Footprints of a Dancer (Detective Elliot Mystery) (21 page)

Elliot thought about the newspapers he’d found in the old house where Laura Bradford had lived.
The Gazette
article had only mentioned several people had gone missing, downplaying the incident by emphasizing they were a group of drifters with histories of moving in and out of locations without notice. Gerald had taken a more sinister approach, though his reputation for tabloid style writing had acted to soften its impact. One of the names mentioned in Gerald’s article had been Corey Sherman. Elliot slid the Glock back into its holster. “What can you tell me about the commune where your brother was staying?”

“It was located on private property, just north of Stillwater.”

“Have you been out there?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t find anything. If people had been living there, it’d certainly been cleaned up. I got to feeling guilty, not having permission or anything, so I didn’t stay long.”

Elliot ran Jake’s explanation through his head. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere. “Do you know who owns the property?”

“Yeah, I managed to find out. His name is David Stephens. He used to teach at the University.”

Connections were starting to fall into place. Elliot was starting to like this guy.

“Someone showed up while I was out there,” Jake continued. “He came out of nowhere, asked me what I was doing there. He didn’t look too happy. I told him I was a treasure hunter, and I’d heard stories about an old tent camp located in the area. I got the idea from my mom’s boyfriend. He used a metal detector, was always looking for places like that. He took me with him a few times.”

“Did this guy give you a name?”

Jake shook his head. “He seemed to buy my story, so I did what he said and took to the road. ‘Get the hell out and don’t come back’ was how he put it. If he’d known what I was really up to, I might not have made it out of there so easily. I figured it was Stephens, the property owner.”

Elliot wondered if that could be the case. It seemed unlikely. “Could you describe him?”

“He was kind of big, like you, but a little older.”

“Greying blond hair and blue eyes?”

“That’s the guy. You know him?”

“It wasn’t Stephens.”

“How do you know?”

“I was a student at the university when he was teaching there, had a couple of run-ins with him. David Stephens is about five foot six, with dark hair and dark eyes.”

Jake shook his head. “Maybe this guy works for Stephens?”

“Maybe,” Elliot said. “Anything’s possible.”

“He might have been with him,” Jake said. “He’d parked on the road about 400 feet ahead of me. I thought I saw somebody in his car.”

“Are you a Christian, Jake?”

The biker’s face went blank. “I guess so. I mean, I’m not anything else. Why do you ask?”

“Before my mother lost her soul to drugs, she read scripture to me, told me everybody had a role to play, a purpose if you will. This is mine, Jake. It’s what I do. I appreciate your help, but this is the part where I tell you to drop the investigation and go on back home.”

“You’re creeping me out.”

“I hope I’m getting my point across. I’ve been on some strange cases, but I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Yeah, it’s strange, all right,” Jake said. “So give it to me straight. Is there any chance my brother could still be alive?”

Elliot leaned against the truck. He’d begun to like this guy, and he knew what it was like to be alone. He doubted after eight years there would be much hope, but he said, “Anything’s possible. I’ll do what I can to find out.”

Elliot watched Jake Sherman climb into his car and drive out of the parking lot. He hoped the biker would leave this thing alone, but he didn’t think it would play out that way. He hadn’t told Jake, but he knew who’d run him off Stephens’ property. Greying blond hair, blue eyes. It was Ryan, and he worked for the Stillwater Police Department.

Elliot climbed into his truck and rummaged through the glove compartment until he found Ryan’s business card. When he dialed the number, he reached a Sergeant Westlake.

“Detective William Ryan, please.”

“He’s out of the office right now. Could I take a message?”

Elliot loosened his grip on the phone. Westlake’s voice sounded tentative. “Do you know where I can find him? It’s pretty important.”

“I could be of more help if I knew who I was speaking with.”

Elliot stared through the window into the nearly empty parking lot. “The name’s Elliot, Tulsa Police Department.”

“Tulsa? You guys working on something together?”

“You could say that, but it’s kind of unofficial.”

