You Did Not Weep: The Woman in the Grave

By Cynthia Winkler

Cynthia Winkler, a crime and mystery author who writes from a Christian worldview, has produced her fourth novel, You Did Not Weep: The Woman in the Grave.

The novel unfolds as Scott Conway tries to make sense of a murder in his family that occurred before he was born. Harrison O’Kelly, a grizzled veteran detective, and

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Baptist Courier
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781940645520

Cynthia Winkler

Cynthia Winkler is the author of three novels, including When the Manna Ceased and Iron Chariots. She also writes poetry and short stories to share with the First Draft Society in the Foothill Writer’s Guild and expresses her love for the Scriptures as a Bible teacher and as a volunteer in children’s ministries. Cynthia and her husband, Paul, currently reside in Fair Play, South Carolina, where they attend Earle’s Grove Baptist Church.

Book preview

pic-1

You Did Not Weep: The Woman in the Grave

Copyright 2017 Cynthia Winkler

All Rights Reserved.

Cover Photograph:

M.A.C. Photography

Becky Macijewski

864-710-1968

Cover models: Savannah Bibb and Garrett Dickson. (The story and characters in the book are fictional and do not reflect the lives of the models.)

ISBN: 978-1-940645-50-6 (hardback)

ISBN: 978-1-940645-51-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-940645-52-0 (e-book)

pic-2

Greenville, South Carolina

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To Paul, my inspiration to never stop,

And my dance partner for life.

Thanks for dancing in the kitchen and laughing at the dark with me.

And the Lord said, "To what then shall I liken the men of this generation, and what are they like? They are like children sitting in the marketplace and calling to one another, saying:

‘We played the flute for you,

And you did not dance:

We mourned to you,

And you did not weep.’"

(Luke 7:31-32 KJV)

THE CHARACTERS

The Conways

Scott Conway, main character

Older sister, Elaine Conway Tulsan, and husband, Dowd Tulsan

Parents Robert and Sara Conway

Uncle Kenneth and Aunt Sophie Conway Ashbury

Uncle Carlton and Aunt Ruth Conway

Uncle Tom Conway

Grandmother Estelle Cain Conway (Granny)

Great-Uncle Seth Conway

Cousins Mark and Andrea

Foster children of Ruth and Carlton, Peter and Anson Jones

Law Enforcement and Family

Detective Harrison O’Kelly (fondly known as Hokey, but only to family)

His wife, Candace, and his mother, Alma

Officer Marla Castro and her husband, Felix

Sheriff Tarlon

Officer Dalton Morisot

ATF Agent Savannah Bibb

The Chanters

Boyd Chanter and children

Liza Beth, Bobby Joe (Bo Jo) and Belinda

The Seffners

Ira Seffner, fourth-generation owner of Seffner’s Jewelers, and his grandson Frank Seffner

Cameo roles by past characters from the novel, When the Manna Ceased

Marie Collins, Bryce and Rose Jacobson

Goldie, the golden retriever (through her offspring)

New Friends and Enemies

Willow Barlone, Chloe Buckner, Cassidy Buckner, Matildie Dunstan, Keith the Chef

From 1933

Lukas Conway, Millicent Cornell, Ira Senior and brother Ewing Seffner, and ... The Woman in the Grave

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1: Let Me Dream

2: Out in the Cold

3: Wash Your Hands

4: Sources of Irritation

5: Scott’s Manuscript

6: Links

7: What’s Worse Than Lonely?

8: Chains

9: Embellishments

10: The Shooter

11: Fact Checker

12: Hello, Can I Break Your Heart?

13: What the Shooter Does

14: It Takes a Little Crazy

15: When the Moon

16: Truth Be Told

17: Is This a Date?

