Silent Killer

Chapter Three

Meaningful conversation at the dinner table had been nonexistent. Idle chitchat was minimal, even though Mona had done her best to keep the mood light and cheerful. Despite her best efforts to defuse the tension in the room, Mona had received little cooperation from J.B. and Elaine. Seth had commented a couple of times in response to questions Cathy had asked him, but he was a bright boy and quickly realized the less said the better. In this household, everyone had learned to take their cues from J.B. And Cathy’s father-in-law was not in a talkative mood this Sunday.

When Cathy offered to help clear away the table and clean up in the kitchen, Mona smiled and said, “Don’t bother, dear. Elaine will help me. I know you want to spend some time with Seth.” Mona glanced at J.B., silently pleading with him.

A tiny frisson of foreboding jangled along Cathy’s nerve endings. Reading between the lines of her mother-in-law’s statement, she wondered if this had been Mona’s subtle way of saying You can visit him here, but J.B. will not allow you to take him away from us.

“Thank you,” Cathy replied, her voice strong and even, not indicating the unease she felt. “Seth, why don’t you and I take a walk? It’s a lovely afternoon.”

Seth stopped midstride on his way out of the dining room and glanced back at his grandfather, obviously seeking permission. Damn it, I’m your mother, she wanted to scream. You don’t have to ask him if you can take a walk with me.

J.B. nodded. “Don’t be long. Remember you need to go over your song a few times before tonight’s services.”

“I remember, Granddad,” Seth said. “We’ll just walk a few blocks.”

Cathy felt the immediate release of tension that permeated the room, as if everyone had been holding their breaths, waiting for J.B.’s decision. Her father-in-law was not a bad man, not evil or cruel, but he adhered to the old biblical teachings that a man ruled his household, his wife and his children. His word was law.

Mark had been reared in a home where his mother had been subservient to his father, and although he had tended to be more modern in his thinking, on occasion Cathy had seen glimpses of J.B. in Mark. For the most part, he had inherited his mother’s gentle, sweet nature, but Cathy had learned early on in their marriage that when they did things Mark’s way, it made life easier for all of them.

As soon as Cathy and Seth left the house, she asked, “What was that about your going over a song for tonight’s services?”

“Don’t you remember, Mom? Once a month, on Sunday night, the teenage guys take turns acting as the song leader.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. If I’d known you were going to be doing that this evening, I’d have made plans to be there.”

He shrugged as they left the porch. “It’s no big deal. Besides, we’ll do it again next month.”

“I’ll be there then.”

“Yeah, sure.”

They walked side by side, heading west toward the center of town, which was only four blocks away. A couple of times, neighbors sitting on their front porches or out in their front yards gawked as they passed, as if they were shocked to see the crazy widow walking the streets with her son. A couple of neighbors threw up a hand, waved and spoke. Seth returned their greetings.

One block passed and then another, neither she nor her son speaking to each other again. Cathy hated the awkward silence. It was as if she and her own child were strangers. Just make conversation, she told herself. Nothing heavy.

“School’s out in a couple of weeks, huh?”

“Ten days,” he said. “Exams are next Thursday and Friday.”

“I can hardly believe that my baby boy will be a junior in high school this fall. It seems like only a few years ago that you were in kindergarten.”

“Yeah, that’s what Nana says all the time.”

“Your nana is a wonderful lady,” Cathy told him, completely sincere. She loved Mona, who had in many ways been more of a mother to her in the past sixteen years than her own mother had ever been. “I’m grateful that she’s been here for you while I’ve been gone.”

Seth didn’t respond. He just kept walking at a slow, steady pace, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead.

They crossed the intersection at Mulberry and Fifth without encountering even one vehicle. Dunmore was quiet and peaceful on Sunday midafternoons. After church, people either went home or out to eat. By now everyone had reached their destination.

“What are your plans for the summer?” she asked. “Are you doing anything special? Playing ball or-”

Seth stopped abruptly. “Mom, I play baseball and football. Have you forgotten that, too?” He stared at her, studying her with his intense, narrowed gaze.

