Disturbing the Dead (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Tom raised the ax above his head and brought it down on the oak log. Not easy to do with one arm in a sling. The blow landed at the edge and shaved off a strip of bark.

“God damn it.” He tossed the strip onto the back porch in the direction of the kindling pile, and Billy Bob rose from his resting spot and shuffled over to sniff it.

Tom lifted the ax again, trying to ignore the dull throb in his other arm. God, he was sick of hurting and struggling to get the simplest things done. Sick of hanging around the house thinking about his father and Pauline McClure. The sheriff had ordered him to take the weekend off, but Tom thought it was crazy to be off duty at a time like this.

He slammed the ax down on the log and stared at the blade buried six inches in the wood. Had Pauline been running when her killer caught up and split open her skull? Did she know her life was about to end? Did she know why? The reason for many murders could be found in the victim’s own life. What had Pauline done to make her killer decide it was time for her to die?

Remembering Pauline’s note to his father, Tom tried to imagine Ed McClure sinking an ax into the head of the woman he loved.
I’m not capable of it,
Ed had said the day before. Of course he was. If he’d been driven crazy by jealousy, he might have had the strongest motive of any of the suspects.

Pauline’s blood relatives made likely suspects in theory, and they were the oddest and most secretive bunch Tom had ever come across, but he couldn’t figure out what motive any of them had to kill her. No one except Mary Lee had benefited from Pauline’s death, and she had to wait seven years to cash in on Pauline’s six-million-dollar estate. That much money would have been worth waiting for, though. What Tom needed was solid evidence that Mary Lee, comfortable with her own trust fund, had been willing to kill her mother to get a fortune that she would have inherited eventually anyway.

As for Shackleford and O’Dell, Tom’s father had suspected both but never came up with a scrap of evidence tying them to Pauline’s disappearance. The case stood exactly where Tom’s father had left it: plenty of suspects and motives, but no proof against anybody.

Tom turned away from the chopping block and started up the steps. He would change into his uniform and get back to work. Five days into a murder investigation, he had no business wasting time at home. Whatever he felt toward Pauline McClure, his job was to find her killer.

As he crossed the porch to the door, he heard the faint tinny ring of the kitchen telephone. Inside, he used his teeth to remove his right-hand glove before he snatched the receiver from the wall hook. “Yeah! Hello,” he barked as he started struggling out of his leather jacket.

“Tom, it’s Joanna McKendrick. You need to get out here.”

She sounded frantic. In the background Tom heard someone crying and caught snatches of words…
kill me…come after me…
He went completely still, his jacket half off. A clutch of dread squeezed his chest. “What’s happened?”

“Somebody shot at Rachel and Holly—”

“What?”
Rachel. Good God.
He lunged for the door, panic compelling him to move, to go to her, but the short phone line stopped him. “Are they—”

“They’re all right
.
Rachel’s got a little cut on her face, but— Just listen
,
okay?”

Staying silent was the hardest thing he’d ever done. His mind raced, gruesome scenes of carnage flashed before him.
She’s not hurt,
he told himself.
She’s all right.

“They went to town,” Joanna was saying, “and on the way back somebody shot at them from my Christmas tree farm across the road. I’ve called 911, but I want you here.”

“I’m on my way,” Tom said, and dropped the receiver onto the hook.

He wrenched off the sling and flung it into the trash can. “Let’s go, Billy Bob.”

He needed his good arm for driving, and trying to hold the radio mike and join in the chatter was hopeless. All the right things were getting done, from the sound of it—deputies converging on the shooting site, State Police jumping in to provide support.

Why had Rachel and Holly left the farm after Tom warned Rachel to be careful?
My own damned fault.
He hadn’t specifically told her not to leave home, because he wasn’t convinced that Bonnie and Jack Watford were right—or truthful—about O’Dell being a danger to Holly. But somebody was after Rachel too, and that black widow spider, sent in a package carefully wiped free of fingerprints, was the proof. Why the hell hadn’t he been firmer? Because he hadn’t wanted Rachel to think he was giving her orders. He should have put her safety and Holly’s first instead of worrying about whether she’d think he was too bossy. And Rachel should have had more sense than to take chances.

Damn it, why couldn’t he get a handle on this case? Everybody he talked to seemed to be hiding something, and the truth about Pauline’s death lay beneath a web of lies that he hadn’t been able to penetrate. How much more violence would erupt in the present before he uncovered the truth about the past?

Near the farm gate, he passed two unoccupied cruisers on the main road. Orange traffic cones and flares protected a scattering of glass on the pavement. When Tom roared up the farm lane to Joanna’s house, he saw another cruiser in the driveway behind Joanna’s Jeep Cherokee and Rachel’s Range Rover.

Tom parked in front of the house, and with Billy Bob beside him he strode across the snow-covered lawn to the Range Rover. Yellow crime scene tape wrapped the vehicle. A maze of cracks forked out around a bullet hole in the rear windshield. Ragged outlines of glass hung in the two front seat windows. He found a hole in the passenger door two inches below the window. Pushing the yellow tape up out of the way, he opened the door for a look inside. No exit hole. The bullet was in the door.

From the pattern of glass shards on the seats and floor, Tom guessed that one bullet had gone straight through and out the driver’s side, taking part of the window with it. The shot had probably missed Rachel’s head by inches. If she’d been sitting forward, if the car had been in a slightly different position—
Jesus Christ.
Fighting a wave of nausea, he slammed the car door and headed for the house.

Brandon, white-faced and wide-eyed, answered the bell. “Hey, Boss. Sergeant Murray and the Blackwoods are searching the shooting site. I checked around over here and didn’t see any sign the shooter’d crossed the road, so—”

Brandon rattled on, but Tom didn’t listen. He needed to find Rachel. He followed the murmur of voices into the living room on the left. The drawn draperies, the blazing fire, the soft glow of lamps made the room seem smaller than it ever did in the blaze of sunlight. Rachel sat on the brown leather couch with Holly. When she rose and came toward him Tom felt the first moment of peace he’d known all day.