18: Second Time Around

19: What Goes Around

20: Comes Again

21: Turning Pages

22: When All’s Said and Done

23: Wisdom’s Child

24: And You Did Not Weep

ONE

LET ME DREAM

Scott Conway would be twelve years old next week. He didn’t know why he thought about that when he heard the voice of his Great-Uncle Seth. His birthday had been the last thing on his mind when they came to play the game tonight — but as he relaxed in the familiar surroundings, his mind wandered off to a lot of different subjects; his birthday was just one of them. He felt safe when he was with Seth. He didn’t have to hide his thoughts or watch what he said. The old man’s voice took away his loneliness and reassured him he could go home soon. Scott was hungry to hear him say that, and he listened intently to every word his uncle said. He especially liked the pirate stories his uncle told. Seth could tell them like he had been there on salty decks during storms when men fought to the death to defend their honor. And when he talked about women, he said there were two who would always take care of him. Their shadows circled around him in a soft, scented cloud as Scott drifted in and out of his hero’s dream.

The first was dark, and her soft hair curled and floated in a soft wind. Her shadowy eyes were playful and kind when they looked at him. He longed for her to stay, to talk to him. Tell him stories about her life and where she had been, but Uncle said it wasn’t time for her to reveal all her secrets. That would come later, after the old one died.

Uncle said the old one’s death would be the first sign. Scott knew his uncle was talking about his granny and the secrets he should know about. He laughed in his brain when Uncle Seth called his granny old. Uncle Seth was a lot older than Granny. He didn’t ask the questions he wanted to ask, though. It would take too much effort to put them into words. Interrupting Uncle Seth would break the spell he wove with his voice, and the women in the shadows would go away.

The second woman troubled him a little. Uncle said not to be concerned; she was at rest for now. When the time was right, she would come closer. The boy strained his vision, not seeing her very well. He imagined her walking in the evening mists by a stream. He liked to think of her as a beautiful angel. Uncle said she was sad, waiting for him to grow up, to help her.

She will tell you what to do — when it’s time, Uncle Seth said.

Then the old man told the boy to open his hand and close his eyes.

Scott tried to please him by following instructions without hesitation. The lantern made only a small circle of light in the dark room. On the table in the center of the circle, stuff was scattered about and before he closed his eyes Uncle Seth turned down the lantern wick even further. The music playing in the background slowly came to an end as a cold metal object was pressed into his hand.

Scott’s Great-Uncle Seth rubbed his hand across his eyes. He was content with Scott’s willingness to please him, and he had no fear that his nephew could follow the plan. The boy had a brilliant mind. What worried him was time. What would happen when he wasn’t there to guide the child into manhood? Scott had been eager to follow instructions when he was getting the father figure he needed, but Seth knew he couldn’t be with Scott forever; he knew this was his last chance to make things right. Seth looked back at Scott, who was looking up at him expectantly, waiting for the next story about pirates or damsels in distress. Tonight was the last chance he would have to give Scott all the answers, but was it the right thing to do? He came back to his chair next to Scott and sat down. His great-nephew — who had found a place in his heart where love for a child of his own had never been allowed to grow — looked at him with eager trust. Seth bent close to his ear.

Scott heard him whisper words as gentle as a lullaby drifting in the timeless feel of his melodic tones.

He was sharing confidences of the aged into the security and future strength of youth.

"I’ve told you all the secrets and I’ve entrusted you with my heart. I’ve given you the key to it all. But remember this, Scott, I lay no burden on you. If this is too heavy to carry, I give you permission to throw it away. As long as you are a child, you won’t remember any of the secrets, only the good days you spent at the Conway farm. When the time is right, you will only recall what you want to as the keys unlock the secrets in your mind.

For now, go back home. Leave this dark place with its secrets and be a child. That’s a gift that was taken away from me. Only come back when you want to, and only when you are older. Remember the good times we’ve had together, and whatever you decide to do about the secrets, I will still love you like a father loves a son.

They walked out of the cavern together, following the familiar trail down to the road without using the lantern so they wouldn’t be detected. The boy got into the old car and settled into the passenger seat with his head bowed, his eyes closed. The old man started the engine and opened the sunroof before he pulled away.

