4

This is what I found in his pockets:

His car keys, three dollars—most of it in change—a piece of lined paper, folded into a neat square, and a bookmark from a place called Ghost Mountain New and Used Books. I unfolded the paper and laid it out in the grass under the glare of the penlight.

It was a letter, written in a tight cursive script.

Dear Joe,

I have continued to try to reach out to you. Your situation is very much like my own, except you seek rebellion instead of understanding. Rebellion only works when it is righteous. Please reconsider this course of action. As you can see, going to the authorities isn’t going to work. The authorities believe in the same tenets we do, tenets as old as time and as unshakable. If you insist on pursuing this present course, I do not know how it will end. Well, that’s not completely true. I have an idea how it will probably end. These are powerful forces and not to be trifled with. Though they may, at present, seem evil to you, I assure you that they are on the side of good.

I hope you will come talk to me. We can work this out. God never creates a situation we can’t handle. Call me—706-308-9495

Dr. Blevins

I put the paper down on the ground. What was I supposed to make of that? Dr. Blevins? What the hell? And what was the talk of rebellion and going to the authorities? I read the letter again, this time more slowly, letting the words take hold in my mind. There was a lot that wasn’t being said here. In fact, I felt pretty confident after the second read that the entire letter was a veiled threat. So, was coming to see me the “course of action” he’d been asked to reconsider? The letter claimed he’d already tried the authorities and hadn’t received any help. The authorities believe in the same tenets we do. Two things struck me about that line: one, using the word we. It meant that this Dr. Blevins was only a spokesperson for a bigger group. The second thing that stood out to me was that word tenets. He seemed to suggest a set of rigid religious beliefs.

I didn’t think it was a stretch to assume he’d been coming to me for help and someone had stopped him because they believed I might actually be able to help him.

I looked at the bookmark again. I’d actually heard of the bookstore. My friend Susan had recommended I swing by and meet the manager, as she was supposed to be somewhat of an authority on the Fingers area and apparently eager to help me solve cases. The Fingers were the five mountains that surrounded the little town of Riley, and they had their own legends, lore, and history. I knew a lot of it from growing up here, but being away for thirty years had created some gaps in my knowledge.

As a general rule, I tended to stay away from people who wanted to help me solve my cases. Too many folks considered themselves armchair detectives these days, and it was far too easy to imagine some old lady who had read a lot of cozy mysteries and thought she was the next Miss Marple. But now it looked as if I’d be introducing myself to her after all.

I put the bookmark and the letter into my back pocket and grabbed the man’s keys. Maybe I’d find a phone in his car. Hell, maybe even some identification beyond his first name.

The doors were unlocked. I dipped my head into the vehicle on the driver’s side and saw no wallet or phone. Just a McDonald’s cup in the center cup holder. I lifted the cup, shaking it lightly. There was still ice in it, which meant he must have been by the McDonald’s in Riley before coming up the mountain. I wondered if that was before or after his stop at Ghost Mountain Books. I opened the center console, continuing to search for a wallet or phone, but found nothing but some change and fast-food receipts.

That was all. No phone, no wallet. I opened the dashboard and found only the car manual. I was stumped. Who drove without their wallet or phone?

Nobody, that was who. The answer, I realized, had to be that whoever had shot the man in the throat had also taken his wallet and phone.

I was about to get out when I heard something buzzing in the driver’s seat. A cell phone. He was getting a call. But where was the phone? I looked everywhere—the floorboard, the back seat, the dash—but couldn’t find anything. The buzzing stopped.

I got out of the car, slid the driver’s seat all the way back, and spotted a slim iPhone. Somehow it had fallen down under the seat. If it hadn’t buzzed, I doubt I would have found it. I picked it up and pressed the home button. The lock screen came up, revealing the number of the last call. I pressed the button again, and it asked me for a six-digit code.

Damn.

I let the screen go dark again, and this time when I touched the home screen and the phone number came up, I recognized it as the same number on the letter. So Dr. Blevins was still calling him, right up until the end.

I noticed the phone was about to die. I didn’t have an iPhone, so I looked around the car for a charger I could use to keep it going and found nothing. I slipped Joe’s phone in my pocket and opened the letter again. I dialed the number on my own phone, making sure to enter *67 before the rest of the number to keep my number anonymous.

It rang four times before a man answered. His voice was cold and suspicious. “Hello.”

“Dr. Blevins?” I asked.

“Who’s this?”

“Someone who wants to know what happened to Joe.”

“I don’t know any Joe.”

“You called him. And wrote him a—”

The line went dead. No surprise. Him talking to me had been a long shot at best. What now?

I looked at the body again and realized with a sharp chill that what I did in the next few minutes, the decisions I made, might be the difference between spending the rest of my life behind bars and remaining free. If Argent caught even a whiff of this situation, he’d be on the phone to Jeb Walsh in a heartbeat and be here to arrest me just as fast. The thorn in their side would be gone.

The worst part was that there was nobody I could call for help. Not Rufus, Mary, or Ronnie. Certainly not the police.

I was going to have to do it alone.