Consider the Crows (22 page)

“Yes.” She flipped through messy mental files trying to retrieve the thought that got away. “Is Parkhurst in?”

“Yes, he—”

“Would you ask him to come into my office?”

“Yes. Susan—”

She wandered into her dark office and dropped into the desk chair. Come on now. Dr. Newcomer talking about Lynnelle. Lynnelle liked that malevolent house. She loved the dog. Dr. Egersund now has the dog. Injured foot. Splinters.

“You wanted to see me?”

A figure stood backlighted in the doorway and through some distortion of dimness and wavery lines of rain streaking down the window pane, she saw a childhood memory. She was twelve and in a hurry that rainy evening because she was late and it was dark. She wheeled down a hill on her bicycle, zipped into the street and was hit by a car.

When she opened her eyes she was dazzled by a man in a silver cape silhouetted in sparkling light. Tristan coming for Iseult. Later, her father told her the man had been a policeman in a raincoat.

The figure in the doorway hit the light switch and bulbs flickered on. She blinked. The image moved into focus and became Parkhurst in a shiny wet raincoat. He couldn't have been there long; she'd have felt his presence.

“You wanted to see me,” he said again.

Uh, yes. She wanted to see him. She forgot why. She lit a cigarette. Rain trickled down the window. The silence got heavy. He shrugged off his wet coat. The defective bulb flickered and acted on her like a fingernail on a blackboard. Board. Black. He was dressed in black; black pants, black turtleneck sweater. He moved like a panther. That stupid dream. Forget it.

“You all right?” he asked.

Think about splinters. Old weathered wood. Why would the dog scratch at old boards? The thought Susan had been tracking suddenly surfaced; she stared at Parkhurst.

He raised an eyebrow. “You subject to some kind of fits?”

“I know where Audrey is,” she said quietly.

17

S
NOWFLAKES DRIFTED AROUND
them in the darkness as they stood under the trees, staring down at the weathered boards over the abandoned well. They spoke in hushed tones like a little band of medieval grave robbers and their breath made puffs of frost in the cold air.

“You can see the scratches,” Susan said, moving the flashlight over the boards. “Something in there interested the dog.”

Parkhurst, collar of his gray coat turned up, shoved his hands deep in his pockets. “Could be a rat.”

Osey, in hiking boots and light-brown sheepskin jacket with beige cross-stitching, glanced from her to Parkhurst, then crouched and peered with beady-eyed intent at the rusty nails as he focused his flashlight on each one.

“They been lifted.” He straightened up in a series of awkward jerks.

“How deep is it?” she asked.

Osey shrugged and looked around as though judging distances. “Twenty feet maybe hereabouts.”

“Water?” Parkhurst said.

“Probably.”

“How deep?”

Osey screwed up his mouth and wrinkled his forehead. “No way to tell till I get down there.”

With a frown, Parkhurst looked around, half-turned and looked back in the direction of the house. “Where was the dog when Lynnelle was killed?”

“She must have been out,” Susan said. “Because she was out the next morning when David and Egersund found the body.”

Parkhurst scowled. “Why didn't she attack the killer?”

“Well—” Osey lifted his shoulders and crossed his arms. “That lil' dog just ain't the kind that attacks.” The dog in question was in no way little, but Osey tended to use the word in affection rather than description.

“Right,” Parkhurst grumbled. “Let's get on with it.”

Osey inched the lab van in under the trees as far as he could—she hoped he'd be able to get it out again—and they set up lights. He and Parkhurst manhandled a winch from the van to the side of the well and got to work removing rusty nails and then lifted rotten boards.

“We've got somethin',” Osey said, rocking back on his heels.

Yes. A faint musty sweetish odor of death and decay tainted the clean cold air. Could be a rat, she reminded herself, to slow her racing pulse.

Crouching forward, Osey shined a flashlight down the inside of the well, brick-lined with a row of rusty metal rungs running down one side. Far below, the light fanned out, bounced off slimey bricks, and dissipated like translucent fog against black night.

“Water down there all right,” Osey said. “Hard to tell how far.” He looked at her. “We could drop in a rock and count till we hear the splash.”

