In The Bleak Midwinter: A Special Agent Constance Mandalay Novel (11 page)

Finally she conceded. Draping her coat over
the uncomfortable-looking straight back of the chair, she let out a
small sigh then perched herself in the seat. As it turned out,
appearances were not deceiving at all. The chair was just as
uncomfortable as it looked.

“There, I’m sitting,” she announced. “Are you
happy now?”

A full minute passed before the sheriff
answered. Without looking up from his work he grunted. “Not my feet
that’s hurtin’, young lady. Question is, are
you
happy
now?”

She regarded him quietly for a moment, then
asked, “Okay, I’ll admit it; I’m curious. How did you know my feet
were hurting? Lucky guess?”

“Those shoes would hurt my feet. I figure
they gotta hurt yours.”

“You barely glanced at me when I came in. How
did you even know I was wearing heels?”

“I ain’t deaf yet, honey. I heard ‘em the
minute you hit the front door.”

“Okay,” she conceded. “But that still doesn’t
explain how you know I just bought them.”

The sheriff sighed and tossed his pencil back
onto the papers again as he leaned back. He gave her the sort of
look a teacher would bestow upon a student who wasn’t grasping the
idea that one plus one equals two. “This a test?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean did your other Fed buddies tell you
to screw with me?”

“I have no idea what you are talking
about.”

“Sweetheart...” he muttered, then shook his
head. “Okay. Fine. Let’s get it over with so we can get some police
work done.” Wagging his finger up and down at her, he began to
explain, “That blazer you’re wearing is a
Charles Gray of
London
, unless I missed my guess, but I don’t think I did
because my youngest daughter has one just like it. Not the highest
dollar, but pricey, nice, and it’s current on the style. The one
you’re wearing has been custom altered to drape properly because
you carry your sidearm in a belt rig—on your right, by the way.
That tells me you’re particular about your appearance and like to
keep up with fashion, so it stands to reason that the shoes would
be important too.” Now directing his index finger at the doorway,
he continued, “But, when you walked in here a few minutes ago, you
were favoring your left foot, even though based on the way you move
it’s obvious you’re no stranger to walking in heels. In fact, I’d
say you could even run in them if you were pressed.

“Anyway, then you stood here in front of my
desk and kept shifting your weight from foot to foot, which means
your right was bothering you too. That little dance tells me either
you’re wearing new shoes that aren’t broken in yet and they hurt
your feet, or you really have to pee. Now, I may be wrong, but I’m
pretty certain that if you had to pee that bad you would have asked
Clovis to point you at the restroom before you had her bring you in
here to talk to me.”

Constance stared at him wordlessly for a
moment, then asked, “You picked up all that from a quick
glance?”

“You gonna tell me I’m wrong?” he huffed.

“Well... No... It was that obvious, huh?”

“Yeah, it was. To me, anyway. Don’t they
teach you kids anything at Quantico these days?”

Constance ignored the gibe. “I have to say,
Sheriff, your powers of observation and deduction border on
uncanny.”

“For a sheriff of Podunk, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Were you in law enforcement before–”

He verbally truncated her question with one
of his own. “You mean, ‘was I a hotshot homicide detective on some
major metropolitan police force before burning out and retiring to
the rural Midwest where I could be an Andy Taylor clone and not
even have to carry a gun?’ That’d be kinda cliché, don’t you
think?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You’re right, it is. And, I am. All except
the part about Andy Taylor and the fact that I’m not stupid enough
to think I can get away without carrying a sidearm in this day and
age. Even here in Hulis.”

“But you were, as you put it, a hotshot
homicide detective.” Her words were a statement and not a
question.

“I cleared a few cases in my day,” he grunted
while looking around his desk, lifting papers and shifting file
folders in the process. “I take it none of this information was in
the file you read?”

“The file was on the case, not you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he replied absently, still
searching for something in the clutter. “Heard that one before. All
I have to say is that’s some piss-poor police work for a bunch of
Feds. If your research is that bad, my opinion of you G-men just
ratcheted down another couple of notches.”