“That’s our boy,” Westlake said. “Or at least it used to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“He turned in his badge this morning and walked out. I haven’t seen him since.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was. He won’t answer his phone either. I went by his house twice, but he’s not there.”

Elliot squeezed the phone. The tone of Westlake’s voice said this thing was bothering him. “Why would he do something like that?”

“I can’t figure it. He’s a different sort all right, but I’ve never known him to pull anything like this.”

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

After a pause, Westlake said, “I wouldn’t ordinarily give out personal information, but I’m really worried about the guy. I was going to swing by there after work anyway, to check on him, and make sure he’s okay.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

A few miles west of Stillwater, somewhere near Lake Carl Blackwell, Elliot turned off of Highway 51 and headed north. Following the instructions Sergeant Westlake had given him, he found Ryan’s cabin sitting about one hundred feet from the roadway on a wooded lot.

About five hundred feet up, another house peeked around the corner. The noticeable lack of noise played around the edges of Elliot’s nerves. The smell of burning wood wafted through the air, but no smoke came from the chimney.

A thick layer of oak leaves announced Elliot’s progress as he made his way around the house toward the back of the cabin where he found Detective Ryan sitting in a lawn chair with his feet propped against the railing of a wooden deck. He had a breakfast sandwich in one hand and a Styrofoam container of coffee sat within reach on the side railing. The smoke came from a campfire where Ryan had constructed a ring of sandstones on the ground in front of the deck.

“Nice place,” Elliot said.

A blank expression came over Ryan’s face. He’d taken a bite of sandwich and he forced the food down his throat, grabbing the coffee to wash it down, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on Elliot. He began to laugh, not an expression of humor but an outpouring of cynicism. Regaining control, he said, “The harbinger of death arrives at my doorstep.”

Ryan didn’t appear to be drunk or under the influence of drugs, but he trembled, barely able to drink his coffee without spilling it.

“You could be right,” Elliot said, “if you don’t start playing it straight with me.”

“Big city cop, you think you know it all. You know nothing.”

“You’ve been uncooperative, even defensive. What would you think if you were me?”

“Good point,” he said. “I guess I’d look suspicious, maybe even guilty.”

“Are you?”

“Not really. Not in the way you think, anyway.”

“If you’re telling me the truth, what are you afraid of?”

“I could tell you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

Elliot climbed onto the deck, stopping near Ryan’s chair. “Why didn’t you tell me about Corey Sherman?”

“How do you know about Sherman?”

“Big city cop, remember. I’ll tell you something else. Corey didn’t disappear and neither did the people he was with. They’re dead and buried on the commune where they lived on property owned by David Stephens. Somebody killed them. Where do you fit in, Ryan, murderer or accomplice?”

Ryan removed his feet from the railing and put them on the deck. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“Why are you protecting Stephens?”

“I’m not.”

“You’ve been a cop for a long time. That’s not something you just walk away from. Your connection must be pretty deep for you to turn in your badge over it.”

Ryan tried to stand but his trembling legs wouldn’t allow it. Halfway through the maneuver, he gave up and dropped back into the chair. “For God’s sake, Elliot, can’t you see what this has done to me? Leave it alone.”

“People are dying. I want to know why.”

“You’ll find out soon enough. Seen anything outside your windows lately, shadowy forms hiding in the darkness?”

Elliot thought about what he’d seen moving past the patio door in his backyard. “Funny you should ask. Was it you?”

“It only gets worse. Soon you’ll begin to hear things, sounds coming from inside your house, an intruder, but one you’ll never catch. God help you if you do.”

“Come on, Ryan. You’re talking crazy.”

An expression somewhere between worry and sympathy crawled across Ryan’s face. He pulled a small black book from his shirt pocket and held it out.

Elliot took the book and glanced through it. It was an address book, though the pages were empty except for one, which contained a string of numbers written in black ink.

“You will begin to feel it in the night,” Ryan said, “hovering in the darkness just inches from your bed. There might still be time for you to stop it, but you have to drop the investigation, and you have to do it now.”

