with his left hand. “Say the word, and I’ll smite this wicked limb here and now that it might never again act in weakness!”
With growing zeal, he reached for the carved-bone letter opener a member of his congregation had made for him several Christmases ago. The blade had as sharp an edge as anything in Miriam’s kitchen, and he’d already had a close encounter with it. The last time he’d invited the Lord to smite him, he’d slipped and cut himself so badly, the wound had required seven stitches—not to mention a lot of explaining to his wife.
Now, as then, the room remained silent.
The reverend smiled knowingly. “You don’t think I would do it, except by accident. And You’re right, of course. I’m as big a coward as I am a weakling.”
He replaced the letter opener in its wooden tray and covered his face with his hands. Despite having scrubbed them in the kitchen sink, they still carried the smell of sex and the earth he’d dug in.
As visions of his earlier behavior flashed again in his mind’s eye, he flung himself to the carpet and began sobbing. “Help me. Stop me. End this, damn it. End it!”
9
2:40 a.m.
The scene before him was at once typical of investigations, and yet eerie; however, Jared wasted no time climbing out of his car. “What do you know?” he asked Buddy, who was the first to come over to him. He’d parked next to the patrolman’s unit, making his the fifth vehicle in the semicircle.
About a dozen yards in front of them stood the red Firebird. A few of the cars were idling, their headlights being used to illuminate the Trans Am that was parked slightly off Pete Fite’s driveway on the grassy, sloped embankment. The driver’s door was wide open, the interior light on. There was no sign of Faith.
“Is that how you found things?”
“Exactly this way—the engine and headlights off, but the door wide open. Pete swears he didn’t touch a thing. Doesn’t look good, Chief. She’s not here.”
“Well, somebody was.” He could tell that it was Faith’s car from the license plate. But what had him placing his hands on his hips was the man who rounded the thing and leaned into the vehicle. “Who the hell is that?”
“Deputy DeFreese Adams. Sheriff Cudahy’s newest boy.”
“Where the hell did he train? Hollywood? Get him away from there before he touches anything. As it is, he’s probably contaminated the surroundings. Look where he’s standing—right where there would have been the only footprints of the driver.” He had to all but yell over the baying hounds, and he scowled at Pete’s dogs leaping and cavorting around the visibly upset man. “Why hasn’t someone told Fite to lock up those mutts?”
“I was on my way to do that when you pulled in.”
Chagrined, Buddy didn’t wait for Jared to comment further; he took off. Halfway there, he yelled something at Deputy Adams that Jared didn’t catch, but it made the lanky cop pull out of the Firebird so fast, he hit his head on the frame. His sharp curse and subsequent shuffling made Jared half tempted to reach for his gun.
“Shooting the son of a bitch wouldn’t make half the mess.”
Turning away from the pitiful scene, he came face-to-face with Deputy Roy Russell. The shorter man’s dark, somber eyes and gray, thin hair testified that he had as many years in law enforcement as Jared, and was as disturbed by Reese’s actions.
“Sorry, Chief. He’s new.”
“So I heard.” Sometimes new was good, because then people did everything by the book as though each page was tattooed on the inside of their eyeballs. Why hadn’t they been blessed with one of those? “Well, this sure is starting off bad.”
“I’ve only been here a minute, but it feels worse.”
“Yeah, Eagan tells me there’s no sign of her.”
“That’s not all.” At Jared’s questioning look, Russell lifted both eyebrows, as well. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Can’t say I gave him time to.” Actually, he’d expected his man to share anything pertinent immediately. It seemed the new guy wasn’t the only one screwing up tonight.
“Her purse is in there. At least, I’m assuming it’s hers. That’s why I was in my car. I’ve called the sheriff, told him we’re going to need John. Hope you don’t mind me making that decision before talking to you.”
“I would have done the same thing.” John Box was the new detective for the Sheriff’s Department. A transplant from the Dallas PD with fifteen years in Homicide, he’d moved his family to the Pineywoods after hearing his teenage son and daughter respond to him once too often in mall-speak. Wood County was fortunate to have him, and because Pete’s property was only partially in Split Creek, the sheriff’s people had as much jurisdiction here as Jared did. “Tell me about the purse. What makes you think it’s hers?”
“It looks like something my teenage niece would carry. You know—less than half the size of what older women carry, and the seams splitting from being crammed with brushes and cassettes and makeup. It’s on the passenger floorboard.”
“Tipped over as though the car had been stopped sharply, or as though thrown back in for…whatever reason?”
“Neither. It’s pretty much upright, kinda leaning toward the console. Looks intentionally placed there, as though that’s where she kept it. My wife keeps hers that way, too, since I told her how at city corners thieves like to bust in windows and steal purses they see on the seat.”
“Are there any signs of a struggle? Blood? Spilled liquids?”
“I wish. It’s such a stagnant scene, it gives me the creeps. But listen, I only had a quick glance around. Once I guessed what we were dealing with, I got the hell away from there.”
“Wish you’d given your cohort the same advice,” Jared replied with a nod toward Adams, who was still standing too close to the vehicle to suit him.
Roy sucked air between his front teeth. “That’s an ambitious boy, Chief. Made it clear after his second day that he wants to be the department’s second detective.”
It wouldn’t happen because of his performance on this case. “Ignore me if I’m insulting your intelligence,” Jared replied. “But if I don’t get to him first, remind Box to take print samples from Mr. Up-and-Coming so we don’t waste time on false leads.”
“I hear you.” The deputy glanced over toward the house, where Pete was penning his dogs, then back at the street, and finally the woods. “Where do you think she is?”
“Until a few minutes ago, I’d hoped at a friend’s having a good pout.”
“Spoiled type?”
“A little. More accurately, part of a struggling family. Anyone related to Buck Ramey has her work cut out for her.”
Roy’s eyes widened. “She’s that Ramey?”
“There