“Well, hopefully I can change that.”

“Yeah, I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Seven
murders in seven years, all on the same damn day; we’re still at
square one, and I’ve got my fifth new Fed to babysit. No offense,
but from where I am, you’ve got your work cut out for you changin’
my mind.”

Constance ignored the negative commentary and
pressed forward. “So, speaking of the murders, has the card arrived
yet?”

“Yeah, it was waitin’ for me when I got here
this morning, just like clockwork... Hang on a sec...” Sheriff
Carmichael gave up his apparently futile search and pressed the
side of his hand on the talk button of an intercom box that looked
only slightly newer than the chair and desk, then called out, “Hey,
Clovis?”

A handful of seconds later the speaker
crackled, “What do you need, Skip?”

“Have you seen my coffee cup?”

“It’s out here on top of the filing cabinet
where you left it an hour ago.”

“Dammit...” he muttered.

There was a short hiss, and then Clovis’s
voice rattled from the tinny box again. “Want me to bring it in to
you?”

“What time is it?” he asked, a mildly absent
quality to his voice as he circumvented the original question.

“Eleven-thirty,” she replied. “I swear, Skip,
you need a watch.”

“Why? You’ve got one.”

“Skip...”

The sheriff sighed, then smoothed his bushy
mustache before turning his attention back to Constance. “You have
lunch yet, Special Agent Mandalay?”

“No, actually... And you can call me
Constance, by the way.”

“Skip? You want me to bring you your cup?”
Clovis’s voice came over the speaker again.

He depressed the button. “No, hon... Thanks
anyway. I think I’m gonna take the Fed over to
That Place
.
You want me to bring you back anything?”

The intercom crackled. “I brought lunch
today, but I sure could go for a piece of pie... Oh...but I really
shouldn’t.”

“Coconut cream like usual?” he asked.

“I really shouldn’t,” she replied.

“Coconut cream it is,” he grunted.

“That Place?” Constance asked when he was
finished.

“It’s the diner across the street,” he
replied as he rolled back, then pushed up from his chair and ambled
over to a bentwood coat rack in the corner, stopping for a moment
to hitch up his belt before pulling down his jacket.

“Does it have a name?” she asked as she
stood.

“Yeah,
That Place
.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” he said with a nod. “Come on, I’ll
buy you lunch and see if I can get you up to speed on all
this.”

“What about the card?”

“What about it?”

“May I see it?”

The sheriff hefted his jacket back onto a
hook then walked back to the desk. “Exactly the same as all the
others,” he grunted, shuffling through the papers and extracting a
manila envelope labeled EVIDENCE, along with a few scribbles of
information such as the date and time. Handing it to her he added,
“Got it bagged for you; not that you’ll find anything. Your lab
geeks never do.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.
Eventually the killer will slip up.” She added a paraphrased
retort, “
They always do
.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

“You seem a little jaded,” Constance said,
reaching into her pocket and withdrawing a pair of surgical
gloves.

“Like I said, seven murders, seven years,
five Feds, square one,” he replied. “And now I’m staring at number
eight in about three days time. You’ll have to excuse me if I sound
less than hopeful regarding an outcome at this point.”

“I understand,” she replied, unwrapping the
string closure and then carefully emptying the contents out into
her gloved hand.

The Christmas card was nothing particularly
unique. Printed on inexpensive stock, the front of it was a
detailed color rendering of a serene, somewhat darkened living
room. A fireplace dominated the center of the picture, with a
bulging, bright red, gift-laden stocking hanging from the mantle. A
pair of black boots attached to telltale red-suited legs were
dangling down from the flue and into the dormant fireplace.

In the foreground was a small plate, upon it
resting a half-eaten cookie and what appeared to have once been a
full glass of milk, now mostly empty. Adjacent to it was a note
written in a child’s hand that said, “For Santa, Marry Crismis. Luv
Susie.”

