Page 33 of Heartbreak Bay

And what if Sheryl’s really dead this time? Or a child murderer?

That’s what stops me. Until I know more, I can’t pull that string. I don’t know what it would unravel, and I don’t want to be responsible.

Prester would tell me that I’m being stupid, that maybe the reason her family stopped asking about Penny was that she got in touch. Maybe so. But I have other things to do before I have to take that road.

Gwen still hasn’t gotten anything in the way of video yet from the woman we talked to out in the sticks, and though I know it might not be smart, I’m too restless to stay still. I tell the sergeant where I’m going and head out.

It’s a long, cool drive out into the budding green hills, and I have to stop and check my directions twice along the way. It’s easy to get turned around out here. I don’t pass many cars on that tight little back road, just one rusted pickup that looks like it’s mostly held togetherwith Bondo, and a shiny SUV that makes me briefly curious before I recognize the tags. It takes up most of the road, and I have to drive right on the precarious edge to avoid getting my mirror taken off as it whizzes past.

The SUV belongs to the Belldenes, our local Dixie Mafia hill folk with a compound not too far from here ... and a pretty substantial drug business. We play tag with them pretty often, but I don’t bother to pull them over today. One thing about the Belldenes: they aren’t going anywhere. They succeeded in driving Gwen Proctor out of Stillhouse Lake through threats and leverage, and I’m not giving up that grudge anytime soon, but I got other fish on the line right now.

To the Belldenes, drugs are just business, and business is good. I can’t imagine them drowning two little girls in a car, no matter what other crimes they’d condone. Deep down, they’ve got some kind of morality, and this is so far over that line you can’t spot it from space.

Which, it occurs to me, is why it’s possible that theydidsee something; they’d be out all hours in rural areas. Maybetheymade that 911 call. But chasing down that lead will be dangerous, and I’ll need a hell of a lot more than just a hunch.

I pull into the driveway that Gwen and I visited. The McMansion looks quiet, no cars visible. I step out and walk up to the door, careful to stay in range of the cameras. I ring the bell and step way back, holding my badge.

Apart from the chirps and songs of birds in the trees, I don’t hear anything from inside the house. I wait for a solid two minutes, then step back up and knock. Forcefully. “Norton Police Department,” I say, and I know it carries. “Hello?”

Not a damn thing. I feel a cool breath move across my neck, and hair stiffens. I listen to my instincts and tuck my badge onto my belt, draw my sidearm, and try the front door. Locked, which I expected. I go to the big picture window in front, but the blinds are shut.

It’s a risk heading around the side, but I do it, driven by something I can’t really define. That’s where I see the curtain blowing in the breeze behind an open window. The mesh screen is five feet away, discarded on the grass.

Shit.

I don’t touch the window, just lean in to look. I don’t see anything in the room, which seems like a spare, crowded with boxes and filing cabinets. “Hello! Norton police, call out!”

Still nothing.

I debate going through the window—it’s plenty big enough—but I could destroy valuable evidence doing that, if there is something amiss inside this house. I pause and call the station, and tell Sergeant Porter that I may have a situation. He snaps from laconic to professional in an instant, and dispatches a patrol car toward me.

It’ll take a while, so I continue around the side and to the back of the property.

The blood shows up thick and dark red in the sunlight. It’s smeared over the grass of the backyard in a long streak. Been there long enough to turn dark and clotted, and the cloud of insects buzzing over it is delighted with the bounty. I hold my breath for a second, then deliberately let it out in a slow hiss.

There’s no body visible, but that’s clearly either a drag mark, or someone crawling. It heads into the trees. I follow it in parallel. It goes from a thick trail to a thin one, then to drops and smears here and there.

I see the soles of her feet first, shimmering in the gloom under the trees. Ghostly white, those bare feet. Her body’s an eerie, cold shade, and I know before I put my fingers to her pulse that she’s long bled dry. There are ants on her, and some trundling beetles. Flies swarming. I swallow hard and move back, careful of my steps, and call it in.

I don’t touch her again. And I don’t leave.

“I’m sorry,” I say. My voice sounds tight and resigned.

Because I think, deep down, that the visit Gwen and I paid got her killed. Whether it was done by the husband, or by someone else, I don’t know and can’t dare guess.

But she was alive, and now she’s lying here naked and dead, and I crouch down, breathing hard, and try not to feel the guilt that pounds at the door in my head.

It takes another ten minutes for the cruiser to arrive, sirens wailing. I walk back around to the front to meet them, and ask the two patrolmen to help me clear the house. The back door’s hanging open; stepping inside, the first thing we see is the kitchen.

It’s neat and organized ... and covered in blood. Blood splattered on the walls, streaked in frantic marks on the floor. Some on the ceiling. Directional spatter on the clean, white refrigerator and blue countertop and shelves. “Shit,” I whisper softly. “Heads on a swivel. Let’s clear this place, and watch your feet.” I have to say that; these local boys probably haven’t seen too many bloody crime scenes like this one. Can’t say I’ve seen allthatmany myself, and I take deep breaths to manage my racing heartbeat. Adrenaline is making me jumpy, and I have to consciously work against it. Last thing I want to do is shoot some innocent person hiding in a closet.

I wave the two men one way while I take the other. My way leads me down a dim, narrow hall lined with pictures. I don’t look at them. I can’t spare the attention. There are drag marks clearly visible on the carpet, with blood thickly beaded and dried crusty on top. I hug the wall until I get to the first doorway, take a quick second, and then ease in with my gun ready, finger close to but not on the trigger.

It’s a bedroom—probably, from the look of it, an extra one. It’s set up with a full-size bed topped with a beige duvet and fluffed pillows. Adresser against one wall. No evidence of blood in here, but I check the closet anyway. Empty except for some coats and shoeboxes.

I check under the bed and clear the room. Back to the hallway. There are no other doors my way except a bathroom, and it, too, is sparkly clean and orderly.

The blood rounds the corner. I follow it, and at the end of the hall is another body.

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