my case,” he said aloud.
Yet he was mildly intrigued. Mildly.
“Nobody likes interference,” he added. “Curtis knows better.”
Yet his partner, the bastard, had intrigued him.
Maybe it was a good thing. Time would tell.
The rain had turned his windows into a moving rain splatter and now he was insulated from view behind a gray fog of condensation, cocooned within the vehicle. Lang thought about the Jane Doe who’d been released from Laurelton General to Halo Valley Security Hospital.
Halo Valley.
He closed his eyes, breathed quietly for several moments, then opened them again. Halo Valley Security Hospital was a private institution where special funds were set aside for worthy cases. The Marsdon family being a major contributor to the hospital and the special funds made it a good bet concessions had been made for Heyward Marsdon III, yes, but the hospital served an altruistic purpose, too. Cases that might have normally been assigned to the Oregon State Hospital in Salem, the state-run facility, sometimes ended up at Halo Valley, easing costs to the state and maybe even giving the patient more intensive care.
Not that Lang would ever be a fan. Given what had happened to his sister on Halo Valley grounds, and the choices that had been made by Halo Valley staff, particularly Dr. Claire Norris, he was never going to feel all warm and fuzzy about the place. But Halo Valley was where the pregnant rest stop victim had been taken, so if he kept with this case, it might be a place he was destined to visit.
The idea brought a cold chill to his skin.
So why was he parked outside the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department? Why was he listening to Trey Curtis? Why did he feel oddly committed to a case that had nothing—nothing—to do with him? Why this case? Why now?
Lang’s hands flexed on the wheel for a moment, then he threw open the door and stepped into the rain, jamming a baseball cap on his head and watching rain slide down the shoulders of his black leather jacket. He should have worn a raincoat. He shouldn’t be on this mission. He should have stayed home and watched daytime television.
It was raining the day Melody died, too. An incessant, chilling precipitation thrown around by the hand of the wind. She’d stopped by to see Lang at work, her hair wet, her face flushed from cold, raindrops sparkling under the department lights. He’d been on his way out and she’d said she wanted to talk to him. She wore a thin jacket, a summer jacket, and he could see the bare skin of her wrists and a little up her forearms. Thin, red welts showed where she’d scratched herself. Even in those few moments she couldn’t stop the compulsive tearing at her own skin. He’d been worried. They agreed to meet at the house as soon as Lang was off, about three hours later. Melody had long ago moved out and been on her own. She’d been a bright star once, someone who seemed to know what she wanted. Someone in control of her own life. But things had deteriorated and Lang had tried to get her to come home to no avail. He knew about Heyward Marsdon, knew of his family and a little of his problems. Initially, he’d foolishly been relieved and happy when his drifting sister had connected with someone from a solid family. He’d felt hopeful, like she might actually pull it back together. Have a normal life. A good life. Naivete at its worst. He knew better. He’d seen enough through his years on the force to know better, but when it came to Melody he just wanted to believe in good things so badly.
She never made it to his house. He tried calling the cell phone number he had for her, but it was not hers any longer. He went to an old apartment address, but it was empty and the neighbor lady said she thought the woman who’d lived there had been evicted for nonpayment.
Kicking himself for not just leaving work with her when she stopped by, Lang tried getting in touch with the Marsdons and was coolly ignored. No, they didn’t know where Heyward was. No, they had no phone number for him. No, they had no idea who his friends were. And they would appreciate not being bothered again.
And then…merely an hour later…the emergency call from Halo Valley Security Hospital was logged into 911. He’d heard the tapes enough times. A guard, Wade De-Bussy, was holding down Heyward Marsdon, and one Dr. Claire Norris was saying that a woman named Melody Stone was dead.
Paranoid schizophrenia, they told Lang. Hallucinations and delusions. Unpredictable behavior. But no one, no one, believed Heyward Marsdon would kill anyone. Certainly not Heyward Senior or Junior, who were chock full of disbelief. Why, Heyward III had just been at the governor’s ball with his loving family. Yes, he’d had bouts of depression in the past, but this was entirely unprecedented. Unbelievable. There were undoubtedly mitigating factors to explain the psychological break. Drugs, maybe? He was never that sick.
Well, at least that was the beginning spate of excuses until Heyward Senior, who was the old man pulling the strings, saw that he’d better go for the insanity plea or his grandson would be heading straight for serious prison time. Lang suspected Heyward Marsdon Sr. was practically choking on the diagnosis for his only grandson. Heyward III’s father was like a pale shadow following the old man around and didn’t seem to have any say, one way or the other. A disappointment to his old man? Maybe the reason Heyward Senior was pinning his hopes on his schizophrenic grandson, no matter the evidence to the Third’s sickness?
It didn’t matter. None of it.
The upshot was that Lang hadn’t been there for Melody. A couple of hours on the job when he should have been with his sister. A couple of hours…that’s all.
So he quit. Just up and quit. Couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t go to his old desk and remember how he’d turned Melody away when she’d needed him. Since then he’d had six months of idle time and one job offer from the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, the law enforcement agency that held Halo Valley Security Hospital within its jurisdiction. Strange how the world worked. Ironic. He’d met with Tillamook County’s sheriff and had hit it off sometime the spring before, and the job offer came in just about the time he quit the Portland P.D. He’d turned them down, but like Drano, the job had yet to be filled. At this point he didn’t even know if he wanted to go back to law enforcement anywhere. Yet here he was, stepping forward through the rain to the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, working a case he had no business being involved with.
Now, stepping inside the department’s front doors, he glanced through bulletproof glass at the receptionist whose name tag read Dot Edwards. She smiled at him and said, “That’s one wet coat ya got there.”
Lang glanced at his jacket. It was soaked. “It was dry when I was at the ME’s.”
“You came from there?”
He nodded. “Sheriff still not in? I’m Langdon Stone. Ex-homicide with Portland P.D.”
“Ex,” she said.
“Long, ugly story.”
Dot hesitated, then gave Lang a slow, negative wag of her bleached blond head.
“Thought I’d check,” Lang said, turning to leave.
“Wait a sec. Detective Tanninger might be able to help you. He’s, like…the man everyone wants to see?” She reached for the phone.
“Is he in?” Lang asked, pausing.
She smiled and said into the receiver, “Could you check with Detective Tanninger? There’s someone here to see him. Ex-detective…?”
“Langdon
