Sanctuary Lost WITSEC Town Series Book 1 (17 page)

The window was open and there were papers
everywhere on the floor and the surface of her dainty white desk.
Too much mess for the wind.

“What on earth…” The mayor looked in behind
him.

“Stay in the hall.”

John crouched and looked below the desk where
he could see under the window. The chair had rolled aside and there
was a dirt print which looked like the toe of a shoe on the wall.
The computer monitor, one of those with the tower built into the
screen, was on its side on the floor.

John pulled the radio off his belt and called
for Dotty to send Palmer over with their duffel bag of evidence
collecting equipment.

When Palmer showed up, John grabbed a pair of
gloves and took a look at some of the papers. Descriptions of
people from town. Some physical, some relating to their
personalities. None of which appeared to be flattering. The woman
had amassed files on everyone. “We’ll need to take all this back to
the sheriff’s office and go through it.”

“Yes, of course. Take whatever you need.” The
mayor’s shoulders slumped like the fight had seeped out of him. His
gaze flicked around the room. “Who could have done this? It’s
unreal. I’ve been out of it, but still, someone broke into my
home.”

Now he wanted to claim ownership of the
office? “Palmer, take Mr. Collins downstairs and get a statement on
the break in.”

“Let’s go talk.” Palmer motioned to the
stairs and let the mayor go first.

John crouched over a pile of papers. Could
Betty Collins have had information on someone that they didn’t want
to get out? This was certainly a community where secrets were kept.
It was also a place where things could easily become common
knowledge. Besides, the people he’d met so far had been way too
pragmatic about their pasts. Even Andra had said she’d made peace
with hers—not that she’d given him the details.

Now was the time to read her file.

Despite the scuff mark he’d have to
photograph and the open window, this didn’t feel like anything but
making a mess just for the sake of making it. A distraction
designed to throw him off his end goal of finding the killer, or
maybe even to paint Betty Collins in a bad light. John picked up
one of the papers. There wasn’t much damage that
has a bad
attitude
could do in a town like this. Unless there was
something more incriminating here or on the woman’s computer. But
the computer hadn’t been destroyed. Whatever was on there wasn’t
the focus of this.

John got to work photographing the scene.
This case was turning up little-to-nothing of any use in catching
the killer. Someone in town had stabbed Betty Collins repeatedly in
the stomach and John was no closer to finding out who had done
it.

When he was done with the scuff mark he
looked out the window. A portion of roof jutted out over the
kitchen window below, which could have been the entry point. The
yard was open land merging into the trees, which curved up the
mountain past where early snow speckled the grass in spots.

All green, except one spot where the grass
had been spread apart. It almost looked like an arrow pointing at
whatever was there. Anyone looking outside would have seen it.

John locked up the office and found the back
door. He crossed the grass to where the object lay between two
trees. It was a navy cloth, rolled up but long—as long as his
forearm. John lifted it with his still-gloved hand and unrolled the
cloth. The blade of the knife was covered with dark stains no
longer blood red. He glanced around but saw nothing, save trees…and
the path that led up to Andra’s house.

John sat back in his desk chair, his eyes on
the blade. He couldn’t help thinking he was meant to find the
knife. Even as he took a picture of the latent partial fingerprint
he’d found on the handle, the thought wouldn’t leave him.

He stowed the blade in the container, then in
its paper evidence bag and locked it in his safe. He downloaded the
picture to the computer and emailed it off to Grant. His brother
would be able to run it through IAFIS and see if he could match it
anywhere else. Interpol wasn’t out of the question, given some of
the pasts Sanctuary residents likely had.

John cleaned up and pulled out the papers
he’d found in Betty’s office. The first one he looked for was
Andra’s, not that John was going to think overly long on it. He
would read all of them in turn. He just happened to be starting
with hers.

