Unseen (7 page)

If she sat still and let her mind go blank, perhaps more memories would come. She’d made it this far.

With that thought, she then considered her medication. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried as fast as she could up the stairs to the second floor and the bedroom at the far end of the hall. Her bedroom. She’d not moved into her parents’ room after their deaths, though it was closest to the only upstairs bathroom. She couldn’t make herself.

Entering her bedroom she stopped short. The walls were a soft, rose red with white paneled wainscoting. The bed was white. All white. The books stacked neatly in a pile on the white nightstand had to do with tapping into unused parts of the brain. Gemma picked one up carefully and leafed through it. Passages were underlined and she suddenly, sharply remembered placing the pen to the page and making those marks.

There was another book on psychological abnormalities. She picked it up and scanned the bold headings inside: Borderline personalities. Multiple personalities. Sociopaths. Pedophiles…

The book slipped from her fingers and fell with a clunk on the fir planks. She picked it up immediately and leafed through it some more. In this one she’d made no notes, apparently, but this is what she’d been reading about. This and accessing inaccessible parts of the brain.

She was becoming more and more convinced that she’d been chasing Edward Letton. Her pulse started a slow, hard, deliberate pounding. She’d run him down, known he was going to hurt someone. A young girl.

And then she heard her own voice inside her head:

Red’s your color. It helps you learn things, know things. The medication keeps you from having the headaches but it interferes with your ability. Red helps you access the inaccessible…

Gemma gazed wild-eyed around the room. She could almost feel her mind expand and she forcefully shut it down, terrified of what might enter into it. Hurriedly, she raced to the bathroom, found the pills, shook some into her palm and swallowed them dry.

The rain had ruined his plans.

His head pounded. Rage beat at his temples. He’d meant to burn the witch at her home but couldn’t and now the other one was gone. Gone from the hospital.

But he knew where she haunted. He knew he would find her scent again.

Now he looked over the fields behind his house. Far across, in the dying light, he could see the fir trees sway. He stepped outside and stood in the feel of the wind. There was no moon tonight. It was hidden by the clouds.

He needed the rain to stop. He needed dry weather to feed the flames.

Across the field, lights switched on in the main house. Fury licked through him. They were spying on him, feeding information about his family to everyone who would listen.

Quickly, he stepped around the side of the house to the carport where his brother’s truck stood. The carport roof sagged in the middle, nearly touching the GemTop which sat over the truck’s bed.

He could smell her.

Over the evil scent of the witch was the putrid odor of death.

His hand automatically clapped to his neck and the bandage he’d laid over the vicious wounds she’d inflicted. He’d had hell to pay at work over that one. “Hey, retard, you cut yerself shavin’?” Rich Lachey had said when he’d stopped in at work.

Wolf had been in a hurry. The body was under his GemTop so he’d parked the truck at the end of the lot. He hadn’t had time to do more than change clothes and slap a bandage over the jagged wounds on his neck before he showed up to tell Seth it was gonna be awhile before he could get to that engine.

But he’d run into Rich instead. He’d wanted to smack the grin from his face. His hands clenched in preparation. He wasn’t slow, he was careful. But everyone, especially the witch-mother, had underestimated him.

“The name is Wolf, not retard.”

Rich threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Okay, Wolf. Where ya been? Seth wants to know.”

“I’ll be back next week.”

“Next week? Seth ain’t gonna like that.”

Seth can suck my dick.

Wolf knew his value. He didn’t ask for much pay. He didn’t ask for anything except the freedom to choose when he was available. His brother had paved the way for him.

Now, opening the GemTop, he looked in at the body. A blanket was tossed over her body, one arm hanging out. He could see his own blood on her fingers and rage filled him anew.

She had to burn.

He wanted to set up a pyre in his own backyard but he knew better…he knew better…

But the other witch. The one he’d chased. The one who’d escaped the hospital.

He knew where she haunted.

And it was the perfect place to take this one.

He would burn them both.

First this one, then the other.

On her own evil hunting ground, he would find the site for his pyre.

They all had to burn.

Every last witch.

