As I headed down the front steps, the others followed.
Jesse couldn’t stop being a cop long enough for us to climb in the Forester. He prompted Shannon for more info as we opened the doors. “Willoughby’s dad is Big Ed?”
“His dad’s dead,” Shannon said flatly. “Or presumed so. He went missing about three months ago.”
“Let me guess,” Chance put in. “He went out to hunt and never came back.”
Like Glen, Miz Ruth’s husband.
She looked puzzled. “I don’t know if I ever heard that, but it could be. Men around here do love their guns.”
“How many people have gone missing in the last year?” Jesse wanted to know.
“We should put Shannon’s bike inside,” I said.
“Already did.” She climbed in front with Jesse, still thinking about his question. “Hard to say, because I don’t always know when someone gets scared—or sick of this town and just takes off—and when they just don’t come back. But I’d say ten. At least ten.”
Ten was a high number in a town as small as Kilmer. Chance and I exchanged a grim look while climbing in back.
Saldana glanced at me over his shoulder. “We need to find Little Ed Willoughby and ask him why he tried to use his vehicle as a deadly weapon, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” Chance muttered. “I’d like a word.”
The rest of the drive passed in silence. I wasn’t sure we should have brought her with us. It might dump more trouble on our heads to be seen with her, since we weren’t ready to leave town just yet. Then again, I didn’t know if it was a good idea to leave her alone in the house, even with good wards. On the balance, it was probably better to keep her close. I didn’t intend to let Kilmer claim another victim.
“Where to?” Saldana asked her.
“The newspaper office is downtown,” she answered, pointing. “I’m not sure if Mr. England will be in. If not, we can talk to the editor, Sam Proust.”
“Does the town have any reporters?” Back when I lived here, there had been one who wrote shiny human interest stories about how great Kilmer was.
“Two. Mr. Proust’s daughter, Karen, and that old nut job—”
“Dale Graham.” The name came to me before she said it.
Saldana parked the Forester, and Chance helped me out, then fed some coins into the meter. I glanced around at the quiet square, wondering if I imagined being the cynosure of malevolent eyes.
“He’s gotten weird in his old age,” she went on. But when I asked, she wouldn’t clarify. Shannon just shivered a little and pulled up the hood on her black sweatshirt. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
“Will you get in trouble if you’re seen with us?” I asked as we walked toward the newspaper office, a nondescript brownstone building a few blocks from the downtown square. The guys trailed us, talking in an undertone that made me nervous.
She shrugged. “Probably. But I’m not going back.”
I understood that well, maybe better than she knew. We came through the front door in a group, visibly alarming the thin, overworked-looking woman who greeted the general public. By her expression, people didn’t often turn up unannounced.
“We don’t give tours,” she said in a preemptive strike. “And the printing is done off-site.”
That probably deterred anyone else who stopped by, but we had other needs. “We’re here to see Mr. England.”
Her eyes widened. “Absolutely out of the question.”
“I figured it might be,” Jesse muttered.
“Maybe we could talk to Sam Proust,” Shannon suggested.
The receptionist became positively frosty. “Young lady, you cannot just waltz into a place of business like this.”
I didn’t know if she meant me or Shannon, but I answered. “Then how about Dale Graham? This is about a story,” I added.
We’d just keep name-dropping until we found someone we could see. She didn’t like it, but she got on the phone. A few minutes later, a man in late middle age came out in a pair of ragged jeans, a brightly patterned shirt, and a leather vest. He was actually wearing love beads and cowboy boots, an interesting look to be sure.
“I’m Dale,” he said. “Clarissa said you wanted to talk to me about a story idea?”
Obviously, we weren’t going to get to see the back of the newspaper office today. “Yes, sir. We’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” Chance said. “Interested?”
Portent of Things to Come
“This town is cursed,” the reporter said around a mouthful of peach pie.
We sat wedged into a booth at Ma’s Kitchen, a hole-in-the-wall that looked like it had been decorated just after World War II and hadn’t been updated since. Good thing Shannon was small, or we’d never have fit. She huddled on the other side of Chance while Jesse sat beside Dale Graham, who carried the scents of patchouli and hemp. He’d listened attentively to everything we had to say, and then made his somber pronouncement with a glee that contrasted sharply with its portent.
“You think it is?” Jesse asked. “Or you know it?”
Dale Graham took a sip of coffee to wash down the pie, his wooden beads rattling with the movement. “Do I have proof, you mean?”
I could see by Jesse’s expression that he thought this was a waste of time, but his smooth voice didn’t lose an iota of its patience. I grinned when I realized I could destroy his calm better than anyone else. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I’m working on that,” Graham said. He scraped his fork back and forth across his plate, making an irritating sound just a half step above nails on the chalkboard.
