Haven (19 page)

Had that really been too much to ask?

Nellie laughed. “You’re regretting offering me this job, aren’t you?”

“It crossed my mind. More than once.” He sighed. “So Jessie works for this Haven outfit. So? What is it they do?”

Very deliberately, Nellie said, “Well, mostly they investigate crimes. Violent crimes. Like murder.”

After counting to ten silently, Conway said, “Last I heard, we had cops to do that sort of thing. And other law enforcement agencies. Like the FBI.”

“Apparently, we’ve got Haven too. Or can have them, if a case fits within their areas of expertise. I’m not clear on all the details, not yet, but it looks like each of their…I don’t know, agents, detectives, operatives, whatever, is a licensed private investigator, with at least some law enforcement training.”

“You’re still talking about Jessie?”

Nellie ignored that. “They’re based somewhere near Santa Fe, but with John Garrett’s resources, that doesn’t mean a thing in terms of how widely their reach extends. They’ve got about three jets
at their disposal, and I’ve found evidence of their involvement in police or FBI investigations in at least six states. And that’s just what I’ve been able to find today. Since lunch.”

“Stop bragging; I know you’re fast.”

“Just reminding you. I could use a raise.”

“Jessie’s a private detective?” Conway couldn’t get past that. “Jessie?”

“Wild, huh?”

“I’ll say. She was a couple of years behind me in school, but even so, I knew she had a…reputation.”

Interested, Nellie said, “I heard the same thing, but never could trace it back to anything specific. Do you know?”

“No. Just heard she was…up for anything.”

Nellie made a rude sound. “Well, if that’s all it was, I’m betting some guy she turned down before he could get to second base lied through his teeth that he made a conquest. That’s how most
wild
teenage girls get that reputation.”

“If you say so.” He looked dubious, but shrugged.

Nellie frowned. “Well, never mind that. Here’s the thing. What makes Haven different from any other outfit of private investigators I’ve been able to find is their special…talents.”

“What kind of talents?”

“Psychic talents.”

Conway barely hesitated. “Oh, come on.”

“Seriously. I mean, the cops I’ve talked to were guarded about it, but it’s clear they believe something paranormal was going on in their different investigations, at least as far as the Haven operatives were concerned.”

“
Okay, well…that’s weird, but so what? Just looking around, watching TV or going to the movies, you can see folks seem to be more than a little interested in the paranormal right now. All those ghost hunters and paranormal investigators and groups showing up here are proof of that. Hell, I hear another one of them is staying at Rayburn House right now.”

“Really?” Nellie was somewhat irritated that this was news to her.

“Yeah.” Conway was frowning now. “Wait—are you saying that Jessie’s psychic?”

“I don’t know what Jessie is. But she works for Haven, and they’re an outfit of psychics.”

“Okay, but—”

“So what’s she doing here, Sam?”

“She came home for a visit.” Conway shook his head. “And to check out her inheritance. The simplest answer is usually the right one, you know.”

“Uh-huh. And what about the body that writer found? Jessie comes back here after fifteen years of absolutely no sign she was even
remotely
interested in coming back home, didn’t even come back for her father’s funeral, and first thing you know we’ve got an unidentified body?”

“Well, but she didn’t find it.”

“Doesn’t mean she wasn’t looking for it,” Nellie said stubbornly.

Conway tried to work out her logic and failed. Which didn’t surprise him in the least. “I’m not seeing a story in it, Nellie. Not yet, anyway,” he added hastily when she opened her mouth to argue with him.

For a moment, Nellie was tempted to show him the piece of paper with its bloody message, and explain her own coldly frightened
response to it. But she knew Sam Conway very well, so all she said was, “Maybe there won’t be, when all’s said and done. But it’s an itch, Sam, and I have to scratch it. Do you mind?”

“Would it do me any good to say I did?” Without waiting for a response, he added, “Just for God’s sake be careful, will you? Dan Maitland hates amateurs nosing around his business.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Conway let out a snort of disbelief, but also shrugged in resignation and went on about his business.

So, Nellie had his tacit approval to continue scratching the itch. Part of her didn’t want to, though, because every instinct she could lay claim to was telling her that what she might pry open in the attempt wasn’t a can of worms but more likely something a lot worse.

She opened her brief bag and pulled out a copy of the note—the original was in her safe-deposit box—glanced around and listened a moment to make sure she was alone, then opened the folder and stared down at the note.

Since she knew Emma, however casually, Nellie had started with the only named unknown in the note: Jessie. And she had found plenty, though far more questions than answers. She’d also done a
bit of snooping around town, only to discover that nobody was seeing much of Jessie, including her sister.

Which, to Nellie’s mind, added weight to the idea that Jessie was here investigating something.

But what?

Was
there a murderer watching? Who was he watching? Jessie? Or Emma?

Who was the threat? Who was being threatened?

And who could Nellie trust with any of this?

HE HADN’T REALIZED
how angry he was until she made a wet gurgling sound and went limp.

He stood there, panting, riding out the surge of pleasure for several long moments. But then, all too soon, the pleasure ebbed, and he was left staring down at what was left of Carol Preston.

He hadn’t intended to kill her so quickly. He liked to play with them, cut them up slowly so he could listen to them beg and see the stark terror in their eyes.

But he was still angry about the one who had escaped him. And he was angry because things were happening in Baron Hollow, things he couldn’t seem to control. And that anger, he told himself in a rare moment of clarity, was pushing him.

He’d meant to spend more time with Carol, his June Rose. But his anger…

He sighed regretfully, and stepped aside to lay his bloody knife on the workbench. He thought the storm was probably still pounding
the countryside, but couldn’t hear it down here; this place was very effectively soundproofed.

