27

On her lunch break, Alison decided to confront Jasper in his own lair. She’d seen him disappear several times into the labyrinth that used to be the orchard and head toward the woods where a cabin/toolshed still existed.

As she crossed through the dense undergrowth, the gardener in her was distressed to see gaps in the tree line where stumps rotted. She was glad she’d worn her brown flats, as it was relatively easy to trip over the exposed roots and craters in the earth. Yet again, she reviewed the circumstances surrounding Frank’s final hours.

There’d been no evidence at the murder scene of another vehicle. Possibly the murderer had picked his or her way to and from murdering Frank using this exact route. In the dusk of that autumn evening, the killer was either familiar with the terrain or careful not to turn an ankle.

Reaching the edge of the woods, she spotted the roughhewn, windowless shack. Cautious, she crept forward, tiptoeing in case Jasper was holed up inside. A hush descended as the trees closed around her. Glancing over her shoulder, from here she could no longer view the large comfortable refuge of the main house.

Not even a bird’s call broke the overpowering silence, the absence of sound deafening. With no traffic noises from nearby Glenwood Avenue, it was easy to believe she’d stepped into Weathersby’s antebellum past. She rattled her twenty-first-century keys in her skirt pocket for reassurance.

Beginning to regret the impulse that brought her here in the first place, she shivered. Her nerves unsettled, she might have retreated at that moment, except she caught sight of the door swinging open on its hinges in the springtime breeze. Pulled along by curiosity, she stepped across the threshold.

If the vast canopy of trees outside had dimmed the light, the inside of the cabin was even gloomier, but empty. Rotting leaves littered the wooden floor.

She wrinkled her nose at a musty smell, reminiscent of mildew, hanging in the air. A stronger more pungent scent mixed and mingled with the earthy aromas. “Pot,” she whispered as the odor triggered images of college dorms.

Certain smells never left you. Her thoughts drifted to Erica. Erica and Jasper?

There was no accounting for taste.

As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she surveyed lopsided rakes, hoes, and a chain saw hanging upon pegs protruding from the wall. Cobwebs festooned the tools, and the one-room shack exuded an air of neglect. She’d never ventured this far off the beaten path at Weathersby. She preferred the open nature of sunlight in the gardens.

Something skittered in the corner, and she recoiled.

Alison crinkled her nose. Of course, there’d be mice. Maybe even rats. She gave the workbench in the center of the room a wide berth.

There was no other furniture. No other drawers or shelves to inspect. Yet there were signs of habitation. Under the bench nestled a grungy, stained sleeping bag and haversack.

Was this Jasper’s permanent address? Did the board or Ivy know about this?

She reached for the bag and hesitated. Should she stick her hand in there? Something might bite.

Dragging the bag by its long strap from under the table, she flipped it open and upended the contents, jumping back in case something did decide to bite. Or explode. Then, she felt silly.

Nothing. A comb, toothbrush. Toothpaste. A pile of papers, drawings.

Squatting with her back to the door, she smoothed out the first one, crudely drawn with a combination of colored pencils and crayons, like something a child would do.

But unlike the innocent kindergarten drawings her children once proudly displayed upon her fridge, it was the image of a woman bound in a chair, a noose draped around her neck, and blood dripping from various bodily injuries. Her open, drawn mouth reflected a scream, silent in two-dimension.

Alison rocked onto her heels, repulsed.

Fascinated and horrified at the same time, she unfolded the second, which was more of the same, except thematically sicker. Small tool-like objects surrounded the woman in the chair.

A sinking feeling in her gut, Alison noticed the workbench sported identical sets of pliers, screwdrivers, and bolts.

Was this the work of sinister fantasy or a historic rendering of an actual event?

Either way it didn’t matter. This had been a bad idea.

Rattled, she stuffed the horrific depictions into the haversack. Jumping to her feet, she nudged the bag underneath the workbench with her shoe. A trickle of warm, moist air tickled the top of her foot. Her gaze locked onto a small gap between two of the floorboards.

A shadow fell across the threshold.

“Were you looking for something, Mrs. Monaghan?”

Alison spun around, digging into her pocket for her keys as if for a weapon.

Standing with a maniacal leer on his face, Jasper blocked her only way of escape.