Husk

talked about earlier in the day. Despite its small size and simplicity, she scolded herself for wasting the time she’d already spent on it.

When Frank told her of his idea that Kane might have had an accomplice, she thought reading his book could help her understand what kind of a person—if an accomplice existed—she needed to look for. She had three bodies and two missing people who each seemed linked by the dead killer’s identity, so any information she could gain from it might aid her in her search for a suspect.

Not so. She found herself struggling with more questions now than before she’d started reading it.

To her surprise, Frank’s writing had revealed theories he never mentioned when she’d visited him, things he no doubt purposely neglected to discuss. And she understood why. If he’d told her his true beliefs about the killer, she would’ve labeled him insane. Hell, it was no wonder why his book had bombed. For God’s sake, the man actually believed Kane’s partner was—

The phone rang.

Melissa returned to the living room and scooped up the handset.

‘Private number’ showed on the caller ID.

Hoping for a return call from the Damerows, Melissa answered. “Detective Melissa—”

“Detective, it’s Frank Atkins.”

Her eyebrows rose in surprise. She paused to collect herself before answering. Considering how much information he’d withheld during their meeting, it was amazing he had the courage to speak to her at all.

“Hello, Frank. This is unexpected.”

“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said. “I saw a preview for tonight’s news earlier. They say there’s been a double murder out in Corcoran, that the bodies are a week old, and the killer might still be on the loose. Real nice sales pitch, isn’t it? Naturally, I’ll have to wait until ten to find out if I’m in danger or not, but I was hoping you could tell me sooner. Is what they say true?”

“You’re wondering if it’s related to Judge Anderson’s disappearance?”

“Is it?”

“You know I can’t give out case information, Frank. Even if you were an investigator once, I’m not obligated —”

“I know Anderson lived minutes from Corcoran, Detective,” Frank interrupted without raising his voice. “I had a friend from the department do a check on his unlisted address.”

“What for?”

“I’m concerned,” he responded. “Two murders, that close together; it can’t be a coincidence. If the killer is operating in that area, there are going to be more bodies, and soon.”

She smirked at his justification for becoming involved. “You’re not ‘concerned’ about just any nameless murderer, are you? You’re suggesting it was Kane’s partner.”

“I didn’t say that,” he replied, “but it’s possible. If so, I think I know where the killer will go next.”

“Where?”

“Kane’s grave.”

“I’ve given that thought,” Melissa agreed. “But right now I’m more concerned with finding potential witnesses and examining the forensic evidence rather than staking out a cemetery.”

“They worked together for years,” Frank went on. “There’s no telling exactly how long they knew each other, but one thing’s for sure, they were devoted to one another. I’m certain Kane’s burial site will attract the killer’s attention, and I’d be willing to bet it’s in the same area where the killings are taking place.”

Melissa closed her eyes and shook her head. Back in Frank’s apartment, she’d felt sorry for the man because she saw a good detective who had succumbed to an almost obsessive-compulsive need to prove the impossible. She’d heard of it before, about investigators who became so wrapped up in their work they refused to let it end, even when it had.

“So, tell me,” she said. “Where is Kane buried?”

“That’s the problem,” Frank replied. “I don’t know. After his death, his body was supposed to be released to his mother, Catharine. Unfortunately, she died almost two years before Kane came out of his coma. She’s buried in St. Paul, alongside Kane’s father.”

“So, what happened to Kale?”

Frank sighed with irritation. “It seems Catharine knew she might not live to see her son again, and that he might not make it out of his coma. She had a special condition added to her will that specified Kale’s burial site be kept off public record. I’ve spoken with her former attorney about it several times. I guess after all the carnage Kale committed she believed certain people might desecrate his grave. Her attorney oversaw all the burial arrangements. I managed to learn that Kane’s body was indeed interred, rather than cremated, but the attorney won’t disclose the cemetery’s whereabouts without a judicial order. All he told me was that they used an ‘old family plot’ and that everything was done in accordance to the law. The guy’s a weasely son-of-a-bitch, but he’s got powerful friends in the system, and he’s managed to stonewall me each time I’ve tried to get the location. And, believe me, the bastard takes great pride in being the keeper of that little secret. That’s why I called you.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“With your investigation, you can get a court order—”

“Hold up a second,” she cut in.  “Frank, the thing is… I’ve been reading your book, and I’m afraid I can’t agree with your theories. I certainly appreciate your willingness to help—I really do—but I think I’ll proceed with this investigation based on the facts and make my own judgments to how they’re connected with the case.”

Frank had gone silent. Melissa read his frustration in the pause.

“I respect the work you’ve done,” she continued, “so I’ll definitely take your advice about checking into where Kane’s body is buried. At the moment, however, I’m caught up in trying to get all the information I can from the Andersons’ neighbors. Besides, if a seasoned investigator like you had trouble locating Kane’s grave, I doubt anyone else will have better luck.”

“Please, Melissa.”

“There were two homicides out in Corcoran,” she confirmed, “but it’s too early to tell if they’re connected with the Andersons’ disappearance. I’m having trouble getting in touch with their neighbors, which is why I really need to get going. I have a ton of calls to make yet. You understand, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied, his voice dry.

“Thanks again for your input,” she said, cringing at her inability to find a better way of letting him go.

???

Frank sped west on Highway 55, the night’s breath blowing against the Chevy’s windshield. He switched off his cell phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

“Damn,” he whispered.

Focusing on the road, he reminded himself that he couldn’t blame Melissa for not accepting his ideas. Not many rational people would. He knew he was on his own.

In his free hand he clutched a piece of paper with Judge Anderson’s home address on it. He held it up.

And saw a blood-soaked man run onto the road.

He cried out and slammed on the brakes, spinning the steering wheel to the left. The Blazer’s tires shrieked. He swerved into oncoming traffic, and the blinding glare of another vehicle’s headlights filled the windshield. A horn blared.

“Shit!”

He jerked the wheel right again and cut back into his lane, sliding to a stop half-off the road’s shoulder.

Frank pulled his gun and whirled around, aiming out the rear window.

Thirty feet behind him a tattered crimson tarp hung from an old road sign, one loose end fluttering in the wind.

Frank stared at it, chest heaving.

Slowly, he lowered his gun and faced forward again, taking a deep breath and closing his good eye. He touched the skin below his eye patch with his free hand, feeling the scar on his face. There was no time to stop and dwell on old demons.

He had to keep moving.

Frank opened his eye and holstered his weapon.