When the car was on the highway, he patted the boy gently on the knee.

After a while, Scott looked out the window.

Uncle Seth?

Yes, Scott.

Are we going to the cavern tonight?

No, we’ll not go there anymore.

Why not? Scott asked, alarmed that his pirate adventures in the cavern were over.

Because you are a fast learner and I’ve taught you all you need to know about the family of pirates and their business. Your grandmother will be looking to wake you up early in the morning, and we have to get back before they miss us tonight.

The cool night air flowed around the old car in a steady stream, lifting the hair on his arms, the back of his neck and speeding up into his dark hair that had grown too long since his last trip to see his aunt, who did all the family’s haircuts. He shivered, but not so much from the air. He lay back against the seat looking up at the stars, visible because Uncle Seth had the sky-view window open.

I’m going home tomorrow, he said flatly.

I know, the old man answered.

Are you mad at me?

You made the right decision, son. You need to be with your momma. She needs you, and you need her.

I’ll come back next summer.

Uncle Seth smiled. We’ve got five minutes before they miss us. Let’s go up to the Dark Ridge and watch heaven go by, want to? We’ll find our way home by the North Star, just like the old sailors did.

TWO

OUT IN THE COLD

Detective Harrison O’Kelly got out of an unmarked Suburban that belonged to the Benton County Police Department and stepped into a puddle of melting snow. Disgustedly, he looked down at the mud he would track into the office later and grunted. Not a good way to start the day.

The winter drab of the wooded landscape contrasted against the new spring colors trying hard to take over. Last night’s snowfall had taken the scenery by surprise, as evidenced by traces of green under the scattered patches of white.

Trying to scrub the mud off his footwear, he gave his trek into the woods this morning some second thoughts. It was off his regular routine, since he didn’t work drugs anymore and he’d hesitated before agreeing to this meet. Bobby Joe Chanter, or Bo Jo, had been a reliable informant from his years of working with the narcotics team, and he said he wouldn’t talk to anyone else. Harrison searched for memories of the boy he had used to bust up a drug ring.

He still talked to Bobby Joe’s daddy, Boyd Chanter, occasionally when he saw him in town. According to him, Bo Jo had been borderline straight for several years, or so he had been told by his daughter Belinda. Bo Jo had been pretty harmless even as an addict, Harrison recalled, trying not to blame his old informant for the mud he was collecting on his boots, and chiding himself for his soft side.

Harmless or not, you couldn’t be too careful around an ex-junkie. How many times did he have to fall into that trap? They lied. The favorite lie was: I’m clean. Second favorite: I’m getting help. And the third: I want help. These lies were usually preceded by a request, usually a request for money.

Whatever Bo Jo had to say, it had better be good to get him out this early, Harrison grumbled, breathing in the cold, damp air.

The big cop gave the woods a once-over and shifted his weight, giving the gun in his holster under the jacket a mental assessment without actually touching it. The shiver that ran up his spine wasn’t from the cold. He felt eyes on him from the deep woods, and the charm of the early morning sidetrack turned menacing ... not a good feeling.

Taking a slow, nerve-settling breath, he did a rethink as he continued to survey the surroundings. He knew that these deep woods didn’t run that deep. The old logging trail where he was to meet Bo Jo was about the center of the last wooded area in this part of the county. On up a ways started the old Collins property that ran from the top of the hill to the bottom on the other side and continued across the creek under some big oaks that bordered a field and into the backyard of the twin houses fondly called the Left House and the Right House, where Bryce and Rose Jacobson lived next to their daughter.

On the front side of the houses, the property extended out past the rock point above the town. It seemed a long way, and the property did cover a lot of acreage. From where he stood though, as the crow flies, it wasn’t that far to town.