Chapter Five

The Winslow County Sheriff’s Department was a one-level, cinder-block structure that wasn’t going to win any architectural awards but was more than adequate for the twenty or so personnel who worked there. Sheriff Herbert Nunce occupied a corner office that was filled with untidy, stacked files and fishing paraphernalia. Detective Barbara Gillette shared an office with Will, her desk butted up to his. Her side was obsessively neat while Will’s was genially messy. He wasn’t a slob, but he couldn’t bring himself to have a desk whose surface was uncluttered. His “in” pile always held a couple of pages, and envelopes and notes were tucked to one side of a leather desk pad that was occupied by his coffee mug, some pens and pencils, and a framed picture of himself and Dylan a couple of summers after high school graduation.

Will rarely wore a hat, and as he entered the building he ran his hands through his dark hair, pulling out rainwater. Indian summer had departed as if it were in a hurry to get somewhere else, and they were facing slanting rain, the kind normally reserved for late November and into winter.

The reception desk was behind a wall of glass. Bulletproof glass, ever since one of the crazy meth-heads had come in and threatened with a gun. No more relaxed Mayberry offices after that.

Will waved to Dot, the receptionist, who buzzed open a metal door. Behind it was a utilitarian hallway that led to the offices whose windows were not bulletproof, which only proved that governmental disposition of funds made no real sense and everything was management by crisis only.

The shoulders of Will’s uniform were dark with rain and his shoes were soaked through so that he could feel a clamminess in his toes. Barb was seated at her desk, so her back was to the door; Will’s desk faced the entry. She swiveled when she heard him enter and her dark eyes gave him the once over.

“Umbrellas not manly enough for you, Tanninger?”

“Didn’t have one.”

“Wouldn’t use it anyway,” she observed. “Or a hat.”

“Rain’s gonna stop today,” Jimbo said as he walked by. James Sanchez, lean, mean, and full of swagger, worked Narcotics. His near-black hair was long and scruffy and his uniform was a pair of dirty jeans and a plaid flannel shirt over a black T-shirt. He’d come from Portland on a task force and he’d stayed on. He played by big-city rules. The sheriff didn’t quite know what to do with him, but Jimbo could get the job done that others couldn’t. No one believed he was attached to the sheriff’s department. No one.

Barb ignored him. “You’d rather just get rain running down the back of your neck,” she said to Will.

The slant of her look as he rounded his desk was decidedly sexy. Will inwardly sighed. They’d worked together over a year before they’d gone out on their first of two dates, and it had been pleasant and uneventful. Barb was a flirt, but Will hadn’t really been interested. Then one night she’d walked into a pub where he sometimes stopped after work to grab a beer and a sandwich, and they’d ended up spending several hours together. He’d gotten the impression she wanted them both to head to her house afterward, and as a means to sidestep the problem, he’d invited her out to dinner the next Friday evening. That had been a mistake. From the frying pan to the fire. Barb had dressed for the occasion in a silky dress that showed off every bump and scoop of her trim body, and she’d swayed in her seat at the restaurant to the soft jazz. She’d wanted to dance but there thankfully was no dance floor. Will had extricated himself from the evening somewhat awkwardly. He’d taken her back to her condo and excused himself after one nightcap. She’d wanted him to kiss her and when it was clear he was uncomfortable with that, she’d gotten mad and snarky. He’d left in a hurry and she’d been pissed at him the whole next month. She had only softened up—at least sort of—after he’d told her he just couldn’t go there right now. He hadn’t given her a specific reason; there was none, really. He just wasn’t all that attracted to her. But he’d treated her fairly, and slowly her fury had turned to a low simmer. Now she teased and verbally jabbed him, a play for attention, but it was better than the anger. Some of the other guys shot him looks of amusement or fake sympathy, but so far there hadn’t been any remarks that would have resulted in Barb getting all furious with him again.

“Hey, Burl knows your hit-and-run friend from Quarry,” Barb said. “He lives around that area. Gave us a whole rundown on the LaPorte family. Colorful. Very colorful.”