“No, of course I didn’t forget. I just…The question came out before I thought. I’ve been trying so hard to think of something to say, to come up with casual conversation.” She looked him square in the eye. “I’m fine, honey. Don’t worry. I’m not sick anymore. I’m completely well.”

His gaze hardened. His brow wrinkled.

She could tell that he desperately wanted to believe her. But Seth had been there that day, when she had run down the hall, alternately laughing and crying hysterically before locking herself in her bedroom and refusing to come out. He had stood outside the door, beating on it, begging her to open up and let him come in. He had listened to the sounds of her emotional meltdown, the laughing and crying that she could not control. She had known she was losing it, but she had been unable to stop.

She vaguely remembered that sometime later, her mother had knocked on the door, called her name and demanded she stop all the nonsense and come out immediately.

“Catherine, you’re frightening your son.” When she hadn’t responded, her mother had continued calling her name over and over. “Cathy? Cathy, can you hear me? Cathy!”

They would never forget what she had said to her mother that day before she fell across the bed in a fit of uncontrollable, manic laughter.

“Cathy’s not here. Cathy’s dead.”

That had been a year ago. A year of therapy. A year of healing. A year of learning to accept herself as she was, to acknowledge her true feelings and to come into her own as a grown woman. And most importantly, to forgive herself for not being perfect. Her words that day had been prophetic. The old Cathy was dead.

She reached out and grasped Seth’s arm. “I’ll be there for every game from now on. I promise.”

“Okay. Sure.”

She saw a glimmer of hope in his beautiful blue eyes.

She had disappointed him, had let him down. She would never allow that to happen again. But he didn’t know that. It was up to her to prove to him that she was completely well, that she was whole and that for the rest of his life he could count on her.

She released her tight grip on his arm. “You know I’m staying with Lorie, but just for a little while. I plan to find a house for us soon. I’m going to start looking next week.”

“Mom, I…I can’t come and live with you.” He stared down at the sidewalk, avoiding direct eye contact.

“Of course you can, and you will. I’m your mother. You belong with me.”

Don’t push so hard. Don’t demand. Ask. “I want you to live with me. Don’t you want that, too?”

“Granddad says you’re not ready for the responsibility, that you might not ever be. He thinks I should stay with him and Nana until I leave for college in a few years.” With his head still bowed, he lifted his gaze just enough to glance at her quickly. “You can visit me anytime you want, and…and once you’re settled in and all, I could come visit you.”

I don’t want you to visit me. I want you to live with me. “That’s what J.B. wants. What do you want, Seth?”

That’s it, Cathy. Put your son on the spot. Make him choose between you and his grandfather.

“Mom, I don’t want to hurt your feelings…”

“If you want to stay with J.B. and Mona for a little while longer, then that’s what you’ll do.” Agreeing to give up her son even for a few more weeks was one of the most difficult things she’d ever done. “I’ll find a house for us…for me. And I’ll go back to work at the antique shop with Lorie. I’ll visit you, and you’ll visit me. We’ll take this one day at a time. Does that work for you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His lips curved into a hesitant smile. “Thanks, Mom, for…Well, for…”

“It’s only another block into town,” she said. “Want to stop at the Ice Palace and get Cherry Cokes?”

“Yeah, that sounds great.”

Baby steps. One day at a time. That was how she had recovered. And it was the way she would regain her son’s trust.

On her drive home from the interfaith Sunday afternoon social she had attended at St. Mary’s in Huntsville this afternoon, Lorie questioned her motives for taking part in any event even vaguely associated with religion. Her strict Baptist upbringing, her parents both fanatics of the first order, had turned her against religion as a teenager. It had seemed to her that everything that was fun was also a sin. And if there was one thing Lorie had learned about the hard way, it was sin. She had paid a heavy price for her teenage rebellion. She had lost her parents. They had never been able to forgive her for what her father had called her unforgivable sins. She had lost her innocence, her self-respect and almost her life. And she had lost the only man she had ever truly loved.

Religion was just a word to her, and up until the past few years, it had been an ugly word. She had blamed her youthful rebellion and her gradual descent into degradation and shame on religion. But her friendship with Reverend Patsy Floyd had shown her that it was not religion but religious fanaticism that should be feared and avoided at all costs. Patsy was one of a handful of female Methodist ministers in Alabama. She taught love, understanding and forgiveness. The interfaith socials that brought young people of different religions together so that they could better understand one another had been Patsy’s brainchild. And although Lorie was still unable to bring herself to attend church services, she had agreed to help Patsy with the monthly socials held at various churches in North Alabama every month.