Harrison slowly turned, thinking his way around. In the other direction, down a trail was the cabin, or summer house, that belonged to the Chanter family. It was at the top of a rise overlooking cabins, homes, campsites, and even a restaurant clustered around the lake shore. There was a better road than this logging trail on the other side of the cabin that led down to the main road.

Detective O’Kelly completed his survey — both the mental one and physical one — without detecting a reason for his uneasy feelings ... but they were still there. Maybe it was just old memories surfacing, he reasoned.

Bo Jo had used the cabin for his drug parties when he was still running with that bunch from Charlotte. His daddy was the one who turned him in. A tingle of apprehension ran up Harrison’s neck, putting him more on edge. He thought of the excuse Bo Jo’s daddy had used for turning him in at the time. Said he didn’t want him and his friends to burn his granddaddy’s cabin down. That had been Boyd Chanter’s reasoning for giving up his son to the authorities.

Harrison still remembered the night Bobby Joe, under duress, had set up the bust. The county drug unit had brought down one of the major traffickers that ran liquid heroin from Atlanta to Charlotte. The liquid was hard to detect and harder to trace; Bo Jo deserved a little credit, considering they had to put him under protective custody for a year after that. It was the case that had blown Harrison as an undercover agent in narcotics and when he was transferred to homicide.

He grunted around the chaw he wedged between teeth and gum. If Candace found out he still dipped ...

Aw, dang it, Harrison muttered as he bent slightly forward at the thought of his wife. He was using his finger to dig the tobacco out of his cheek when a bullet missed his ear by inches, zinging through the air and peeling the bark off a pine tree on the other side of the SUV. Harrison flattened his bulk to the ground and rolled for cover behind the saplings on the road bank. Relying on instinct to help him judge where the shot came from, his service revolver was in his hand before he hit the ground. He had also swallowed half the chew, and the burn was starting to make his nose run as well as his eyes. Blinking, trying to see something to give him a clue where the shooter was. He dismissed the possibility of it being his old informant immediately. Bo Jo hadn’t been able to hold a steady glass of beer in two years, much less hold a steady bead to make a head shot.

Harrison’s time as a cop didn’t mean he was accustomed to getting shot at. I don’t think I like getting shot at, he muttered under his breath, using sarcasm to keep his nerves steady, as shock gave way to anger.

Working his way down through the underbrush like an over-nourished snake, he picked up a rock and threw it into the bushes across the logging trail he had driven in on. Expecting to hear another shot when the rock crashed into the brush, he waited until it was obvious nothing was going to respond. All was quiet until the chatter of animals started back up. Harrison kept low another sixty seconds — until he began to hear his heart beat. He stood into a crouched position, still getting some cover behind the saplings and underbrush.

Easing back over to the vehicle, keeping it between him and where the shot was fired, he got to his feet, knees bent to keep his head below the roofline of his service vehicle. He could still hear the ring of gunfire in his head. The working theory was that the shooter had run while he was thrashing around in the saplings, gagging on that wad of tobacco. Tick, tick, tick, the clock in his head clicked off another sixty. He eased up on the tension in his shoulders and hips. Getting his throat clear enough to speak, he put out the officer-needs-assistance call.

Cautiously testing his theory that the shooter was long gone, Harrison straightened his back. Walking to the front of the Suburban, he scanned the woods using field glasses he had taken from the dash. The morning had gone back to the beginning of a typical day, as though the shot had never happened. The only indication that things were out of the norm was the burn from the tobacco in his throat. Birds chirped, squirrels chattered, leaves rustled in a sudden wind. Even his breathing was returning to normal.

He had a tight grip on the revolver, trying to decide what his next move should be when something hit him in the left knee. The force of impact was enough to push him sideways as a flash of blonde fur rushed by him heading for the woods across the trail. Another shot whizzed into his vest above his collarbone, and he fell backward, hitting the frozen leaves again. The shot came seconds before his .38 fired into the air and he hit the ground, his head contacting hard stone. The dog growling, sounds of cursing, a vehicle skidding on snow and loose leaves registered on his brain before things went black for Detective O’Kelly.