He didn’t especially relish planting his June Rose in the garden in the rain, but he also didn’t want to have to store her—and he wasn’t certain when he’d be able to get free long enough to get back here.

He checked his watch, swore under his breath, and got to work. He moved a couple of the big lights back into the storage room, leaving himself only one to work with. In the storage room, he double-checked the freezer, and smiled at the disembodied head of—what had her name been? Catherine something. The one who had escaped him.

He had left her where he’d found her—but taking her head, though he admitted to himself he had done it in anger, had proven very useful. Arranging it on the chair just within reach of his June Rose, for her to find in the pitch-black darkness, had quite effectively terrified her.

He had watched the tape from his infrared camera.

He was still smiling about that when he sensed something.

In the cabin above his head.

Jessie had returned to the cabin again and again, watching, listening, but not daring to get closer. It was only now, Friday, that she finally convinced herself no one lived there.

The cabin was used, but it was not occupied.

Not, at least, on a regular basis.

Still, she might not have chosen this day and time to finally explore the cabin if it hadn’t been for the storm. It rumbled up out of nowhere, as storms so often did in the mountains, and one look at the sky told Jessie that this one was going to be rough—and long.

She approached cautiously as always, and circled the cabin completely just to reassure herself that it was empty today. She saw nothing that made her think otherwise, even though she still had that skin-crawling feeling of dread, of unease.

Oh, get on with it.

She had managed during the last few days to shore up her walls
even more, so that very little got through now. And, as always when she got near the cabin, her own unease seemed to make the walls even stronger; she doubted even another psychic would be able to sense her when she was near the cabin.

Still, her instincts kept telling her to leave, or at least to call for help before exploring whatever lay inside that innocent-looking cabin. But the last thing Jessie wanted to do was call Haven in, maybe even the SCU, when she didn’t have anything other than the words of a spirit that something bad had happened, was happening, here.

Especially when Maggie had specifically told her to get on with her vacation and leave the investigating—other than of her own past—to others.

She needed more before she called in the troops.

Satisfied that the cabin was as empty today as it had been the day before, Jessie finally left the cover of the woods and walked across the well-kept yard and up the steps to the front porch.

Which was just about the time the storm hit.

Ignoring the rumbling thunder and driving rain, Jessie went to the front door, which she tried only after donning a pair of latex gloves.

Locked.

Not too surprised, she dug into her backpack for a small, zippered leather case and took from it the tools she needed to pick the lock.

“So we’re going to be breaking the law?”
she had asked her boss, Maggie Garrett, when this particular lesson began.

“It’s likely we’ll have to bend it from time to time,”
Maggie had replied calmly.
“If you have reason to believe an innocent may be at risk, or can convincingly argue you suspected something was wrong, then a locked door can and should be breached.”
She had paused, then added dryly,
“Kicking
a door down may be all well and good for TV and the movies, but as often as not we’d rather no one knew we got inside in the first place. So—you learn to pick locks. Problem?”

“No. No problem at all.”

As it turned out, Jessie had learned her lessons very well.

The cabin’s front door was almost ridiculously easy.

It made her a bit wary, so once inside with the door closed, she left her backpack beside it and did a quick search, gun in hand.

Empty.

The cabin had, basically, two fairly small rooms. There was a living room with a kitchenette, and there was a bedroom and tiny bathroom. Everything was neat and clean, with a colorful quilt on the double bed and a number of locally made rugs scattered on the weathered wooden floor. Both the quilt and the rugs were old, and she had a strong hunch it would be difficult if not impossible for her to find out who had bought them.

But she had a digital camera she had fully charged the night before in anticipation of today and this search, and she was able to take numerous pictures of the space and close-ups of the rugs and quilt before the camera died on her.

Definitely a downside of being psychic.

With a smothered curse, she returned the camera to her backpack, then stood just studying the space. It was, she thought, a man’s space, and yet it was oddly impersonal. No photographs or artwork, and the small bookcase in the living area held a dozen or so rather pointedly generic books on hunting and fishing and gardening.

A rapid check showed her there was no name written in the front of a sampling of the books, no bookplates or other indication of
ownership. None of the books was new or recently purchased, she judged.

Several kerosene lanterns sat about: one on the kitchen counter, one on the bedside table, one on a rustic coffee table between the leather couch and the rock fireplace.

A gun rack hung above the fireplace, but no rifle or shotgun occupied it. In the kitchen were basic pots and pans and flatware, mostly old, nothing special about them or the plates and cups and glasses also in the cabinets. The place settings were for four, but Jessie didn’t take that as significant; she knew very well that most “starter sets” of dishes and glassware and the rest came in fours.

Again, however, everything showed signs of age and wear. Even the checked curtains at the windows looked as if they’d been hung in place years before.

Both the kitchen and bathroom faucets worked, and the water ran clear, which told her that either there was a well somewhere near with electricity run to it, or else whoever built this had managed to pipe through a lot of land to connect to the town’s water supply. Or perhaps the church’s, since it was, by Jessie’s estimation, the closest building. She assumed a septic system for the toilet, but if the owner had tapped the town’s water system, or the church’s, she supposed he could have tapped the sewage system as well.

But not electricity. Because that usage was monitored, and somebody would have noticed.

Okay, suspicious—but squatters were experienced at staying off the grid, and maybe it was just that. Land gone unused for decades, remote and difficult to get to, so why not make a home of sorts here?

Because nobody was living here; she was sure of it. Visiting, yes.
Staying a weekend or a couple of days now and then, sure. But not living here.

“Think, Jessie,” she murmured aloud. “Is there any sign a killer uses this place? Because there are always signs…”

All she had to do was find one.

HE COULDN’T HEAR
her moving about above his head, but he knew she was there. He could feel her, just as he’d been able to feel her years before. Sense her. It was why he had made the choice he had made that night. Well, one reason, anyway.