“No!”

He grinned. “Joke, Chief.”

Ha ha. Hidden beneath that country bumpkin exterior lurked a good investigator, but now and then he couldn't resist getting a rise out of her by playing the dumb hick; too often, she fell for it.

“You okay to go down there?” Parkhurst asked.

“Sure.” With his usual amiable willingness, Osey ambled off to the van to change into a wet suit. She'd never known anyone as affable and compliant as he was. His appearance reminded her of a scarecrow, tall and lean, and he moved with a disjointed awkwardness. When he clomped back, he sounded like a rubber raft on a choppy sea.

“You be careful,” Parkhurst said as he buckled a webbed safety harness around Osey's chest and attached a line from the winch.

“Don't worry, Mom.” Osey adjusted a light—the kind used by underwater divers—on his forehead. Gingerly, he put his foot on the top rung and bounced lightly. “Seems okay. Mortar's a little crumbly round these bricks.”

He went down a rung and rested his elbows on the rim. “You reckon this is why I became a cop?” He pulled the mask over his face, stuck the air hose in his mouth, and with a jaunty wave started down.

Slithery sounds of rubber against brick drifted up, but the winch line stayed easy as he worked his way down. Watchful silence seemed to creep in with the falling snow. Atmosphere. Auras. Had Lynnelle found them welcoming? Susan didn't feel any welcome, or malignancy either, only this watchful waiting. Bullshit. Irritably, she cinched tighter the belt of her trenchcoat.

Parkhurst, snowflakes dusting his shoulders and glistening on his dark hair, waited motionless, breathing a thin stream of frost, a gloved hand lightly on the line. He'd be terrific on a stakeout, all that ability for unagitated waiting. She hated waiting; impatience acted on her like hives, making her itch and twitch. She tried to curl her cold toes inside her boots and shifted her feet.

Splashing came from the well and Osey yelled, “Ooo-kay!” The long syllables split through the stillness like the ripping of cloth.

His head popped up and he jerked off the mask. “We found it.”

“Audrey Kalazar?” Susan asked.

“Don't know. A body, all right. Wrapped up like a package.”

“How deep's the water?” Parkhurst asked.

“Not more'n fifteen feet.”

Jesus. Osey was groping around at the bottom of a black well in fifteen feet of water. Shivering, she hunched her shoulders.

Osey went back down to attach lines to the body. Several minutes later, he climbed out and Parkhurst worked the winch, slowly bringing the body to the surface. Wrapped in black plastic trash bags and tied with thin rope, it streamed water all around as they maneuvered it to the ground.

“Suitcase down there,” Osey said, “and a couple other things.” He slapped the mask back in place and started down again.

Some moments later, there was a tug on the line and Parkhurst winched up the suitcase. Osey reappeared with a handbag slung over his shoulder and a briefcase in one hand.

“I think that's all,” he said as he handed them over to Susan. “But I want to check something.”

“It can wait till morning,” Susan said. “Get out of that wet suit and into some warm clothes.”

“A couple a minutes,” Osey said. “There's something funny about places in the mortar.”

“Osey—” Parkhurst growled.

“One quick look.” He climbed back in and his voice came up with a hollow sound. “Body bumped some coming up. Looks like—yeah, crumbling away.”

Susan shined a flashlight down on his head. Three rungs down, he scratched and picked away at the mortar, flakes and bits and chunks plopped into the water.

“Knock it off,” she ordered. “You're contaminating the site. Get out of there.”

“Oh. Right. I just—” From between the bricks, he eased out a flat packet.

*   *   *

Telling the family was always the worst of it, Susan thought as she poked the doorbell. Keith Kalazar opened the door and the look of friendly inquiry on his face slipped into brittle caution when he saw her.

“It's about Audrey,” she said.

He seemed to sag and, holding tightly to the edge of the door, he stared blankly past her shoulder and down the flight of steps behind her, as though he hoped she might turn and walk away. “Come in,” he said thickly.