He wanted to put his arms around her, but when he took her by the shoulders to pull her close he felt her resist and realized he was in serious danger of making a fool of himself. He touched her cheek. The bandage there was too damned close to her eye for comfort. “How bad is that?” he asked.

When she leaned to pet Billy Bob her hand trembled, but she spoke calmly. “Just a scratch. I’m fine. I think he was trying to hit Holly. Thank God he didn’t.”

“Are you sure it was a man?”

Rachel frowned. “No, now that I think about it. I don’t believe I saw anybody. Just a rifle barrel, sticking out from a tree at the edge of the road.”

“Did you get any idea of height? How high up was the gun held?”

She ran both hands through her hair, pushing it back from her face. Her flushed skin and her quick, short breaths betrayed the turmoil she was trying to hide. “I can’t even guess. It happened so fast.”

“The shooter must have been waiting for you to come back. Which means he knew you’d gone out.”

“Right.” Rachel glanced at Holly, who sat on the sofa with Brandon, and lowered her voice. “Could we talk in the hall?”

Out of Holly’s hearing, Rachel told him about their encounter with Troy Shackleford and his nephew Buddy. “They would’ve dragged her into a car and taken her away if I hadn’t stopped them.”

Tom listened with mounting exasperation. “What were you doing in town anyway? I asked you last night to be careful.”

Anger flared in her eyes. “Holly needed some new clothes, and I thought we’d be okay if—”

“Clothes? You almost got killed because you went
shopping
?”

“You told me to be careful, you didn’t say we had to hole up at home in fear for our lives. But if you’re determined to blame me for this, go ahead. I blame myself, okay? Mea culpa!” She struck her breast with her fist. “Satisfied?”

She was ready to crack, but Tom couldn’t summon the words to calm her. Aware that he was making matters worse, he said, “None of this would be happening if you hadn’t brought Holly home with you.”

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face! I did the right thing for her, and you’ll never make me regret it.”

“Hey!” Joanna called from the kitchen doorway. “What’s the matter with you two?” She marched toward them with a tray of cups filled with steaming tea.

Rachel glared at Tom, he glared at her, she turned her back on him.

“Here,” Joanna said, holding the tray out to Rachel. “You need something hot and sweet.”

Rachel took a cup of tea, and Joanna shot a reproving look at Tom. “You leave her alone. She’s been through enough. You ought to thank God she’s standing here alive.”

He did. When he thought of Rachel dying at the hands of some nutcase, an icy fist closed around his heart. But he didn’t answer Joanna, and she moved on to the living room.

One gulp of the hot liquid made Rachel gasp and wince.

“It’s too hot to drink that fast,” Tom said.

“Thank you for pointing that out.” Rachel set her cup on the hall table next to the phone. “If you’re finished trying to make me feel guilty, will you listen for a second?”

“Is it important? I’ve got a lot to do.”

“You might find it relevant to your work.” Folding her arms, she launched into a story about Shackleford beating up Holly’s mother, Jean Turner, the night Jean left. “I think he killed her. I think that second skeleton you found is Holly’s mother.”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t, for one simple reason. The teeth in the skull are too healthy-looking. Pauline’s mouth was full of bridges and caps, so I wouldn’t expect her sister to have nearly perfect teeth.”

“Bridges and caps don’t mean Pauline had bad teeth. Maybe she didn’t like the way they looked. Have you checked Jean Turner’s dental records?”

“No. I haven’t seen any reason to.”

“Well, maybe you should, because Holly has beautiful teeth. Somebody taught her to take care of them. Maybe that somebody was her mother.”

“Everybody in the family says Jean is alive.”

“Has anybody produced proof? Holly never hears from her. If she doesn’t keep in touch with her own daughter, how can you be sure she’s not dead?”

The Turners all talked about Jean as if she were alive. He’d accepted what they said at face value. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I think Holly’s ready to talk about her family,” Rachel was saying. “When she’s recovered a little, you might be able to get some honest answers from her.”

“I’ll talk to her right now.” Tom turned and started into the living room.

“Tom!” Rachel quick-stepped past him and got to Holly before he did. Sitting on the arm of the couch with one hand on Holly’s shoulder, she gave him a look that warned he would upset the girl at his own peril. Joanna, standing behind the couch, wore the same expression.

Tom unzipped his leather jacket and sat on the coffee table. For a second the sight of Holly’s delicate face, with its frame of lustrous hair, robbed him of words. Her resemblance to the young Pauline was more than striking. It was eerie. This was the face his father had seen when he passed Pauline in the halls at school. If Holly had style and a certainty of her own worth, she would be what Pauline had been: spellbinding. And no man who encountered her would be immune.

“Hey, Holly, how are you feeling?”

She gripped her tea cup with white-knuckled fingers. Without raising her eyes, she said, “I’m okay.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done this?”

Holly nodded. “My daddy.”

“Why would your father want to hurt you?”

“He’s probably afraid I’m gonna tell people things that’ll get him arrested.”

Excitement prickled the skin on the back of Tom’s neck. She did know something. She was going to give him a memory, an overheard conversation, some vital detail. “What things?”

Holly pulled in a deep breath. “About his drug business.” She met Tom’s gaze with the terrified boldness of someone exposing a closely held secret.

He tried not to let his disappointment show. If she believed this was the worst she could tell the police about her father, she must not know anything that would connect Shackleford to Pauline’s death or that of the unidentified victim. Still, her inside information might be useful if he decided to take a whack at shutting down the Shackleford family’s illegal business. “Your father deals drugs?”