Short hair—apparently she’d grown it since
she came here—surly, quiet. The description was of a younger woman
who said next to nothing and seemed averse to physical touch, even
something as innocuous as shaking hands. John tried to remember if
they shook hands when they’d met. He didn’t think so. She hadn’t
even touched Pat. Their fingers hadn’t brushed when they’d eaten
together, like they tended to when something was passed,
person-to-person.

The comments section of Betty’s welcome form
on Andra said,
Loner. Did not answer any questions about past.
Did not accept recommended accommodations. Ms. Caleri took her
backpack and walked away. A copy of this report was given to
Sheriff Chandler. Maybe he can find out where she disappeared
to.

John hadn’t figured the cabin was her
designated residence, since no one else had been provided one. It
wasn’t unheard of for WITSEC to grant certain concessions, as was
probably done with the mayor’s house. But the previous sheriff
hadn’t forced her to move into town and the cabin had gotten there
somehow. Had she built it herself, or did she have help
constructing the place? Most of Sanctuary’s residents seemed
content to leave her to her quiet life—which begged the question of
who, aside from Harriet, wanted John to think Andra was a
murderer?

John grabbed the key off his belt. The town’s
files were in the row of file cabinets, drawer after drawer of the
dark secrets and terrifying events that brought them all here. It
also contained a copy of the “Memorandum of Understanding” each one
of them had signed.

He pulled out the first drawer and found the
C’s, files for Sheriff Chandler, Betty and Samuel Collins. Each one
was packed with an inch-thick collection of papers. In the drawer
below, the file for Bolton Farrera was one paper, a page of
personal information he’d filled out and signed.

John went back to the first drawer. Andra’s
file was just as thick as Betty and Samuel’s. John slid it out and
set it on the desk. The first page was a file photo of a much
younger Andra, her hair cropped close to her head but longer on one
side, and her eyes dark with makeup.

The radio buzzed, signaling an incoming call.
John keyed the unit and looked at the clock. 23:34. “Sheriff’s
office.”

“Someone’s behind my house.” The man’s voice
was gruff. Shaky. “In the trees.”

John shut the file cabinet door and grabbed
his notepad. “Your name?”

“Peter Nelson.”

“Address?”

“You don’t know where I live?” The man sighed
and rattled off the address.

John looked it up on the map. He scribbled a
note to Pat and ran upstairs, shoving the collection of cups and
books back from the edge of the kitchen counter so he could leave
the note in a clear spot. They should probably clean up.

John sprinted out to his Jeep and drove to
the north side of town. At some point he might even get to use his
lights and sirens. Despite the dead body, there hadn’t been an
actual emergency yet. If it didn’t happen before their month trial
was out, he’d have to take his son for a drive before they left and
have him turn it on. Pat would probably get a big kick out of
that.

The house lights were on and it looked the
same as every other house on both sides of the street.

The middle residences on every street were
two stories, two bedrooms one bathroom and a square front yard the
same size as the back yard. The houses on both sides of Peter
Nelson’s residence had flowerbeds either side of the door. Bigger
houses were at the end of each street, those having four bedrooms
and an extra bathroom. All of them had a minimal amount of space.
He knew from Betty’s welcome speech that there were only one or two
open houses.

The older man had the door open before John
got up the front walk. “Peter Nelson?” When the man nodded John
said, “Sheriff John Mason. You said someone is behind your
house?”

“I’ll show you.”

They crossed grimy carpet in the living room
through the old seventies kitchen. It looked a lot like the
counters and cabinets John had, although this guy had a newer
fridge. He unlocked the back and John stepped onto a square slab of
concrete with two fraying deck chairs. Beyond the square of grass
was a six-foot chain-link fence and beyond that, nothing but trees.
The kids’ park was closer to the north-east end of town.

“Someone was out there.”

“You see who it was?”

He shook his head, looking perturbed that he
hadn’t. “I know what I heard. There’s a murderer running around
town. What if I get stabbed next? I’m not dying here, no way.”

Right. John nodded as though that was a
perfectly understandable train of thought, even though there was
little chance of a kill-happy stabber running around town looking
for their next victim.

