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Authors: Patricia Wallace
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come. Very strange that she couldn’t see anyone’s campsite. There were lots of people in the park; someone must have a light on.
She was beginning to get scared. It was pitch black, even the moon obscured by the trees. She thought of crying out for help but decided against it. If something was out there she did not want to call attention to herself. The white nightgown and perfume were bad enough.
She came upon a turn in the road and the dirt was just enough lighter than the surrounding ground so she could see that the road split in three directions. She had taken the wrong fork.
Now she knew this one was the wrong one, but which of the others was the right one? She stood in the center of the road and peered down the others. Nothing struck her as familiar.
She found a large rock and placed it in the middle of the wrong path. Process of elimination, she thought, and took the right fork.
If she hadn’t been so upset with David, she might have paid more attention to where she’d walked. Again nothing looked right.
She was about to turn back when she heard a sound behind her, like twigs snapping, and felt eyes upon her. Her legs carried her forward.
What was it?
She moved faster, the negligee threatening to tangle around her legs, and she lifted it, gathering the material in her free hand, the slippers clutched in the other.
She could sense it behind her, moving stealthily, gaining ground.
She broke into a run, the gown up to her thighs, now, breathing hard through her mouth. A stitch in her side but she ignored it.
In front of her, a light. The guidepost, her guidepost, and beyond, perhaps four hundred yards, was the tent and the car. A trailer was across and two spaces down.
She ducked through the opening into the tent and fell to her knees gasping. She could not bear to look out and see what it was. She pulled the nightgown off; it was damp with sweat.
David lay on his back on the air mattress. He was dressed only in cutoffs, and the covers were twisted at the foot of the bed.
She crawled into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up around them and ran her hand across his chest and stomach before doing what mother never told her.
NINETEEN
Jon parked the Bronco in front of the town hall and entered the building through the side door, deliberately making enough noise with his keys so the night dispatch clerk could hear him.
“That you, Sheriff?” Sally Rose was a big woman, well over two hundred pounds, and she’d been dispatching long before he’d ever shown up in town. Rumor was that one night one of the deputies had shown up unannounced and she’d knocked him cold in anticipated defense of her virtue.
“It is, and how are you?”
“Can’t complain.” A pause. “Well, I could, but what good would it do me?” She laughed and winked at him. “It’s been real quiet tonight, Sheriff, not even complaints about barking dogs.”
“Good.” He unlocked the door to his office.
“Oh, wait. Here’s a report from Dr. Adams.” She held out a manila envelope. “Reverend Frey brought it by . . . he’s a good man.”
“Dr. Adams?” He opened the envelope and scanned the report.
“Reverend Frey. Always thinking of others.” She went back into the communications room, shaking her head in wonder.
“That’s his job,” Jon said under his breath and went into his office.
The report said essentially what Nathan had told him, if in more technical terms. Death caused by a broken neck. Shortly before the accident, as determined by the absence of post-mortem lividity—the gravitational pooling of blood in the body.
He tossed it on the desk and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the desk.
It had been a long time since he’d had anything to do with a murder case. As a patrol cop he was often first on the scene, responsible for preserving the integrity of the evidence, but homicide took over from there. This one promised to be a lulu.
Wendall Tyler was in no
She was beginning to get scared. It was pitch black, even the moon obscured by the trees. She thought of crying out for help but decided against it. If something was out there she did not want to call attention to herself. The white nightgown and perfume were bad enough.
She came upon a turn in the road and the dirt was just enough lighter than the surrounding ground so she could see that the road split in three directions. She had taken the wrong fork.
Now she knew this one was the wrong one, but which of the others was the right one? She stood in the center of the road and peered down the others. Nothing struck her as familiar.
She found a large rock and placed it in the middle of the wrong path. Process of elimination, she thought, and took the right fork.
If she hadn’t been so upset with David, she might have paid more attention to where she’d walked. Again nothing looked right.
She was about to turn back when she heard a sound behind her, like twigs snapping, and felt eyes upon her. Her legs carried her forward.
What was it?
She moved faster, the negligee threatening to tangle around her legs, and she lifted it, gathering the material in her free hand, the slippers clutched in the other.
She could sense it behind her, moving stealthily, gaining ground.
She broke into a run, the gown up to her thighs, now, breathing hard through her mouth. A stitch in her side but she ignored it.
In front of her, a light. The guidepost, her guidepost, and beyond, perhaps four hundred yards, was the tent and the car. A trailer was across and two spaces down.
She ducked through the opening into the tent and fell to her knees gasping. She could not bear to look out and see what it was. She pulled the nightgown off; it was damp with sweat.
David lay on his back on the air mattress. He was dressed only in cutoffs, and the covers were twisted at the foot of the bed.
She crawled into bed beside him, pulling the blankets up around them and ran her hand across his chest and stomach before doing what mother never told her.
NINETEEN
Jon parked the Bronco in front of the town hall and entered the building through the side door, deliberately making enough noise with his keys so the night dispatch clerk could hear him.
“That you, Sheriff?” Sally Rose was a big woman, well over two hundred pounds, and she’d been dispatching long before he’d ever shown up in town. Rumor was that one night one of the deputies had shown up unannounced and she’d knocked him cold in anticipated defense of her virtue.
“It is, and how are you?”
“Can’t complain.” A pause. “Well, I could, but what good would it do me?” She laughed and winked at him. “It’s been real quiet tonight, Sheriff, not even complaints about barking dogs.”
“Good.” He unlocked the door to his office.
“Oh, wait. Here’s a report from Dr. Adams.” She held out a manila envelope. “Reverend Frey brought it by . . . he’s a good man.”
“Dr. Adams?” He opened the envelope and scanned the report.
“Reverend Frey. Always thinking of others.” She went back into the communications room, shaking her head in wonder.
“That’s his job,” Jon said under his breath and went into his office.
The report said essentially what Nathan had told him, if in more technical terms. Death caused by a broken neck. Shortly before the accident, as determined by the absence of post-mortem lividity—the gravitational pooling of blood in the body.
He tossed it on the desk and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet on the desk.
It had been a long time since he’d had anything to do with a murder case. As a patrol cop he was often first on the scene, responsible for preserving the integrity of the evidence, but homicide took over from there. This one promised to be a lulu.
Wendall Tyler was in no
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