If she could help just one kid not to make the kind of mistakes she had made…

Originally, her motives for taking part in these socials had been completely selfless, but she had to admit that for the past six months she’d had a selfish motive. It gave her a chance to get to know Mike Birkett’s two kids, his eight-year-old daughter, Hannah, and his ten-year-old son, M.J. Being with Mike’s children was always a bittersweet experience. She knew that if she had never left Dunmore for the bright lights of Hollywood, California, seventeen years ago, Hannah and M.J. would probably be her children, hers and Mike’s.

Of all her many mistakes, leaving Mike was her biggest regret.

Jack tossed the last toolbox on the stack of garbage that he had thrown into a heap in the alley and then returned to the carriage house, which he had stripped to the bare walls. After removing a switchblade from his pants pocket, he cut down the corded leather straps from the ceiling. The whips were the last items to go. Clutching the straps in his hands as he fought the bad memories, Jack made his way across the backyard and flung them into the fire. They needed to be destroyed so that no one could ever use them again. Every damn thing that had belonged to Nolan Reaves was now either awaiting the garbage truck or smoldering in the large metal barrel that his stepfather had used to burn leaves and trash. He had thought about tearing the carriage house down to the ground, but if he did that he would erase the good memories along with the bad. Next week he’d get a carpenter in here to give him an estimate on what it would cost to restore the building.

It would take time and money to bring the old painted lady, the carriage house and the grounds back to the way they’d once been, but Jack had plenty of time and enough money so that he wouldn’t have to cut corners on the restoration. Odd how one night in the old homestead had convinced him to stay here in Dunmore, in his ancestral home, and somehow, someway, build a new life for himself.

He’d been so immersed in his thoughts that although he’d heard the car, he hadn’t noticed that it had stopped in his driveway. But he heard the crunch of gravel beneath the man’s feet as he approached. Just as Jack turned to face the intruder, the man spoke.

“Have you got a burn permit for that?” Mike Birkett asked, a wide grin on his deeply tanned face.

“Nope. Do I need one?” Jack swiped his palms down the front of his dirty jeans.

“I’ll let it pass this time,” Mike said. “But next time, get one. It won’t look right if my new deputy keeps breaking the law.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He ran his gaze over his old friend, who wore gray dress slacks and a white dress shirt with a charcoal gray collar. “Been to church?”

“Yeah, earlier today. Then the kids and I had lunch over at City Restaurant before I saw them off with Reverend Floyd for their monthly interfaith social.”

Jack chuckled. “You’ve done all right for yourself, haven’t you? A solid citizen. A real family man. The sheriff of the county, church every Sunday, a couple of kids.”

“I can’t complain. I’ve been damn lucky, and I know it, except…” Mike’s voice trailed off into thoughtful silence as he stared into the flames inside the barrel. Mike was one of the few people on earth who knew about the times when Nolan had beaten Jack with those leather straps. “I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down.” He glanced at the carriage house.

“I thought about it.” Jack reached over and placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your wife. I should have come back for her funeral.”

Mike shrugged. “You called.”

“Yeah, five months later.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I haven’t been much of a friend, have I?”

“Good enough.”

Jack took a deep breath. Mike cleared his throat.

“I thought I’d run an idea by you,” Mike said. “That’s the reason I came over uninvited.”

“You never need an invitation.”

“Don’t happen to have a couple of beers in the house, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Jack hitched his thumb toward the back porch. “Want to come inside, or would you rather sit out here?” He glanced at the rusty metal lawn chairs on the porch.

“Let’s sit out here and enjoy this weather while it lasts. You know what it’ll be like in another month. Hot as hell and humid as a steam bath.”

“Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack returned with the last two beers he had in the refrigerator. Note to self: buy more beer. He handed his old buddy one of the cans, then sat down beside him in the faded green metal chair and popped the tab on his can. They stayed there, sipping the cold brews as they stared out at the large backyard, the pile of junk awaiting the garbage truck and the smoke spiraling up and away from the old trash barrel.

