Her fingers stopped on a cracked, leather-bound volume with no title on the spine. With a small frown, she slid it off the shelf. The cover was also blank.
Curious, she flipped the book open to find that it was handwritten in an elegant scrawl, the words all seeming to bend to one side as though in a breeze.
Tina recognized the penmanship, and a chill ran through her.
"Sheriff, what's this?" she asked.
He seemed not to have heard her. "No, Alice. Just tell him to . . . hold on." Tackett put a hand over the phone and glanced at her. "I'm sorry, Tina, I have a visitor I'm not going to be able to put off. Can you let yourself out?"
The sheriff was watching her closely, out of concern. She glanced again at the writing in the book, then closed it and reluctantly slipped it back onto the shelf, wishing she could have taken it with her. In her grief and rage over Alan's murder, nothing made sense to her anymore.
"Of course," she said. "I'll talk to you later."
"I'll call as soon as I have any new information."
Tina thanked him and left the office. She had parked in the lot behind the building, so she went out the rear door.
Less than a minute after Tina left, Tackett gave Alice the okay to let the visitor in. The man who stepped into his office was tall and broad-shouldered, rugged-looking in that needed-a-shave-two-days-ago sort of way.
"I'm Bill Cantwell, Sheriff. We spoke on the phone this morning. You've got some friends of mine locked up, and - "
"I know who you are, Cantwell. Saw you play for the Patriots ten or twelve years ago. You were good, but they lost too many yards to penalties from you roughing up the other teams," Tackett declared. "In case my receptionist didn't tell you, Mr. Cantwell, we've had a rough morning here."
"I heard about your deputy, Sheriff. You have my sympathies. But you're holding my friends in connection with some murders that I'm guessing are similar to what happened to your man last night. Which means they haven't done anything. They've been in jail all night and all morning, sir. I'd like to ask you to let them out now."
Every joint in Jack's body ached with an echo of the discomfort of the night before. It had taken him more than an hour to fall asleep on the torturously uncomfortable cot provided in his cell. His mood upon waking had been quite dark, but he did not blame the sheriff for his discomfort. It was jail, after all, not a hotel. But their predicament was worrisome, to say the least. While they lingered in jail, the monsters preying upon the people of Buckton still roamed the land.
The night before, Jack had used his one call to telephone the pub, only to have Courtney tell him Bill was already on the way. Ever since dawn, he had been waiting for Bill to arrive and get them cut loose somehow.
It was almost noon when Tackett came to let him out of his cell.
"You're free to go, Dwyer," the sheriff grumbled, eyes empty and gray as the sky just before a storm rolled in.
Jack wanted to ask why, but thought better of it. When the sheriff released Molly from her cell at the other end of the corridor, however, she had no such hesitation.
"There's been another killing, hasn't there?" she asked. "That's why you have to let us go."
The sheriff turned to her slowly, like the straight man in an old vaudeville act. It was unnerving to see, and for a moment, Jack thought he might hit her.
"Deputy Vance," Tackett said bluntly.
"Oh, no," Molly replied, a hand flying to cover her mouth. She turned to Jack, gaze weighted with guilt and sorrow.
For a second Jack thought she might offer condolences. He felt some obligation to do so himself. But in the back of his mind was the suspicion he had been nursing since the night before . . . that the sheriff himself was a Prowler. With that lurking in the back of his mind, he could not bring himself to offer any kind words at all to the man. Molly, too, kept silent, and he imagined her reasons were the same.
Sheriff Tackett walked the two of them up to the front of the building where Bill was waiting.
"Are you going home soon?" Tackett asked, glaring at them.
"Not sure," Jack replied.
"Come talk to me first if you plan to leave," the sheriff commanded. "I think you know more about what's really happening here than you're telling me . . . and not that crap about Prowlers, either. The real thing. If I thought I could make those weapons charges stick in court, I'd hold you here."
Molly stiffened. Her hair was even more wild than usual, tangled and dirty, and she pushed it away from her cold, sad eyes as she turned on the sheriff.
"Why don't you?" she asked him. "You never even got a chance to impound and search Jack's Jeep. Did you even search our room at the inn?"
"Molly, maybe this isn't the time?"
Bill suggested. But it was too late. The sheriff turned on her, anger making his mouth and nostrils twitch as he tried to control himself. The storm had come into his eyes at last.
"Miss Hatcher, why don't you keep your mouth shut?" he snapped. "I know those guns were yours. I know you probably have more in your vehicle. But I've got a situation here that sort of takes precedence. In a bigger town, you'd be screwed right now. But I'm just one man. Count yourselves lucky and get out of my sight."
Her mouth dropped open and she seemed to be formulating some response when Jack and Bill ushered her out