The next color his mind recognized wasn’t blonde fur, it was red hair. The hair belonged to Officer Marla Castro and she was slapping him. Wake up, Harrison. It’s too cold to sleep on duty.

She was saying insulting things, but she sounded worried. Harrison raised his arm to ward off more blows, and the pain that shot through his shoulder brought the world into immediate focus with memories of gunshots. He rolled to his side and vomited, coughing up bile and tobacco, not caring because of the searing pain that shot through his head with every movement. When he didn’t think the pain could be worse, his empty stomach triggered the dry heaves, intensifying the agony.

Marla was still talking. You scared me out of a year of my life. What are you doing out here? I pull up on your vehicle and find you spread-eagle in a ditch. Out cold, with your gun two feet away. Who did you shoot at, and where is ‘here’?

She had been supporting his head while he upchucked. With intense pain, he rolled to a sitting position, knees up, holding his head between them. Anxiously, she was back on her feet and pacing, taking in all the surroundings.

Harrison tried to push the words out through his aching throat, struggling to control the wave of nausea that hit again, attempting to concentrate on a reasonable answer to at least one of the questions she had asked him. He found that putting thoughts together was harder than it should be.

What ... you doing here? How long ... have I ... been out? It was all his brain would do. Putting things in order wasn’t happening either. Beyond the headache, the cold had seeped into his bones and he was beginning to shake uncontrollably.

Sit still. I’ve called emergency. You hit your head. There’s blood on that rock. You’ve got a big gash. Tell me what you remember. No, don’t. Sit still until EMS gets here.

He felt above and behind his right temple that was sticky with blood and tried to squeeze the daze out of his eyes. I came out here ... how did you know where to come, Castro?

She pointed to the Suburban. Guidance systems. You weren’t on time this morning and you didn’t call in. That’s not like you, so I gave your red dot a tweak. When you didn’t answer your page, I came looking. You know how it is on slow mornings, nothing else to do but stick your nose in everybody else’s business.

Castro laughed nervously, the look on her face anything but comical. Okay, if you want to talk, answer the question. You didn’t come all the way out here to hide your nasty tobacco habit from Candace, so what’s with the squirrel thing?

I’m quitting, Harrison whined, trying to wipe the spittle off his chin.

Yeah, good try. That’s why you have that nice stain running down your chin and the front of your shirt.

He wiped harder at the crusty dribble. Blood? he looked up at his deputy, who was shaking her head. Squinting against the painful sunlight, he retorted, Don’t be ... judge-y ... shot at ... twice. He held up two fingers without looking at her. Doing a favor ... friend.

What friend?

The question flipped a switch in his brain. Trying to stand again, the pain ignited a series of light beams that shot through his head behind his eyes.

Castro, see ... path to your left by that oak? he pointed without opening his eyes to the light.

I don’t know oak from veneer, but I see a path. What about it?

Pull revolver ... go to the end of that trail ... a cabin ... I was going to meet ... AHEEE ... Harrison groaned when the worry and pain hit his brain. ... Bobby Joe this morning, an informant ... from years back. I got ... bad feeling ... No, don’t go alone ... need to call for back-up, somebody’s ... off to shoot at a cop ... isolated, too dangerous.

And what if your informant needs help? He could be another victim of your shooter. I hear EMS sirens that should scare off any shooters left lurking around. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye as she started down the path and saw Harrison sit down hard, leaning back on the bumper where she had left him. Stay put, she yelled over her shoulder, disappearing into the underbrush.

Working her way down the well-used path, a small clearing came into view first, early morning shadows from tall trees obscured the front of the cabin until she was close to the end of the trail. The porch was three or four steps above ground level and the path end was downhill from the clearing, giving her an upward view of the front where the windows wistfully looked up, reflecting the light. From her vantage point, the windows gave her no view to the interior — and wouldn’t until she had climbed the steps to the open porch, leaving her arrival open to view, both from the vista beyond the house and from inside of the house.