“So that’s a no,” Chance put in.
Well, we wouldn’t get anywhere if they alienated him, assuming he had anything of value to tell us. I was starting to doubt it. “What have you learned?”
He finally put down his fork and took a quick look around the diner as if he suspected someone of eavesdropping. Maybe his paranoia was persuasive, but I found myself doing the same thing. Men in flannel shirts sat at the breakfast counter, pushing their eggs around their plates while they nursed cups of coffee. Near the back, two old women were arguing over whether grits should be considered a starch. Nobody seemed to pay us any particular attention, but I leaned in so he wouldn’t need to raise his voice.
“I keep a journal,” Graham confided. “Making notes on the strange events around here. It goes back a long way, but things have really started to step up in the last fifteen years, and events seem to be escalating exponentially.”
“Missing pets and people,” I guessed.
The reporter gave an approving nod. “The freaky thing is, I don’t think anybody is looking for them.”
That was news. “Miz Ruth said her husband went hunting and never came back. The sheriff supposedly mounted a search, but nothing ever came of it.”
Graham shook his head. “Not true. I was in his office when she came in, and old Bulldog Robinson didn’t mount anything but his feet on his desk.”
“What were you doing in the sheriff’s office?” Jesse asked with a raised brow.
Looking put upon, Dale mumbled, “I was detained regarding an allegation of possessing controlled substances.”
“So you know for a fact, there was no search party,” Chance said, thoughtful.
“He didn’t even file the form she filled out,” the older man answered. “Just pitched it in the trash as soon as she left.”
Shannon articulated what everyone was thinking. “Whatever’s going on here, Sheriff Robinson’s in on it.”
I could tell that idea went down smooth as a truck full of cacti, particularly where Jesse Saldana was concerned. He looked like he hated the idea of another dirty cop. After what had happened with his partner, I couldn’t blame him, but at the moment we needed to decide how this information best served us.
“There’s something in the woods,” I said quietly. “And I think they know about it. So if someone disappears out there, they realize there’s no point in looking.”
“But they don’t want to panic the townsfolk.” Jesse drummed his fingers against the tabletop. “So they pretend to go about their business while feverishly looking for a solution to a problem they don’t acknowledge.”
I remembered the grisly pile of mementos and shivered. Chance’s arm went around my shoulders in a casual gesture that stole my breath. He’d never been attuned to me like that before; or if he had been, he never showed it. A surge of renegade warmth curled down my spine as he nestled me against his side. He didn’t even seem aware of what he was doing, as he listened to the crackpot theory Dale Graham was espousing.
I tried to be gentle when the reporter finally stopped talking. “I don’t think this has anything to do with pixies, killer clowns, or lawn gnomes that come to life in the dark of the moon.”
No wonder the authorities didn’t consider him a threat. Between the drugs and his penchant for tabloid journalism, nobody would ever take this guy seriously. We gave his words credence only because we’d seen things ourselves—and even then, we couldn’t believe everything he said.
“They’re watching us,” he concluded with a flickered look around the diner. “I haven’t figured out how yet, but they know where I am all the time.”
“Maybe we could see your journal,” I cut in.
That would likely prove more helpful than listening to him ramble about secret government bases hidden beneath Kilmer, alien breeding programs, and conspiracies that could only be thwarted with the persistent donning of tinfoil hats. The only guy in town willing to talk to us seemed nutty as a Snickers bar.
“I keep it hidden,” he said. “I don’t want them to realize how much I know.”
Well, I hadn’t thought he kept it in his pocket. If it represented years of conspiracy research, it was probably a pretty hefty notebook, maybe even more than one. I guessed it would be secreted in his house somewhere.
“Where do you live?” Chance asked, making the decision for me.
Graham glanced between us with narrowed eyes, as if he thought we might be plants from the establishment. His gaze lingered on Shannon, who said, “It’s okay. I know how you feel about my mom. I won’t come if you don’t want me to.”
That seemed to reassure him, though I didn’t know why. “Out on Rabbit Road,” he said. “All the way at the end, just before the road runs out. You can’t miss the place.”
“I know where it is,” Shannon said.
So did I, actually. He was on the other side of the woods from us, but just as close to those watchful trees. I repressed a shudder.
“Be there at nine tonight,” Graham said, and crammed the last bite of his pie into his mouth. “I’ll need time to retrieve my journal.”
So he didn’t keep it at home. Interesting. But then, homes had a way of burning down in Kilmer, didn’t they? I couldn’t imagine where a half-crazed relic from the sixties would hide something.
