Jaclyn Smith, and on to the store’s well-stocked hunting section. There, he picked out a Camillus Buckmaster’s blade with a gut hook.
The nearly eight-inch blade looked serviceable enough.
“Need a whetstone?” the clerk asked, a roly-poly man with a walrus mustache and failed hair plugs.
“Is it sharp now?” He twisted the high-carbon stainless-steel blade in the flat light of the store. A nice glint deflected light into the clerk’s eyes. He looked back down at a little card extolling the virtues of the blade:
“You could gut a live deer in ten secs,” the clerk said, pausing for a gruesome punch line, “and she wouldn’t even feel it. It works almost like a zipper pull.”
Michael nodded approvingly. “Nice, but no whetstone.”
What he didn’t say was that he didn’t need a whetstone because he had no need to use the knife a second time.
“OK, $24.97, with tax. Guns and knives are paid for here, not up front.”
He put down a twenty and a five.
When the clerk attempted to hand over the three pennies, he shook his head and pointed to the share-a- penny dish on the counter.
“Put ’em in there.”
He looked at his watch. Everything was right on time. Jenna Kenyon’s online schedule had her back in Cherrystone already.
He was going to finish a job that he’d failed once before.
The trauma of the McConnell shooting had taken its toll on Jason Howard. He’d never fired his weapon at a person before. He’d been interviewed for hours by men and women from the state who’d never faced danger head- on. Hitting a suspect with a bullet to save his life did not guarantee absolution. One investigator suggested that if Emily’s deputy had killed the serial killing lawyer, there’d be less of an investigation.
“No one would be screaming about his rights, if he was dead,” Chris told Emily as he went out the door for a couple of coffees. He’d stayed over a couple of days just to “make sure” she’d be all right.
“Back in fifteen minutes,” he said.
Emily never wanted him to leave. She knew just how much she loved him. If he asked her again, she told herself that she’d say
Shali Patterson’s car was in the shop, so she walked from her house over to the Kenyons’. She’d had that old VW forever, and knew that it was about time that she’d have to quit fixing it, and buck up and buy a new one. For their shopping trip that day, Jenna would have to drive her reliable but boring Honda Civic.
A man approached Shali in front of the Kenyons’ big white Victorian.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi yourself,” Shali replied, never one to rein in her considerable flirting skills. He was a good-looking man, in jeans and a hoodie. Older than most of the guys she dated, but undeniably handsome with lively brown eyes and wavy black hair.
“My car broke down,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “My cell’s dead and I have to use the bathroom. TMI, right?”
Shali smiled. “That sucks. You can use my phone. My friend lives here and I’m sure you can use her bathroom. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood where we want guys peeing on the bushes.”
“I didn’t think so,” he said, a bright, white smile across his face. “Thanks.”
Shali knocked on the door and Jenna answered, looking quizzically at the man a step behind her best friend.
“This is?” Shali said, looking back at the man in the hoodie.
“Michael,” he said.
Shali turned her gaze back at Jenna. “Michael’s car broke down. He needs to call Triple-A or something. More than that he needs to use a bathroom.”
Michael shifted his weight from one foot to another once, then again. It wasn’t exactly the “gotta go” dance, but a subtle hint that there was a little urgency. He needed the bathroom
“Stupid rental car,” he said. “I’m here checking out the real estate. Thinking about moving here. Your hospitality is amazing. This just might be the perfect town to bring my wife and kids.”
“I’m Jenna Kenyon. You’ve met Shali.”
He smiled, his white teeth perfect on the top, crooked like a busted fence on the bottom. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for helping out a stranger.”
As he stepped into the foyer, Jenna noticed a bloom of water on the fibers of Michael’s sweatshirt pocket.
“Looks like you’re springing a leak,” she said.
He looked down sheepishly at his crotch.
“Oh, not that!” Jenna said as embarrassment took over. Her face went red. “Your sweatshirt pocket.”
He felt the damp bulge. “Water bottle,” he said, though he didn’t pull it out to tighten the cap.
“I hate when that happens,” Shali said.
He grinned.
“Powder room’s down the hall,” Jenna said.
Chapter Seventy
Her phone was a sleeping cobra. She didn’t want to pick it up. Olivia Barton knew that it was the hardest call she’d ever make. She knew that by dialing the number of the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department, she’d be ending the life that she had dreamed of as a child. She was going to snuff out all of it—the loving husband, the stable environment in which to raise their children, the pretty house with an orange tree in the backyard. There was no one to talk to about what she was thinking. She was alone, looking at that dangerous phone and the damage it would do. She had written down the phone number she found on the Internet. She picked it up and dialed.
It rang and Gloria Bergstrom answered.
“Cherrystone Sheriff’s office. Is this an emergency?”
“Um. I want to speak with Emily Kenyon,” she said, her words constricted in her throat. “The sheriff, please.”
“Is this about a criminal matter?”
Olivia knew that it was, but what she said next wasn’t entirely a lie.
“No, it’s personal.”
“I’ll patch you through. Hang on.”
“Sheriff Kenyon.”
“Sheriff, my name is Olivia Barton.” Her voice faded like an echo.
“Yes. Do I know you?”
Olivia tried a second time. She knew every word she had to say, and she understood the urgency that came with it. “Sheriff, I think my husband might not be well. He might be a dangerous man.”
She couldn’t bring herself to say serial killer, but it ran through her mind.
“Are you safe right now?” Emily asked.