Will grunted. His interest was piqued but he didn’t want to share that with Barb. She was always fishing, where he was concerned, inordinately interested in how he reacted to any information. And Burlington “Burl” Jernstadt was about the biggest horse’s ass Will had run across in law enforcement. He made Ralph Smithson look like a piker. The fact that Burl was retired and had given up his job reluctantly—which translated loosely to leave or be let go—and that Will had been promoted into Burl’s job, didn’t mean that Burl had given up haunting the department offices. It didn’t matter that he’d been a loud, ineffectual, socially inept buffoon who’d screwed up more cases than he’d aided in, and that he’d been lucky to be eased out of the department rather than fired. Burl couldn’t stay away. That he resented Will for taking his job went without saying. To date no one had had the gumption to tell him to get out and stay out. Will sensed that day was coming. He half-dreaded, half-welcomed it.

Whatever the case. He really didn’t want to talk to Burl. Except that the man knew something about Gemma LaPorte, and Gemma LaPorte was still his number-one guess for the avenger who’d run down Edward Letton.

“Anything on Jean LaPorte’s car?” he asked.

“Still no sign of it.”

As soon as Will had learned Gemma’s name and situation, he’d done a background check on every member of her family. He’d learned a number of things about them, but what had snagged his attention first was that the LaPortes had owned two vehicles: Peter’s white Chevy truck—which he’d seen at the house—and Jean’s silver Camry, which was apparently MIA. Maybe the guy who’d dropped Gemma off at the hospital had it, or maybe Gemma had crashed it into Edward Letton, or maybe it was parked somewhere on the LaPorte property. Whatever the case, to date it hadn’t been found, and Gemma hadn’t called to say differently. There was no vehicle in Gemma’s own name.

“Burl still around?” Will asked Barb.

“Always. Probably by the coffee machine.”

Which was next to the doughnut boxes. “No other silver Camrys with front-end damage discovered?”

“Not in this county. One in Clatsop County but it was a Dodge Durango and the guy who smashed it up is in jail with his second DUI. Dot says your little friend’s been calling. Pellter with two l’s. Check your voice mail.”

Will punched in the numbers of his phone and waited. Carol Pellter, having been saved from assault and probably death at the hands of Letton, had taken her story public, though her parents were clearly uncomfortable with the whole thing. The media had run the girl’s story of a really bad man trying to get her into his van, and had taken pictures of the outside of the impounded van. But it had been nearly a week since the event, and since Carol was alive and well, the prurient interest of the news watchers had moved on to events with more salacious pictures and tragic outcomes.

Carol, however, was hanging onto her fifteen minutes of fame with all ten fingers.

“Hi, Detective Tanninger,” Carol’s recorded voice stated primly. “I want to help in your investigation. I think you might need me. Could you please call me?” She left her number, speaking it clearly in a precise tone, twice.

Will smiled to himself. Looking forward more to talking to Carol than dealing with Burl, he placed a call to the number she’d given him and ended up with Carol’s prim voice suggesting he leave a message on her voice mail. He waited for the beep then told her it was Will Tanninger returning her call.

Kids with cell phones. It was the norm rather than the exception.

Barb was pretending not to be avidly listening to his every syllable. Will had to push aside the distraction of her laser-like interest in him with almost physical force. God, things were getting bad.

He got up from his desk. “Where’re you going?” Barb asked, swiveling around as he circled toward the door.

“Gonna see Nunce,” he said.

“I’m coming with you.” She bustled to catch up to him and fell in step beside him in the outer hall.

Will’s temper was slow to rile, but Barb had been getting on his nerves for quite a while. He held back a sharp remark with an effort.

Sheriff Herbert Nunce was gray-haired, gray-eyed, tanned and weathered like old leather. He was slim and straight and distracted. He’d gotten the job by being the last man standing: his predecessors had all been promoted or left the sheriff’s office. He’d been sheriff for seven years and he’d gradually spent more and more time on the creeks and rivers that ran through the Coast Range, chasing steelhead and salmon and anything with fins. His interest in law enforcement—never strong, Will guessed—had been displaced so thoroughly that it was hard to get him juiced about any investigation, be it robbery/homicide, or narcotics, or anything in between. Will had written a report on Letton’s hit-and-run but he would bet Nunce hadn’t read it yet. This appeared to be borne out when Nunce greeted him with, “Smithson still sitting outside that hospital room?”

Will nodded. He could’ve reminded the sheriff that Letton’s life could still be in danger, but it wasn’t like the sheriff didn’t know. Nunce just reached for the one part of the investigation he was familiar with.

