.

The woman looked up, mascara running down her pale cheeks.

What brings you in today, Ms. Whitby?

I remember reading about you. Those killings of the students a few years back.

She'd done her homework, but still was skeptical. Also, she was avoiding telling me why she'd come to my office. 

I guess I imagined you'd look different.

I considered asking what she'd thought I'd look like, but decided against it. Even though Ypsilanti is a diverse community, there are times when my brown skin shocks some. I brushed it off and said, I don't share pictures on my website or allow photos to be posted in the newspaper.

Why not? the woman asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

Anonymity is a detective's best friend.

She took a moment to think about that sentence. Perhaps she arrived at the question that drove that decision: What good is a private investigator if their face is easily identifiable?

Ready to get down to business or move on, I asked, Do you need a private investigator, Ms. Whitby?

Yes. My daughter-in-law is missing.

How long has she been gone?

Too long. She left with her cousin, Bethany, who was found dead in Utah a few weeks ago. Raina yanked tissues out of the box and sobbed. 

I knew I should have gone. I should've just taken it upon myself to run to the store. 

Raina Whitby dabbed her left eye with her index finger.

You couldn't have known that this was going to happen, I responded, feeling a bit uncomfortable and wishing that she would tell me the rest of the story. Utah was not in Michigan, so I might need to refer her to someone there, but I didn’t have enough information yet to make that determination. 

I just didn't think anything of it. It was a regular day, ya know? Nothing special. I couldn't have known what was happening.

People often do surprising things.

Right?! I had no idea she was going to . . .

Her eyes slid away from my face. She suddenly looked exhausted, her body sagging in the chair. It was a familiar look. She felt guilty for something she had no control over. I needed to be gentle.

You can’t read minds. It sounds like there was a plan in place. You couldn’t have known that.

She seemed to perk up a little, leaning back in the chair and setting the box of tissues back on the desk. I thought she was ready to get down to business, so I picked up the pen and notepad and waited.

This building is something. I've always wondered what businesses were in here. It used to be apartments when I was younger. Did you know that?

I made a show of tossing the notepad onto the desk, instantly regretting how passive aggressive I was being. Relax, I told myself.

Yes. There are still three apartments upstairs.

I've heard that before. I know that things have to change, but wouldn't be nice if we could have some elements of life that never changed?

I nodded and considered how to move forward. It was usually hard to get clients to explain what they needed, but this was abnormal. Raina rambled on about the building's architecture before finally saying, My daughter-in-law has been missing for six months. I want to know if you can find her.

Tell me everything you know, I said, picking up the notepad and pen again. 

Well, local police haven’t been any help. They say she's a grown woman and can do what she wants. They won't even take the clues we have.

It's a hard truth to accept,