The Dead Season

Copyright 2012 by Donna Ball, Inc.

All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author.

www.donnaball.net

Published by Blue Merle Publishing

Drawer H

Mountain City, Georgia 30562

www.bluemerlepublishing.com

This is a work of fiction.
All place
s
, characters, events and organizations mentioned in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

Cover by
Sapphire Designs

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://designs.sapphiredreams.org/

CHAPTER ONE

T
he
only good thing about a police interrogation room is that it’s marginally better than a hospital emergency room. But neither is designed to be particularly warm or welcoming, and if I’d had my choice, they both would make my list of the Top Five Places I’d rather not be.

When the officer escorted me from the hospital to the waiting squad car, the first thing I said was, “Where is my dog?”

“I’ll check into that for you, ma’am.”

The sidewalk had been recently swept of snow and salted, but it was still slippery, and when I pulled away from his supporting hold on my elbow, I almost fell. He quickly caught my arm again. “I’m not talking to anyone until I see him,” I told him forcefully. “Do you understand that? So you may as well take me to him right now.”

“My orders are to drive you to the station,” he said, not unkindly. “But like I said, I’ll see what I can do.”

I got into the back of the car because I had no choice, and at least it was warm inside. In the four hours I’d been in the emergency room, I had had a shower and a hot meal, and someone had even found a pair of clean scrubs for me, but I was still cold. I pulled my battered jacket around me and tried not to shiver. It was filthy, blood-stained, and smelled like smoke, but for five days it had kept me from freezing to death. Now it did little to alleviate the chill. I guess that’s because the cold I felt came from the inside.

I leaned forward against the steel mesh divider as he started the car and demanded in a sudden panic, “They didn’t take him to the animal shelter, did they?”

“No ma’am. I’m sure they didn’t do that.” He glanced at me I the rearview mirror. “Some of the kids were saying that dog was a real hero out there.”

I leaned back wearily against the seat and watched the dirty snow banks go by with blank, unseeing eyes. “They all were,” I said. “They all were heroes.” I swallowed hard and added, “They said I couldn’t see them at the hospital. The kids, I mean.”

“Standard procedure, ma’am. We’ll be taking your statements separately.”

I knew that. I should have known that. I insisted, “But they’re all right?”

“My understanding is that everyone who was brought in checked out fine. Some of their parents have already arrived. Others are on their way.”

“That’s good.” I released a shaky breath and tried to unknot the tension in my shoulders. “That’s good.”

I added after a moment, “My husband is the sheriff of Hanover County in North Carolina.”

That was not strictly true. In the first place, Buck Lawson was my ex-husband. In the second place, he was only acting sheriff. But I would have said I was married to God if it had meant a chance to see Cisco sooner.

The very polite deputy simply replied, “Yes, ma’am. I know.”

When the car stopped and he opened the back door for me, I put my hand atop his and I said with quick, quiet urgency, “His name is Cisco. He’s a golden retriever. He’s a therapy dog, and a search and rescue dog. He helps people… he helps people,” I finished simply, and by this time, I was pleading. “Don’t let anything bad happen to him. Please.”

The young officer’s eyes gentled, and he said, “Yes, ma’am. Don’t worry. I won’t.”

~

The Bullard County, South Carolina, Public Safety Building was not that much different from the sheriff’s office in my hometown of Hansonville, North Carolina: ringing phones, linoleum floors, institutional green walls. But when I walked into the sheriff’s office in Hansonville, two or three people would have greeted me with an easy, “Hey, Raine” before I got halfway into the building, and I didn’t need a uniformed escort to take me where I was going.

But I wasn’t at home anymore.

The officer opened the door of an interview room. “Detective Ritchie will be with you in a moment,” he said. “Can I get you a coffee?”

I shook my head, then changed my mind. I had started to shiver again. “Yeah. Black. Thanks.”

A man with thick, wavy gray hair, wire-rimmed glasses and an expensive-looking business suit came around the table toward me as I entered the room, his hand extended. “Miss Stockton,” he said. “My name is Bryson Willis. I’m an attorney. Miles Young asked me to meet you here.”

I stared at him, my head buzzing with four or five different questions, not knowing which of them to voice first. “But—I don’t need an attorney,” I said. “I didn’t do anything. Anyway, I have an attorney. Sonny Brightwell—well, really she’s my friend. She just says she’s my attorney when something serious is going on.”

His expression was somber. “Miss Stockton, there has been a murder. Something serious is definitely going on.”

I swallowed hard. “Two,” I said. “Two murders.”

That grim expression in his eyes did not change. “Yes. Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” He gestured for me to be seated at the table. “I’ve called Ms. Brightwell. She’s on her way, but the roads are still bad and it may take awhile. If it’s okay with you, I’ll stand in her stead until she arrives.”

I was alarmed. “No, don’t call Sonny. She’s on vacation. I don’t want her driving all the way up here.” But then I looked closely at his face and my throat went dry. “Am I in trouble? Have I been accused of something? Am I under arrest?”