She followed him into a large kitchen with recessed lighting in the high ceiling and hardwood floors polished to a glossy shine. Audrey's absence was evident in scuff marks on the floor, smudges on the gleaming cabinets and dirty dishes on the ceramic-tiled countertops. A rumpled newspaper lay on the light-colored round wooden table, along with an ashtray filled with pipe debris.

“Coffee?” He motioned her toward the table and pushed up the sleeves of his brown sweater, got out filters, fit one into the coffee machine and spooned in grounds. He was putting off the moment of bad news and concentrating on the familiar. She felt sympathy. He had a lot of difficulties ahead, and the police poking into his affairs would compound them.

While the coffee dripped through, he stood with his back to her, leaning slightly forward, arms outstretched, hands clutching the edge of the countertop and his head bowed. His shoulders shook and he mumbled, “I never would have—”

She didn't hear the rest. He poured two cups, carried them to the table and carefully eased himself into a chair. Not looking at her, he sipped hot coffee as though it might bring some relief.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Kalazar. We found your wife's body earlier this evening.”

“What—?” he whispered, cleared his throat and tried again. “What happened?”

“We don't know yet.”

“I'll have to tell Julie,” he said bleakly and set the cup down. “And Audrey's parents. They live in Florida. They're retired.” He looked at his watch. “I don't know what time it is in Florida.”

He picked up the cup and studied it. “Where?”

“Where did we find her?”

He nodded.

“In the abandoned well at the Creighton place.”

“She drowned?”

“We won't know until after the autopsy.”

He covered his face with his hands and sat very rigid in an attempt to control his emotions. If he had known his wife was dead, or if he had killed her, he was a terrific actor. “Is there anything I can get for you?” she asked when he got himself under control and sat straighter, squared his shoulders.

He shook his head, apparently not trusting himself to speak.

“I could call someone. Your Doctor. Reverend Mullet?”

“No.”

“I'll leave now.” She stood. “Call me if you think of anything that might help.”

*   *   *

Tired and angry, sorry for the Kalazars and keyed up by finding the body, Susan headed for the hospital. She'd left Osey and Parkhurst to handle the removal of the body and by now Audrey Kalazar should be in the morgue.

In the parking lot, she turned off the motor and took a cigarette from her bag. The flare of the lighter hurt her eyes. Leaning back, she sat in the dark and smoked the cigarette. It was snowing hard, flakes swirled around the parking lot lights creating silvery haloes, and the red neon of the emergency sign winked and shimmered. Another search of the well and the woods was in order, but that had to wait for daylight. The snow wasn't going to help any. Some lucky officer got to freeze his butt off standing guard. She crushed out the cigarette and went inside.

On the stainless steel table in the autopsy room, water still oozed from Audrey Kalazar's sodden clothing. Susan wrinkled her nose at the pungent odors and tried not to breathe deeply. Owen Fisher, dressed in gray pants and white shirt, hands clasped behind his back, prowled around the table and gazed at the body from different angles with bright interest.

The strong overhead light glared harsh and uncaring on the dark bloated features. Short gray hair pasted to the skull, pinstriped suit and white blouse, neat black pumps still on her feet. Her hands showed the dimpling effect of long immersion, but very little decomposition was evident because of the coldness of the water. Audrey had been a small woman and in death seemed even smaller; it was the force of her personality that had lent size to the living woman.

“Well?” Susan said. Every conversation she'd ever had with Dr. Fisher seemed to start that way.

He reached for a pair of latex gloves and stretched them over his long-fingered hands. Squatting, he peered closely at the skull and lightly, almost like a caress, ran his fingertips over it.

“Head injury,” he murmured as though talking to himself. He looked on every body as a fascinating mystery he was privileged to unravel.

“Cause of death?”

He rose, giving her a look of mild reproach. “I'll do the autopsy first thing in the morning. Then I might have something.”

“How long has she been dead?”

His dark eyebrows drew together. “You're asking me to reach a conclusion before I've examined the facts.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can safely say she probably died around nine twenty-five.”

“That much I know.” Audrey's watch, the face circled with diamond chips, had stopped at that time, probably shortly after it hit the water. “What day is more what I had in mind.”