“So what’s this idea you want to run by me?”

Mike took another swig from his beer, then held the can between his spread knees. “I sheriff a small, mostly rural county, and our funds are limited.”

“Is this where you tell me you’ve realized you can’t afford another deputy?”

“I can afford you, but just barely,” Mike admitted. “I’m aware of the fact that you have some physical limitations, but I can’t see where that would keep you from becoming a good deputy.” Mike paused, obviously weighing his next words carefully. “I thought it might be best if we broke you into the job gradually.”

“Meaning?” Jack wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this.

“The sheriff’s department doesn’t actually have anyone working our cold cases, but we’ve got several unsolved murders that family members have asked us to look into again. I thought it could be a good place for you to start.”

“Working the county’s cold cases?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve created a job for me, one that sounds a lot like charity.”

Mike finished off his beer, then crushed the can between his huge hands. “Damn it, man, that’s exactly what I didn’t want you to think. And it isn’t true. I need another deputy. Ernie Poole is retiring in a few months, and I need a man to fill his shoes. In the meantime, I want you to work these unsolved murder cases and get the county commissioners and the good citizens off my back.”

Okay, there was enough truth to Mike’s words for Jack to accept that he hadn’t been hired as an act of charity by his old high school buddy.

“How many cold-case murders?” Jack asked.

“Several.”

“Several as in three, six, ten…”

“Two,” Mike said.

“Two?”

Mike nodded. “I’ll have the files on both murders on your desk first thing in the morning. Look them over, study them, dig around to see if you can come up with anything that will shed a new light on either of them.”

“How old are the cases?”

“One is five years old. George Clayton, an old geezer, nearly eighty. Somebody robbed him and beat him to death. There were several suspects, but no real proof. We figured his nephew did it, but the boy had an airtight alibi.”

“Does the nephew still live around here?”

“He’s still in Alabama,” Mike said. “He was convicted of assault and battery and is serving time. He’s in the Limestone Correctional Facility.”

“What about the other case?”

“That murder case is eighteen months cold. We investigated, but didn’t come up with even one suspect.” Mike said. “There was another, similar murder over in Athens a year ago. The police chief and I compared notes and agreed that it could have been the same killer, but neither of us had a legit suspect.”

“Want to give me some details or…”

“Both our victim and the Athens victim were ministers. Ours a Church of Christ preacher and theirs a Lutheran priest. Both men were doused with gasoline and set on fire.”

“Damn.” Jack’s breath hissed between his clenched teeth. “Just the two murders? Nothing since?”

“That’s right. Just the two.”

“Any connection between the two victims other than the fact they were both clergymen?”

“We couldn’t find a link of any kind. As far as we know, Father Randolph and Brother Cantrell didn’t know each other, had never met, had no friends or family in common.”

“Brother Cantrell? Mark Cantrell?”

“Yeah, Mark Cantrell.”

“The guy Cathy Nelson married?”

“One and the same.”

“Cathy’s a widow?”

“Yep.”

Jack looked directly at Mike. “Once we get all the new deputy hoopla over with in the morning, I’ll take a look at those files and figure out where to go from there.”

“If you’re thinking about contacting Cathy…”

“Is there any reason I should?”

“None that pertains to her husband’s case,” Mike said. “Her statement is on file. She was never a suspect. She heard the killer’s voice from a distance, but couldn’t tell if it was male or female. There’s no reason to bother her unless we wind up reopening the case.”

“Agreed.”

Mike studied Jack. “Mind if I give you some advice?”

“About Cathy?”

“Yeah.”

“Go ahead.”

“Stay away from her. If you’ve got an itch that needs scratching, find another woman.”

“Are you warning me to stay away from the widow because you’ve already staked your claim?” Jack asked.

“Nope. Cathy’s just a friend. Nothing more. Never has been, never will be. But she’s a good woman who’s been to hell and back. I don’t want to see her hurt any more than she’s already been hurt.”

“And naturally, a guy like me would hurt her.” Jack grunted. “Don’t worry. I’m not interested in a good woman. I prefer the other kind.”