Remembering the shot in Harrison’s vest, she didn’t like the exposure and began to work her way off the path, hugging the tree line toward the back. The back door was more sheltered and the shadows were darker, giving the windows less of a mirrored effect. She cat-walked slowly toward the low window frames and peeked inside, seeing a bedroom stripped of bedding and curtains. The inspection was limited to a hallway wall viewed through the door. Marla stepped around the corner to another window that should be at the end of the hall. The interior of a spacious weekend cabin — often used at one time, by the look of the old furnishings — was full of overstuffed sofas and chairs. A fireplace that needed cleaning was littered with beer cans that were also strewn around the tables. Castro noted the dusty blinds, open pine cabinets filled with hodge-podge, and a leg sticking out from behind a chair.

Yelling Benton Police Department, Marla Castro kicked the door that didn’t budge. She stepped back, rubbing her hip, and then did the sensible thing: She checked under the flower pots for a key. Still feeling her heart thumping with the urge to hurry, she found the elusive device under the third pot, rusty with crud. Wiping it on her pants, she prayed it would unlock the door, feeling like it had already been an eternity since she had found Harrison and now a second victim in a single morning that started out like a slow day.

pic-20

Marla watched the ambulance back out of the driveway at the front of the house. The one carrying Bobby Joe had left first, and this one had a mad detective inside, loudly proclaiming on the record for all witnesses that he was leaving the crime scene under protest. She rubbed her hip again and shuddered when her hand hit the dried blood that had soaked into her uniform. The blood was Bobby Joe’s — so much blood that she had assumed he was dead, not looking closely at the body when she came into the room. She went about doing the cop thing of checking in rooms and behind doors for possible intruders, then touching his neck for a pulse and registering profound surprise when she found one. Would she ever get the look in his eyes out of her mind as she began to administer CPR?

... shot me, I saw ... ’e ... shot me ...

He was pointing to the door with what little strength he had left and looking first at her, then in the direction his finger was pointing as he muttered something over and over. She was concentrating on stopping the flow of blood and not listening closely, repeating the procedure as often as he repeated the sentence until he passed out right before Harrison stumbled into the room. The bleeding man on the floor had at least two bullet holes in him, indicated by the puncture marks in his tee shirt — one high, one low — but he was still alive when they loaded him into transport, EMS working furiously to keep him alive.

Harrison had gotten back in the Suburban after she had left him and found a pair of sunglasses when he heard the call go through for an assist from Marla. Forgetting about the ache in his head, he found the oak tree. Using his instincts to find the cabin, he stumbled onto the crime scene minutes before backup and EMS got there.

Marla wanted to wash her hands, but she was in charge of a crime scene and everything needed to be pictured as close as possible to how the shooter left the victim. Not very possible, after she and Harrison plus a handful of EMS workers tromped all over the room and the yard, covering tire tracks, footprints, wiping out possible trace evidence, etc., etc. She held a pair of evidence gloves, loathing to put them on over the blood stains. Whoever shot Bobby Joe couldn’t have planned it better. Unless ... the victim lived to testify and knew who shot him — and from what he was muttering when she found him, he knew.

Officer Castro?

Marla was still watching the empty spot on the road, letting her mind take in and sort through the morning’s events. The road — or, more to the point, the trail — where she found Harrison was not heavily traveled. She came in from the woods at the east side and had been surprised that the cabin was so large and in such good shape. Another surprise was the view from the front porch. The cabin rose above the tree line in the front, and the window’s outlook soared into the horizon, taking in the mountain range and the lake below.

Everybody in this town but me owns a piece of that lake, she muttered to herself. The road on the west side of the cabin, which was the road the EMS vehicles and first responders used, was a better road. It was probably maintained by the state or county, because there were signs of recent ditch work even though it wasn’t paved. The question on her mind was why Harrison agreed to meet Bobby Joe on the trail instead of at the cabin. Why Bobby Joe didn’t keep the appointment was obvious. Someone addressing her brought her out of the mind fog.