“No,” he assured me. “You’re not under arrest. And my job is to see that you remain that way. There have been a lot of conflicting versions of what happened on that mountain. The police will be giving a lot of weight to your statement, since you were in the best position to witness everything that happened. So before we begin, I need to ask you—is there anything you would like to tell me about the events of the past week that may not necessarily make it into the statement you make to the police?”

I stared at him. “No. What do you mean?” Then more forcefully, “No.”

His nod was neutral. “The first thing I want you know is that we can postpone this interview until you’ve rested, if you want me to. We understand what you all went through out there. The police won’t let you go home, but I can find you a hotel room…”

I was already shaking my head as I pulled out a chair and sank into it. “No, I just want to get this over with. Where is my dog? Can you find out where they took my dog?”

He sat down across from me. “The local vet is holding on to him for the time being. He checked him over and says he’s doing fine. You’ll be able to see him shortly.”

I relaxed for the first time since I’d watched them strap Cisco into the harness and lift him into the air toward the hovering helicopter some six hours earlier. I drew in my breath for another question, and then the door opened and Detective Ritchie came in. I remembered him from the hospital, where I had given him a sketchy version of the events of the past forty-eight hours. He was accompanied by a younger man I had never met before. Both wore sports coats and dark trousers. Detective Ritchie wore a wool sweater under his coat; the other man wore a dark shirt.

Ritchie said, “Miss Stockton, this is Special Agent Leonard Brown from the FBI, who’ll be sitting in with us. There’s some issue about jurisdiction, since we seem to have a crossover of state lines, and some confusion about what took place where. We’re hoping you can clear that up for us.”

I nodded, although there was a cold lump in my stomach. I had dealt with the FBI before. I said, “My father was a judge. I understand.” I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.

Detective Ritchie had two tall paper cups of coffee in his hand, and he passed one to me with a smile. “You’re Roe Bleckley’s niece, aren’t you?” He turned to the other man and explained, “Roe was the sheriff down in Hanover County for thirty-odd years. I used to go fishing with him, back in the day. We liberated many a trout from the Tuckasegee once upon a time.” He looked back at me. “I heard he retired. That right?”

The television cop shows would have you believe that all police detectives are hard-nosed bad-asses, who basically want to prosecute anyone who crosses their path; the truth is that, around these parts at least, they’re mostly just regular guys doing their jobs. They know your grandma and go to church with your brother-in-law and, now and again, go fishing with your uncle, the neighboring sheriff.

While he pulled out his chair and settled in comfortably, I said, “That’s right. He retired last fall.”

He uncapped his coffee. “Who’s running things over your way now?”

“My”— I started to say “husband” and caught myself. “Buck Lawson. He was the senior deputy when my uncle retired.” Then I felt like an idiot because of course he knew who the sheriff of Hanover County was; it was only twenty miles away. He was just trying to be friendly, and give me an opportunity to establish my credentials. His patient look invited me to go on, so I added, “Buck is my former husband. He’s in Florida now.”

He nodded and sipped his coffee. “Yeah, I know. We tried to call him. Well, you tell your uncle I said hey, okay?” He glanced at the attorney, Mr. Willis. “Y’all ready?” 

Mr. Willis nodded and the other man, Special Agent Brown, took out a yellow legal pad and flipped a switch on a box in the middle of the table. “Miss Stockton, we’ll be videotaping this interview, if that’s all right with you.”

I nodded and sipped my coffee. It tasted a couple of days old, but it was hot and strong, and welcome to me.

“Please speak up.”

I said, “Yes. It’s fine.” But I was starting to feel a little uncomfortable about the whole thing. I glanced at Mr. Willis for reassurance, but he was busy writing something down and didn’t notice.

The agent added, with every pretense of friendliness, “I guess this is old-hat for you. You’ve been interviewed by the FBI before, haven’t you, Miss Stockton?” He flipped a page on his yellow pad and glanced at it. “Last fall, I believe.”

Before I could answer, Mr. Willis said, without glancing up, “I think we all acknowledge that Miss Stockton’s work has put her in a position to be of help to the police many times before. And this is not an FBI interview, Agent Brown, so I don’t see the relevance of what she was or was not doing last fall to the statement she is about to give now.”

Detective Ritchie glanced at the FBI agent with a quirk of his eyebrow that seemed to say
Nice try
and then said to me, “Please state your name, age, address and occupation for the record.”

I said, “My name is Raine Stockton, and I’m thirty six years old. I live at 101 Highway 11 East, Hanover, North Carolina. I own Dog Daze Boarding and Training in Hanover.”

“You train dogs for a living?”

“I also work part time for the forest service. That’s how I got involved in Search and Rescue.”

Ritchie nodded and consulted the notes on his pad. “I know it’s been a long day for you. We’ll try not to keep you much longer.”

“A long week,” I said. I took another sip of my coffee. “It’s been a long week.”

He nodded sympathetically. “Let’s get started, shall we?”