Page 52 of What She Saw
I wasn’t sure how long I had slept when I heard a loud thud. Something had hit the side of the cabin. I startled upright and blinked, staring into the shadows and then out the windows. I reached for my gun and realized I’d left it in the Jeep. Stupid. I rose and moved toward the front door. I unlatched it and looked outside. Lying on the porch was a baseball-size rock. Whoever had hurled it had taken a chunk out of the wood siding.
I’d not drawn the curtains when I’d arrived back, giving whoever was in the woods a chance to look inside. I’d left the light on. I’d been in a display case. Off-the-grid places like this were ideal for anarchists, meth dealers, and brothers like Zeke and Sammy Crawford, who didn’t like the government.
I picked up the rock and hefted it in my hand. It was heavy, and whoever had tossed it had a serious arm. I crossed to the Jeep. I was relieved to find my gun in the glove box. “Hey, whoever is out there. I’m doing my thing here. I don’t want trouble. And I sure don’t care about what you’re doing.”
Wind teased the trees and an owl hooted. I waited, tightening my fingers around the gun’s grip. My heartbeat slowed. Rock in hand, I went back inside and locked the door.
Tempting as it was to close the curtains, I didn’t. I moved to the kitchen and glanced at an almost accurate stove clock. Three o’clock in the morning. This was the in-between time. Too early to get up, not enough time to fall back to sleep. I had the choice of ninety extra minutes of bad sleep or running out of steam later today. I set up the coffeepot and pressed the brew button.
I peed, showered, and set out clean clothes that didn’t smell like field dirt, a smoky bar, or an old lady’s home.
After I drained the hot water from the shower, I toweled off and dressed. With no Wi-Fi or cell service, I couldn’t check comments on my latest article, now live onThe Washington Post’s website.
InThe Post’s coverage of Susie Malone’s cold case, I’d pointed out the cops had a few suspects. But they had never been able to prove that their number one man, a local pastor of a two-thousand-person church, had killed the girl.
When I’d interviewed the chief detective, Bob Watson, he was convinced the pastor was the killer. But there’d been witnesses from his church who’d testified that he’d been with them at the time the girl vanished from an evening bike ride.
“If you’re so convinced, why don’t you do something?” I demanded of Bob.
Anger circled around, suffocating me. Susie’s parents were divorced and both worked full time. She didn’t have many friends but liked to ride her bike.
Bob glanced at a thirty-year-old Timex watch. He cleared his throat, as if unclogging a persistent anger that was forever lodged in him. He met my gaze. “I did all that the law would allow.”
I stared into blue, watery eyes encircled by deep wrinkles. “What are things you can’t do?” I asked.
He tapped his watch as his jaw tightened. “I can’t follow him because that’s stalking. I can’t wiretap his house or phones. I can’t beat a confession out of him.”
“Beaten confessions are often false. And I only care about the truth.”
My frankness softened the hard lines around his mouth. “I gave up on court a long time ago.”
Phone tapping sounded cumbersome. But stalking the good pastor or breaking into his home was my wheelhouse. If there was evidence, I would find it. “Let me see what I can do, Bob.”
“Take your best shot.”
It took me six months of following the pastor, who’d established a very routine schedule. To keep tabs on him when I had another article to write, I placed a tracker on his car. At the six-week mark, I was growing impatient. The guy did nothing out of the ordinary. We could keep this up for years, but I didn’t have the patience to play that long. I called Bob and asked if he could contact the pastor and tell him a new investigative team was looking into the case. Bob was more than happy to comply.
Two days later the pastor broke his routine and, after an evening prayer session, drove sixty miles to a small town near his. Following him that far was tricky, and several times I veered off and caught up to him a few miles later.
He parked at a storage facility and hurried inside the building. He was inside for almost an hour, and when he emerged, he was smiling.
Of course, the pastor’s name was not on any lease agreement with any storage unit. I tugged on rubber gloves and proceeded to break into and search the twenty storage units. Number 19 was the winner. The unit was bare except for a chair and a plastic storage box in the back. In the box, I found mementos, including a charm bracelet, a necklace, and a set of young girl’s panties. Guys like the pastor liked to keep trinkets reminding them of their deeds. I could picture the pastor laying out each item, sitting in the chair, and masturbating.
I took pictures of it all and then put each item back exactly how I’d found them. On the way out, I opened storage unit number 20 for giggles and swiped an empty travel bag that looked like it could come in handy. Then I posted a camera outside to monitor the entrance for me.
Two days later, Bob and I met for coffee at a diner a mile from the storage unit. “Do you want a few incriminating tips, or do you want it straight?”
Bob raised his coffee cup to his lips, hesitating before he said, “We’re both adults here. Serve it up.”
“The Blue Mountain Storage Facility is one mile from here. You’ll like what you find in unit number 19.”
He didn’t admonish me or recite some law-and-order speech. “Okay.”
“Tonight, there’s going to be a wicked fire in unit number 18. And don’t worry, it’s full of bad patio furniture and a few nasty white couches. The owner will be grateful.”
Bob sipped his coffee, nodding. “So close to number 19, the fire department will have to open 19 in case the fire has spread.”
“That would be my play.”