Above it all, gracing the top of the scene,
were the words
‘Twas The Night Before...
printed in an
embossed, bold script.

Inside the card was blank. On the back was
only the simple logo of a generic greeting card manufacturer that
had long since gone out of business according to the case file.

Constance turned the card over in her hands,
looking at the back, at the blank inside, and finally lingering
over the artistically depicted tableau on the front. Sheriff
Carmichael watched her silently for several minutes.

Eventually, he cleared his throat and
muttered, “Exact same damn card every year, stuffed right through
the mail slot... Always on December twenty-second. No envelope, no
prints, no DNA, no hair, no fiber, no nothing... Didn’t make the
connection until the second year.” He paused for a second then
spat, “Anyway... Every Christmas we find a man’s body...or I guess
I should say pieces of one. They pretty much add up to a whole,
except for...”

As the sheriff’s voice trailed off, Constance
verbally filled in the blank. “The external genitalia.”

Out of reflex he nodded assent while he
spoke. “Yeah. Always missing.”

“Just like John Horace Colson,” she
breathed.

“Except Colson happened thirty-five years
ago, and there’s no question who killed him...and why.”

“I know.”

“Yeah. You read the file,” he replied. “Then
you also know we find the victim in the exact same spot Colson was
found.”

“I do.”

“After number two, we started watchin’ the
place. Full on, around the clock, starting the week before
Christmas every damn year. This year’ll be the fourth where I’ve
sat out there myself. Nobody in, nobody out, but on Christmas
morning, the body is always there.”

“That was in the file too.”

“Good. Then maybe you can explain that one,
because I sure as hell can’t.” He paused, then brought the present
thread of the conversation back full circle. “You know, right
around Thanksgiving every year I start wondering if the sonofabitch
has finally run out of cards so that maybe this nightmare can stop.
Then one shows up. Maybe this will be the last one...but I really
doubt it.”

“Do you just wonder, or is that one of your
uncanny observations?” she asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head. “More like a Christmas
wish. It’s the same one everybody in Hulis makes. Been a lot of
wishbones snapped on it, believe me.”

Looking back to the card in her hands, she
dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “Everybody in Hulis
except for one, apparently.”

“No,” he told her. “This isn’t someone from
around here. This is an outsider.”

“That’s just one theory.”

“Yeah, but it’s the theory I’m sticking
with.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me too damn sick to think
otherwise.”

Constance slid the card back into the
evidence envelope and secured the flap shut with the closure
string.

As she peeled off the surgical gloves, in a
matter-of-fact tone she remarked, “You know I have to talk to
her.”

“I assume you mean...” he allowed the name to
go unspoken.

“Merrie Callahan, yes.”

The sheriff sighed heavily, then reached up
beneath the rim of his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose
as he hung his head and shook it slightly. “Do you really think
that’s necessary? You said you read the file.”

“Yes, it is, and yes, I did.”

“Well? There should have been interviews in
there from the other four Feds.”

“There were, but they didn’t...”

“...say anything of any consequence.” He
finished the sentence for her. “My point exactly. Believe me, this
ain’t my first rodeo with you folks. What makes you think you’ll
get anything different this time?”

“I won’t know unless I try.”

“Well,” Sheriff Carmichael sighed again. “I
think you’re just wasting your time and mine too. I’ll take you to
see her if you insist, but let’s go across the street and have
lunch first.”

“Honestly, I’m not really all that hungry,”
she objected.

“Maybe you aren’t, but I am,” he explained.
“Besides, we need to talk about this first.”

Constance shook her head to punctuate her
hard response. “You aren’t going to change my mind about this,
Sheriff.”

“Not gonna try,” he replied. “I’m just gonna
give you the facts so you don’t go in unarmed. Decision’s still
yours. And I’m pretty sure I told you to call me Skip.”

C
HAPTER
9

“THANKS
, Stella,” Sheriff Carmichael
said, looking up with a slight grin at the young woman who was
refilling his coffee.