“Max warned me not to drive around alone after dark.”
“Things are tense here,” Hannah said. “We just need to be careful.”
In Alber, certain families historically controlled various aspects of town life. Our family ran the sawmill, the Heatons had the hardware store and as the ruling family, the Barstows controlled city hall and manned the local PD. Old man Barstow was gone, but I wondered about his sons and brothers. Max had hung up before I could ask any real questions, like the name of the police chief I should expect to hear from.
“Who’s in the local police department these days? Is a Barstow still chief?”
“There are a few of the old-timers and some new officers, people from outside. I don’t know the new folks well. Gerard Barstow is the chief.”
I had an image of a guy I’d grown up with through high school. Gerard had been a big kid, not terribly bright, who played football. My brothers liked him well enough, although my father had never had much respect for any of the Barstow boys, and there were dozens of them. Dad always said that the Barstows thought they owned the town. But with their father as the prophet, perhaps they did.
“You think that’s Gerard behind us?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked back at the SUV’s headlights again. “It could be.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” I said. “I’m going to pull over.”
This time, Hannah put her hand over mine on the wheel. “Clara, you’re from outside. I live here. I’m asking you to please keep driving. We can’t be sure who that is.”
Grudgingly, I did as she asked. If it was Gerard Barstow, it would only be a short delay. One way or the other, I would talk to him before the end of the evening. If not now, after I talked to the Heatons about Eliza. I eased off the gas, thinking the Suburban would pass. The SUV slowed down and stayed on track behind me.
“Why would someone follow me?” I asked.
“I don’t know. But if it is Gerard, it’s nothing. He follows everyone off and on. Doesn’t usually bother anyone. It’s like he’s keeping guard. Just keep driving.”
I glanced over at Hannah and noticed that she was biting her lower lip. “He makes you nervous?”
“This is silly. He shouldn’t,” she said. “Gerard is always pleasant enough. Seems pretty level-headed. Not like some of his brothers. The chief before him, his brother Evan, was a piece of work. Mean. Lots of rumors about him.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he liked young girls. Very young girls. Evan used to hang around the school a lot,” Hannah said. “He left town as soon as the turmoil began. I heard he moved his family to a small town not far north of here. Hitchins. He’s police chief there now. God help those people.”
“I remember Evan. He was an officer when I lived here, became chief a year or so before I left.” Mainly what I remembered was Evan Barstow railroading the boys in town targeted by the leaders for expulsion, harassing and pushing them until they left. “But you look like you’re not sure about Gerard?”
Hannah released a soft, nervous laugh.
“Clara, no offense, but growing up here the way we did, the police working for the church leaders, doing their dirty work, all cops make me nervous.” Hannah paused, as if mulling that over. “Gerard has always seemed pretty harmless. I don’t know if you know this, but he was one of the lost boys.”
“I didn’t.” That made little sense. None of the Barstow boys was ever forced out. That just didn’t happen.
“Yeah. They pushed Gerard out when he was eighteen, maybe a little older. It was really ugly. His own father and grandfather wanted him gone,” she explained.
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but I always figured he didn’t fall in line the way they wanted.”
“So Gerard wasn’t really tied to the establishment? He wasn’t here when the authorities arrested his father?”
“No, he’s like Max—a lost boy who’s come back now that the town is opening up.”
I thought about Gerard and Max. How frightening it must have been to be driven from home as a teenager, leaving behind family and everything they knew. I drove carefully, watching the speed limit.
If that wasn’t a police officer in the Suburban behind me, who could it be? I thought about what Hannah had said, about the man found beaten on the side of the road. I had my handgun in my bag, on the backseat. “Hannah, grab my bag for me, will you? Put it on the floor in front of you.”
“Why?” she asked, as she did as I requested.
“No reason.”
We continued on, working our way through town, driving past the big houses, most dark for the night. Some had lamps scattered about, shining in the windows, and up ahead, at the trailer park, lights hung behind the fences and cast a yellow glow. The gate to the park was closed, so I pulled over, grabbed my bag and got out.
The Suburban parked directly behind me. I kept walking, but slipped my right hand into my bag’s gun pocket. Once I reached the gate, I grabbed the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. The gate was locked.
“Shit,” I murmured.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a man walk toward me. I turned toward him and poised my index finger over the trigger as he moved forward slowly.
“Who’s there?” I called out.
The man entered the glow from an overhead spotlight aimed at the gate. He wore a wide-brimmed cowboy hat that cast his face into shadow. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief when I saw his khaki cop uniform and a badge just above his left shirt pocket.
“Clara Jefferies? Is that you?” the man shouted. He raised a flashlight and shined it in my eyes, blinding me.
“It is. Who are you?” I raised my left hand to shield my eyes from the glare. “And can you aim that someplace else?”
He let loose a
