EIGHTY-ONE

“You mean you’re actually putting stock in what that fortune-teller says?” Chief Walters asked Patrick Castile in disbelief, as they stood in the middle of Hickory Dell. The road had been blocked off to public access by police. As the sun rose above the trees, casting an eerie pink glow over everything, a combined force of Sayer’s Brook cops and FBI agents were combing the woods for evidence in the murder of Bryan Pierce. There were swarms of men wearing rubber gloves and a dozen barking dogs. Bryan’s stinking, waterlogged corpse had already been removed late last night and sent to forensics.

Castile looked over at the chief with impenetrable eyes. “I think it’s very possible that Emil Deetz is behind all these killings,” he replied emotionlessly.

Walters laughed. “But Paulette didn’t say it was Emil Deetz who killed Pierce. She said it was the ghost of Emil Deetz. She said she’d sensed something supernatural out there in the woods. She said she’d somehow tuned in to it.” The chief rolled her eyes, humming a few bars from the theme music of the old Twilight Zone TV series.

The neighborhood was buzzing with people. Gert Gorin, of course, was trying to get past the orange police tape that cordoned off the search area, and had to be constantly told to step back. Mr. Thayer walked up to the scene with Todd Bennett, asked a few questions, then stepped back, shaking his head in dismay. So far no one had emerged from Jessie Clarkson’s house, but word had spread through town, and a couple dozen people from nearby streets had begun congregating at the end of Hickory Dell, shouting questions to police, asking if they had any idea where the serial killer might strike next.

Walters had, of course, attempted to contact Heather Pierce. But Heather wasn’t home; her car was gone, and no one answered the door when they knocked. They’d tried late last night when Bryan’s body had been found, and again this morning. Apparently Heather had taken the kids and gone out of town. At the moment, officers were attempting to track down the Pierces’ housekeeper to find out where the family might have gone.

“Look,” said Chief Walters, trying to get through to the stubborn FBI agent, “the only evidence, if you can call it that, of Emil Deetz still being alive comes from a very unreliable witness. Your own files indicate that Deetz was killed in a shoot-out in Mexico.”

Castile leveled her with another blank look. “There were parts of that report that were classified. If you had been allowed to see the whole report, you’d know that our agents had their doubts about Deetz being killed, as they were never allowed to inspect all the bodies. In the shoot-out, the building caught fire and most of the dead were burned beyond recognition.”

“So you’re telling me . . . the FBI was never certain of Deetz’s death?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“But something very different was told to us at the time.”

“We didn’t want panic. We believed we had the situation under control.”

Walters felt her anger rising. “My department is pledged to protect this community. We shouldn’t have been told that a man who’d killed one of our citizens was dead when he might not have been. And certainly you should have told Jessie Clarkson that Deetz might still be a danger to her.”

“I wasn’t with the agency then, so I can’t say how they might have proceeded differently, but it’s possible mistakes were made,” Castile said. “But I can tell you that we have been monitoring the situation consistently, and have felt we had it under control. If Deetz had escaped death, we were confident he was not in the United States. A man in Mexico who we believed might have been Deetz was under constant observation.”

Walters narrowed her eyes as she studied the implacable face of Castile. “And is that man still under surveillance?”

“He has apparently left Mexico,” the FBI agent told her.

“So that’s why you think these killings might be the work of Emil Deetz.”

“Indeed.” Castile looked off toward the woods. “I informed Ms. Clarkson of that fact this morning.”

“Well, this changes things,” Walters said. “But I’m still not convinced that John Manning isn’t somehow involved. I’ve always suspected he’s in league in Deetz.”

“Leave Manning to us,” Castile said, before moving off to confer with one of his agents.

Walters fumed. The arrogance of the young man infuriated her. How dare he withhold information from local police? Something was very, very wrong here, and Walters knew it. For one thing, her men had searched those woods, every inch of them, after Heather had reported her husband missing. How could they have missed Bryan’s body? Unless someone had only recently put the body there . . . someone who had reason to prevent its discovery for as long as possible, so that any physical evidence might decay in the meantime. Someone who’d had a fight with Bryan right before he died, perhaps, and whose DNA might still cling to the corpse?

Emil Deetz might or might not be involved in these murders, but Walters wasn’t ready to concede that John Manning was squeaky clean in the matter.

She marched over to his house and up to his gate. She rang the buzzer.

“Yes?” came a voice through the intercom. The chief recognized it as Manning’s assistant, Caleb.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Manning,” she said. “It’s Belinda Walters.”

“Just a moment.”

Walters waited. For several minutes there wasn’t a response, and she was about to buzz again. But then the gate opened, and John Manning stood there. He was wearing a black satin smoking jacket and sandals.

“Chief Walters,” he said.

“Just a couple questions, Mr. Manning.”

“Haven’t you already asked me everything?”

“You’re aware that Bryan Pierce’s body was found in the woods last night with his throat cut?”

Manning closed his eyes, then opened them. “Yes. I spoke with Jessie on the phone this morning.”

“Well, it’s about Jessie that I want to ask you, Mr. Manning. Why did you buy the property next to hers?”

“I think I answered that before. I liked the area.”

“Why are you pursuing a friendship with her?”

Manning looked peeved. “I’m not answering that question. In fact, I’m done answering questions for you. I suggest if you have any further things you’d like to know, you take it up with the FBI.”

He closed the door on her face.

Walters steamed. Take it up with the FBI. . . .

“Leave Manning to us,” Castile had said.

What the hell was going on here?