“I’ll go take a look. You stay inside.”

The guy shut his door.

“Okay, then.”

John climbed the fence and jumped down on the
other side. The ground was uneven, as though the town had just been
set down in the middle of nowhere—which, in a sense, it had.

The trees were close together over dirt
carpeted with pine needles. John swept his flashlight from side to
side but didn’t see anything. There was barely any noise aside from
his footsteps and a house a few doors down blaring their TV. How
had the old guy heard someone over that?

John checked for shoeprints by the fence and
then walked a circle further out. Something rustled behind him. He
pulled his gun and spun around, half expecting the killer to be
standing there brandishing his knife even though the weapon was
locked up in his office.

A twig snapped. John swiveled left and a deer
stepped between two trees. The whites of its eyes reflected in the
beam of the flashlight. He lowered it, but not all the way.

“Put your hands up.”

The deer walked on.

John smiled to the dark. This was what he’d
been called out for? Murder aside, was this what a career as the
Sanctuary sheriff would entail?

Chasing deer and calming everyone’s nerves
wasn’t a bad calling. Better than getting shot at every day, or
going undercover and sticking his neck out. Even if it was the
middle of the night and not yet the middle of what had already been
a long week, John didn’t have much to complain about. His son was
safe and they had the space to spend time with each other.

He glanced around. At the end of the row of
houses was a separate building, on top of which was a metal tower.
The radio station? He’d heard about Hal’s business but hadn’t seen
it yet.

John hopped the fence and knocked on the old
man’s back door. “Mr. Nelson?”

The old man had donned a threadbare checkered
robe. “Did you catch the killer?”

“Uh no, just a deer I’m happy to say.”

His eyebrows dipped and disappointment
reigned on his face. “Shame. You could’ve had this all wrapped
up.”

“Well, I appreciate your diligence.”

“Didn’t help though. You haven’t caught her
yet.”

“Her?” John wanted to cross his arms on his
chest and let the guy know he was mad. But he was trying to be
diplomatic. “What makes you think it was a woman?”

“Pshaw. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Peter Nelson closed his mouth. “No, I don’t
suppose it does.”

Music was playing from a radio on the
counter. The low sound might have been The Eagles but John couldn’t
be sure. “Is that Hal’s music?”

“It’s just noise. But he also does public
announcements.” Nelson’s eyes brightened. “Hey, you should have him
broadcast a message for you. Can the killer please come forward, or
something like that. Might help you figure out who it is.”

“You’re right, I could do that.”

Apparently the consensus in town was John
seemed to be having trouble figuring out who killed Betty. Did they
think it was easy to catch a killer? The residents of Sanctuary
might be eager for him to make an arrest but that didn’t mean Andra
had done anything. It was like they would do whatever it took to
make this drama run its course so they could get back to their
normal, murder-free lives.

John excused himself and drove to Hal’s radio
station. The building was the same design as the schoolhouse. As if
whoever designed this place had absolutely no imagination
whatsoever—which sounded like the government.

He knocked and let himself in. If Hal was
DJ-ing he probably wouldn’t hear it anyway. A buzzer rang at his
entry. The hall was dark but for low yellow lights. The Eagles song
had changed to Charlie Daniels, coming from the end of the hall
where there was a red light above the door. He started for it when
the door opened and Andra stepped out.

“What do—oh, John?”

He froze. “Uh, hey. You’re here.” Great. He
sounded like an idiot.

“Where’s Pat?”

“In bed.”

She looked at the clock on the wall. “It’s
late. Is…there a problem?”

“You’re running the radio station?”

Andra flattened her hands on the legs of her
pants, ones that cut off below the knee. She looked so young. “Hal
had a dinner date with his lady-friend.”

John grinned. Andra’s lips twitched and then
she grinned too.

“And he asked you to cover?”

She shrugged. “Usually once a week.”

“Oh.”

She motioned to the room. “Want to see?”