Burl had been nowhere in sight when Will and Barb entered the room, but now he snaked in around the doorway, an eavesdropper hoping not to be noticed. Will turned to gaze at him dead on, which caused Jernstadt to fidget.

“Burl, we’re having a talk here,” Nunce said, almost kindly. Nunce had wanted Burl out as much as the next man, but like everyone else, still tiptoed around the man’s feelings. The humorous part was that Nunce didn’t want the uninvited talk with Will and Barb much, either, and would probably have come up with an excuse to put it off except it was preferable to interacting with Burl.

“About that pedophile hit-and-run. I know. Did she tell you that I know that family? The LaPortes?” Burl jerked his head toward Barb but his gaze was on Will. “A bunch of loonies. The old man was a pussy. Let his wife run roughshod over him, and she was in a wrangle with the Dunleavys something fierce. I’m from Woodbine, right next to Quarry.” He hooked a thumb at his own chest. “I know Kevin Dunleavy. A straight shooter, if I ever saw one. There’s a longstanding fight over property rights between the families. The quarry’s right between their properties and that crazy psycho Jean was always screaming at Kevin and his brother Rome and the rest of the family. But Jean’s a piece of fuckin’ work, pardon my French, and she made some threat that Kevin should keep his family close if he wants ’em to survive, y’know what I mean? Thinks she’s a psychic, or something, and just goes around predicting shit and acts like it’s not her making it up. Like it’s real or something.”

“Jean LaPorte is deceased,” Will broke in when Burl took a breath. “You’re saying she was a psychic.”

“Pretend psychic.
Pretend.
She didn’t know her ass from a fuckin’ hole in the ground, pardon my French again, but that didn’t stop her. And now her daughter’s a killer. Doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

“We don’t know anything yet,” Will cut in.

“You’re making a ton of assumptions,” Barb said at the same time.

Nunce waved them all off. “Burl, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“I’m giving you background.” Burl glared at Will as if it were all his fault. “Haven’t you talked to her?”

“It’s a police investigation.”
And none of your business.

Burl stared at Will as if he were speaking in tongues. “Sounds like she didn’t tell you nothing. That why you let her go home?”

Barb said in a long-suffering tone, “Burl, you know we can’t discuss the case with you. If we had enough to arrest anyone for the hit-and-run, we would have done it.”

“I could get her to talk,” Burl said to Will. “I know the Dunleavys.”

“The Dunleavys aren’t part of this particular crime.” Will felt his jaw tighten despite his efforts to not let Jernstadt get to him. He turned to Nunce. “I’ve got interviews on tap.”

“With who?” Burl demanded.

Will brushed past him, Barb at his heels, and Nunce said to Burl, “Why don’t you give me the names of all the Dunleavys.”

Torn, Burl hesitated, really wanting to follow Will and Barb. But Nunce looked expectant.

“There aren’t that many of ’em.”

“Write their names here.” Nunce pushed a piece of paper in Burl’s direction, distracting him, and Will and Barb completed their escape.

“Jesus,” Barb breathed.

“Think Nunce’ll ever tell him to get the hell out?” Will passed by his office, glancing back as Barb slowed by the door, looking longingly his way. He didn’t invite her along and there was no need for her to join him.

“He’d have to grow bigger balls,” she said.

He’d have to grow any balls, Will decided but, as ever, kept his thoughts to himself. Nunce might sometimes be ineffectual, but he was a decent enough human being. Not something that could be said about Burlington Jernstadt. If Will really wanted to get rid of the prick he could go over Nunce’s head, but that came with its own can of worms.

He walked past Dot in reception and stepped out into weak sunshine. Looked like Jimbo was right. The rain was ending.

The white Chevrolet pickup was a couple of decades old and rattled like it was filled with ball bearings. Gemma had to manhandle it into gear, but the yank and pull was both familiar and comforting. The truck had been her father’s, and it had been sitting outside the large garage with the corrugated metal roof behind the house, as ugly a building as the house was architecturally beautiful. Gemma had found its keys hanging on a hook by the back door—along with keys for the filing cabinet and several locks that she still hadn’t identified. Not exactly the tightest security around the old homestead.