Yes. What? Marla turned from the window to see the department’s newest hire.

I know you can’t use the sinks in the house to wash up, but there’s a pump in the back. No indication that anyone’s used it in a long time. If you want, I can get it to work and give you a place to get your hands clean — if you want.

How do you know it works?

I don’t for sure, ma’am, but there’s a mason jar with a rusty lid sitting at the base, and there’s water in it. That’s a pretty good sign that somebody likes to think it works.

I don’t know what any of that means, Officer Morisot, but if you can get water out of that well, I’d be grateful.

Give me ten minutes. It’s out the kitchen door.

Ten minutes later, with a bar of motel soap she had found in her dash compartment, she was lathering up under a stream of the coldest water she had ever encountered. By the time the blood was washed away, her fingernails ached and every knuckle was stiff and unbending, but gloriously clean, and her mind was ready to finish the task of recording the details of two attempted murders.

pic-20

What’s wrong? Candace answered her husband’s call with concern in her voice.

How do you know something’s wrong? Harrison was sitting in a wheelchair, still wearing the sunglasses and waiting for a doctor to come into the emergency room at the hospital. He had wanted to call his wife after he had something concrete to tell her, but they were taking too long and the chances of somebody who knew them not finding out he was in the hospital were slim to none.

Because you don’t call in the middle of the day otherwise, she truthfully responded.

Maybe, like the song says, I just called to say I love you. He had the phone in one hand and his head in the other, trying to concentrate on keeping his tone light.

You said that this morning. So tell me what’s wrong.

Harrison knew his wife wasn’t going to be fooled with a lie. He also knew he needed to cushion what he told her to keep her from jumping in the car and getting herself killed trying to get to the hospital in record time. I fell, hit my head, and they want to take X-rays. I may need a ride home. Got time to come over to the ER?

I’m already here. See you in three.

Harrison sighed, wondering which one of his well-meaning team cared so much. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Candace strode into the emergency waiting room, giving him a nod and heading to the admittance desk. In two minutes, an orderly had him wheeled out of admittance and he was in front of an X-ray machine, listening to Candace giving instructions to a nurse outside the room. He shook his head with the knowledge that he had married a whirlwind; he wished he had a couple of cops who had as much ability to get things done.

pic-20

It was late afternoon before the last fingerprint was lifted, the last footprint was photographed, and the last patrol car, except for hers, left the area. In the process of locking down the crime scene, Marla walked to the back door. The rusty key was still in the lock where she had forced the tumblers to let her in and view the grizzly scene. It was obvious that this door wasn’t used much. The hinges squeaked and the door scrubbed on the wooden floor. She pushed the door closed and relocked it, retracing her steps down the hall to the main room. Bobby Joe had been lying partly on the rug in the living area with his legs sticking out on the wood floor; that’s what she had seen from the window beside the back door. Kneeling on his right side to feel for a pulse, he had pointed with his left hand toward the door — not the front door that opened onto the porch, but the other way.

Marla walked her memory back through everything, making notes in her book.

Under the pressure of trying to save his life, she had mentally taken for granted that he was pointing to the door she had come through, but that door was never used — and didn’t appear that it had been opened in years, according to her sore hip — so that wasn’t likely. Avoiding the blood that was pooled on the floor, she stood close to where his body had been, pointing at the kitchen door — a door that had not been visible at the time. Not from her vantage point. She picked up her phone.

Morisot, this is Castro. Who was the first officer through the side door that opened into the kitchen, and was it unlocked when the other officers arrived? The silence stretched for several seconds while she waited impatiently.

Morisot finally responded. They called me in to help track the woods for prints to find who shot Detective O’Kelly. We found where they had parked, along with some shells, and I was told to go in and report to you. I came in that way; the door was unlocked and had been dusted for prints. When I saw you staring at your hands, I remembered seeing the water pump in the yard. Going back out, I asked if prints had been taken and the crime scene investigators said yes.

