Husk

And for the first time in over fifty years, he screamed.

CHAPTER 17

Detective Melissa Humble found the small town of Loretto on the other side of Highway 55, going south on County Road 19, less than three miles from the Pattersons’ house. The neighborhood she’d been called to, a wealthy subdivision comprised of only a couple dozen homes, waited minutes to the east.

Harold Fish greeted her in the driveway of Jerry Anderson’s house. Even before getting out of the car, she recognized the look of absolute shock on his face, an all-too-familiar expression universal to the friends and family of murder victims.

She got out of the car and introduced herself. The man’s blanched face matched the ashen color of his powder-white hair, and his words trembled when he told her about the horrifying discovery he’d made in his neighbor’s backyard. For a second, Melissa thought he might even pass out.

“Y-you’ll have to forgive me, Detective,” he stammered. “I’ve seen bodies messed up pretty bad before, both what the Viet Cong did to our guys and what we did to them, but that thing in the backyard…”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Fish,” she assured him. “Take your time.”

He explained how he stumbled upon the local priest in his neighbor’s backyard, and despite being prepared for it, Melissa stopped short when she saw the man’s body for herself. She lingered in the doorway like a swimmer catching her breath before taking a dive. The priest had been stripped naked and sliced open, propped up like a scarecrow with his decapitated head inserted within a gaping abdominal wound. The brutality of the crime seemed to match the violence of the Patterson killings, but she didn’t notice any obvious calling cards.

The wind gusted and a cloud blocked the sun, darkening the lawn where Melissa stood.

In the shadow, fluttered by the breeze, the flimsy green arms of the corn stalks in the garden appeared to be reaching for her.

???

Mallory followed her dad out to the Ford, navigating the front walkway on autopilot. Across the street numerous police cars lined the curb in front of the Andersons’ house. Barrier tape surrounded the front steps and entryway now, and a tall man with a camera circled the one vehicle in the driveway, endlessly snapping pictures.

She’d arranged to meet with Becky at the Mall of America by one—she was already late—but part of her wanted to hang around home and find out what was going on. She thought about the shape she’d seen watching her from the Andersons’ window on Saturday, and the creepy tale her brother delivered moments before almost drowning in the pool.

She glanced over at BJ while her dad buckled him into his booster-seat. He sat slack-faced, still acting distant, not himself. This morning she’d overheard him mention something new about the pool incident, something about clothing in the water, but she couldn’t remember seeing any.

She settled into the front passenger seat and once again turned her attention toward the house across the street when they pulled out of the driveway.

“What do you think happened over there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” her father replied.

“Voodooman,” BJ said.

Mallory could tell her dad didn’t approve of the boy’s remark, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Next stop, The Mall.”

???

Melissa strolled through Mr. Anderson’s den, a cozy room on the first floor styled with Scandinavian decor: unvarnished pine woodwork, exposed beam ceiling, forest green carpeting, stone fireplace in the corner. She’d learned from Mr. Fish that Jerry Anderson held the title of Judge within the Minnesota judicial system, although he’d been retired from the bench for several years now. From what she understood, he had no connection to Kane whatsoever.

She looked up and found Rictor standing in the doorway.

“I could hear the gears in your head turning all the way from the driveway,” he said.

Melissa forced a smile. “How’s it going out there?”

“Better than at the farmhouse,” he answered. “We’ve retrieved three bullets from the upstairs bedroom and the M.E. gave us an estimated time of death on the priest. I’d still like to get my hands on their vehicle, though; any word on the van?”

“I put out a BOLO report,” she replied. “Now it’s a time issue. Have you found any K markings?”

“No.”

“Me either.”

“Perhaps these two incidents aren’t related.”

“I’m not ruling anything out until we locate the Andersons or their van.”

Rictor nodded.

Melissa perused the room, still mulling over the feeble facts.

Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the den’s window, illuminating dust particles that drifted in the air. The yellow beam ended at the far wall, beside the Judge’s desk, where it spotlighted a variety of reference books. Melissa’s gaze glided across the binders displayed on the lowest shelf—where law books and encyclopedias gave way to mystery novels—and focused on a small stack of paperbacks resting on the floor.

Kane’s name appeared in irregular black lettering across the spine of the fifth book in the stack.

If not for the sun’s rays reflecting off the book’s glossy red binding, she might not have noticed it so quickly. She hurried across the room.

“What is it, Detective?” Rictor asked.

“Look at this.”

She picked up the entire collection of books and transferred them to the Judge’s desk. On top sat a work about modern-day voodoo entitled The Risen Dead, followed by a book called Flesheaters, which had something to do with ancient tribes and human sacrifices.

“Grimly ironic subjects, huh?” Rictor remarked.

The title, The Lost World of the Aztecs, adorned the cover of the third volume in the stack—stamped in bright gold lettering—and it sat atop a thick reference work on Gnosticism. Next came the one Melissa had spotted, A Killer’s Shadow, the arrest of Kale Kane, by Frank Atkins.

Frank Atkins.

Melissa knew the name well. Detective Atkins had been the man who’d originally ended Kane’s string of kidnappings and murders. Frank had even been on one of the reserve tactical teams that stormed the killer’s farm in Stillwater. Melissa vaguely remembered hearing Atkins had been injured in the raid, and later retired from police work altogether. She had no idea he’d written a book on the madman.

“Have you ever seen this?” she asked Rictor.

He frowned at the cover and nodded. “Yes, some time ago—a year or two after the shootout.”

She opened the cover and noticed a yellow post-it note stuck to the inside that included Frank’s name and a phone number.

“It didn’t do too good on the market, if I remember correctly,” Rictor continued. “I recall seeing an interview Channel 9 did with the man a few months after it was published. He looked haggard, tired. I guess he got a lot of criticism for his writing. The local papers seemed ruthless about smearing his name.”

Melissa flipped the copy over and found a picture of a handsome man with thick black hair, passive eyes, and a thoughtful expression printed on the back cover. He looked more like a concerned psychiatrist than a cop.

“Did you ever work with him?” Melissa asked, looking to Rictor. “He’d already retired by the time I transferred here from Chicago, but I still hear his name in conversation from time to time.”

Rictor shook his head. “I was still a medical examiner in St. Paul back then. I did manage to get a look at one of Kane’s victims while Detective Atkins was on the case, though. One of the