Ryan continued to speak but his words softened, fading to background noise as the campfire again drew Elliot’s attention.

The fire had grown, the circle of its heat stretching out to include the deck where Elliot stood. The warmth fell across his skin, scattering his thoughts in multiple directions.

As if she were a neighbor come to visit, Elliot’s mother appeared from around the cabin and climbed onto the deck. She kneeled in front of Elliot, and using blood that’d fallen from the syringe in her hand, she traced designs across the floor of her room, misplaced emotions embedded in her stare as she squiggled out the word,
sustenance
.

A soft voice came from somewhere, and Elliot accepted the embrace of a young girl, a disturbing version of Cyndi Bannister, a woman he had once loved, the child, in fact, from the photograph in her father’s study. She reached into her pocket and when her hand was once again revealed to Elliot it held a note, its diction scribbled in pencil, from which came a message: I love you. The girl stood on her toes, bringing her face close to Elliot’s and she kissed him, the soft touch of her lips brushing against his until he pushed her away.

Elliot was alone in the room and when he turned to see his reflection in the mirror above his mother’s vanity, he saw that he, too, was a child.

A chill ran through him, and he realized the fire had gone out, and he was once again standing on the deck of Ryan’s cabin.

He quickly surveyed the premises, studying the trees with their absence of birds and sounds, but in particular he became aware of no ring of stones, no smoldering wood, and no ashes. If there had been a campfire, no indication of it now existed. Also, Detective Ryan was gone, as was the lawn chair where he’d sat and the cup of coffee he’d placed on the railing.

Elliot walked across the deck toward the cabin and tried the door.

He found it locked. He thought about the front entrance but suspected it would be secured as well. He pressed his face against the small rectangle of glass on the backdoor.

Worn, comfortable-looking furniture occupied the room. Pinewood paneling covered the walls, stained in a few areas by smoke that’d come from the fireplace: A Norman Rockwell scene, its picturesque essence obliterated by the corpse of Detective William Ryan, which appeared to levitate above the floor.

Elliot kicked in the door, but as soon as he confirmed what he’d suspected, that what had happened was long past his being able to do anything about it, he pulled his phone and punched in the number for the Stillwater Police Department.

Westlake answered.

Elliot had hoped he would. “You need to get out here,” he said. “Ryan’s dead. He hanged himself.”

Elliot broke the connection with Westlake. Some paperwork scattered across the floor of the cabin caught his attention.

Being inside Ryan’s place, let alone sifting through his personal belongings, put a knot in Elliot’s stomach, but he pulled a pen from his pocket and shuffled through the papers, reading enough to get the gist of it. The documents amounted to a recent transaction between Ryan and the Trustee Department of the Bank of Oklahoma. The business acted to transfer, to the bank, Ryan’s power of attorney over the estate of David Stephens. The professor, if the documentation was accurate, now resided at Woodland Estates, an upscale senior living center in South Tulsa.

Elliot stood and walked outside. Money had been involved, but from the look of things, Ryan hadn’t taken any of it. He’d used the funds to care for Stephens and nothing else.

Elliot used his phone to find the address of Woodland Estates and as the number appeared on the screen, his mouth went dry. It was the same number that had been written across the pages of the address book Ryan had handed him as they’d talked on the deck of the cabin.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Several hours after he found Ryan hanging from the ceiling of his cabin, Elliot stood in a common area at Woodland Estates, the senior living center indicated in Ryan’s paperwork. The receptionist had sent him to the skilled nursing wing where he found a trembling and frail man slumped in a wheelchair. The invalid was not alone. An attendant, a slender man of African descent, sat beside him.

The invalid in the wheelchair was David Stephens.

“Can he get out of the chair,” Elliot asked, “walk around if he needs to?”

“Oh no, sir, nothing like that,” the attendant said. He leaned over and stared into Stephens’ face. “Most times, he don’t know where he is, much less what he’s doing. It kind of comes and goes. Won’t let nobody but me help him. Don’t know why.”

“How long has he been like this?”