It’s SLED, she said in a musing voice.

What?

S-L-E-D, she spelled it out, then gave him the name the acronym stood for, South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. They investigate crime scenes in South Carolina if drugs are involved.

Gotcha. Is that all you needed to know?

Marla was still holding the phone and looking at the door trying to see what Bobby Joe saw. Yeah, see you tomorrow ... no, wait. How far away are you?

Five minutes. I stopped when you called.

Come back toward the house. I’ll wait for you on the road. We need to look at something else, and I want two sets of eyes on this. Marla disconnected.

She didn’t know Morisot very well, though one of the attributes on his job application had been tracking. She hoped it wasn’t all brag. Marla took the squad car another officer had brought down from the trail for her and backed it out of the driveway, down to the county road. Waiting for Morisot, she looked back at the cabin, pondering her previous dilemma, then drove down the road and off into the woods to wait.

She stepped out onto the road when she heard his car. Pull in behind me out of sight.

When he had followed her directions and was on the road next to her, he asked, Okay, what are we looking for?

Another car, Marla let her answer sink in, then looked at him for an idea of what he was thinking. He was well-trained in keeping his opinions off his face.

"The way I have the events reconstructed, Bobby Joe was shot right after Harrison took the second round ... when he was out cold, just before I cut off the motor in my car — not before Harrison got here, or Bobby Joe would have bled out.

There was no vehicle on the grounds when I found the victim. If the shooter had brought the victim in with him, he’d had to have left him in the house, taken the shot at Harrison, driven a quarter mile down the trail to double back here to shoot Bobby Joe. I’d have heard that shot. So how did Bobby Joe get here, and who shot him, and where’s his car? I called DOT and wrote down the make and model of a car registered in his name. I know with all the traffic in and out of here, it’s a long shot, but do you think you can tell if it was here this morning?

Marla jumped the ditch to take a shortcut through a vacant lot to get back to the crime scene before dark. Expecting Morisot to follow, she noticed his hesitation.

Not through the underbrush. If we stick to the road until we get in sight of the house, we should be okay. He was already making time up the dirt-and-gravel.

Morisot surprisingly outdistanced her on their short hike, considering he was several inches shorter than her. The joke at the Law Enforcement Center (the LEC to those who worked there) was to wonder if he bought his uniforms from the boy’s department. They didn’t joke about it after he beat them all in fitness training though. The only thing he wouldn’t do was dress out as a target for the K-9 unit. Of course, some of those dogs would probably outweigh him.

The walk was longer than she thought it would be, and anxiety was building by the time they were back in view of the house and had started the slow, methodical survey of the grounds. The cold was slowly seeping up her legs when Morisot asked the obvious question.

What about the pump? Don’t you think it strange that a jar of water would be left out as cold as the nights are, especially since you could go inside the house if you want water to prime the pump?

You mean, why a jar of fresh water at the base of a pump that’s never used? It had to have been filled this morning. The early spring temps dropped below freezing last night. Yeah, it’s crossed my mind, along with the missing car. I know Bo Jo’s history as a dealer when he was younger. But, according to records, he’s years away from that.

So you’re thinking the pump is a drop, or a signal ... for what? We didn’t see anything unusual when you were washing up. If it is a signal, it could be a lover’s rendezvous and not connected to the shooting at all.

I know, but whatever it is, something that happened this morning was worth shooting Bobby Joe and a cop to keep it a secret. Maybe it’s not a drop, maybe it’s a signal for something, and Bobby Joe was in the wrong place and saw something he shouldn’t have. I want to know what it was, and he may not live long enough to tell us.

Two miserable hours later, Castro turned to her partner to tell him it was time to call it off; it was too dark to see, and they hadn’t found anything. Morisot was hunkered down over something just off the drive, between that and the