She
stepped past the doorway. He turned toward her and
smiled -- his face a medley of tenderness, passion,
and love
"I
thought you were gone," she said.
"I
know."
"But
these past years? Those long, unbearable last months?"
"They’re
behind us," he said softly.
Fallon
wondered how the ordeal could be over. It still
seemed so real to her. She could remember its
beginning to the day. Adam had just come through
their rear door. She had been baking. The room
smelled of chocolate chip cookies.
She had
turned from the sink at the sound of the door opening
and she had watched with a smile as Adam had removed
his gloves, coat, and muffler. Slowly, as he had
quietly unbundled himself, she had realized something
was vitally wrong and her smile had faded.
"What
did he say then?" she had asked wiping her wet
hands on a dishtowel.
"It
isn’t good, Fallon."
"What
do you mean, it’s not good?"
Adam had
complained for months of not feeling well. It had
been nothing he could quite put into precise words
but was rather a general feeling of malaise. She had
finally convinced him to go see a doctor. Something
Adam disdained.
She had
offered to go with him. It was an offer he had
instantly pushed aside--a fact, at that moment, which
Fallon deeply resented.
Had he
allowed her to go with him, she would not have been
standing there waiting for news, news he obviously
did not want to give.
"It’s
cancer. A rare form. The prognosis is not good."
But
Fallon abhorred death--an aversion that had started
when her father had died on her twelfth birthday.
Since then, she had routinely railed against death.
It was what had driven her into her life-long
profession.
"We’ll
fight it," she had told him.
But that
was then. And this was now. She heard a cardinal song
through the open kitchen window, felt the warmth of
summer around her, and Adam stood quietly before
their stove. He was the picture of health.
He moved
to her. She hesitated then stepped forward, too. He
wrapped his arms round her. They kissed. His mouth
warm, his arms as familiar to her as the sound of her
own heart beat.
"I’ve
missed you so much." She rested her head against
his broad shoulder, drawing strength from the press
of his body against hers.
Chapter 1
Fallon
Magare forced her eyes open. Beside her the telephone
shrieked. She wished its ringing would cease. She
longed to return to her dream.
In the days
to come, she would occasionally regret not giving in
to that instinct. But duty was duty. When the phone
rang, a sheriff answered the call.
So she eased
her arms from beneath the covers, heaved onto an
elbow, and grabbed the receiver with her free hand.
"Sheriff
Magare," she mumbled into the mouthpiece.
"Ah,
Fallon," a deep voice rumbled. "I’m
sorry to call at this hour, but we need you. We’ve
got a dead body. An obvious homicide."
"Where?"
"Out on
County Road 650 East. Matty Williams’ place. I’ll
explain later."
"I’ll
be right there," Fallon ran a hand through her
matted hair, "twenty minutes max."
She signed
off, replaced the receiver, and lay quietly a moment,
giving her startled mind a chance to focus. Her eyes
studied the blank ceiling. The room she woke to was
dark. Lined drapes banned all but a faint suggestion
of sunlight from the room.
Beyond the
windows, the heat of late August droned on. Even at
that early hour, late-summer Midwestern humidity bore
down on corn fields and bean fields surrounding the
town. In town, air conditioners hummed with abandon.
The sheriff
sat up and pushed herself off from her bed. She
rushed through her morning ritual, slapping cold
water onto her face, and running a brush through her
short hair.
Her uniform
with its brown shirt and matching skirt was draped
over the back of a chair in her bedroom. Underwear
and socks were stacked on the chair seat. Heavy
brown, sensible shoes sat to the front of the chair.
Fallon Magare was prepared to begin a day quickly.
Alone in the
darkened bedroom the silence of the house pressed
against her. Normally at this hour, she would have
turned on the television. The radio in the kitchen.
Anything to submerge the silence of living alone.
As she
donned her uniform, she struggled to shake off the
feeling of loneliness -- the lingering sense of
abandonment. Finally dressed, she grabbed car keys
from the bedroom dresser and fled her silent home.
*****
The drive to
Matty Williams’ field took Fallon less than ten
minutes. Windtree County was of medium size
geographically. Nestled on the Illinois side of the
Mississippi River, it encompassed about six hundred
square miles, contained six towns, and had a
population of little more than twenty-five thousand.
Matty
Williams' farm sat near the northeast corner of the
county about as far from the river as one could get.
The land there was flat, rich, and fertile. It was
good farm ground, which had for generations provided
its owners with comfortable incomes.
Turning left
off County Road 650 East, Fallon eased her Jeep
through an open gate and into a harvested oat field.
She switched off the ignition, stepped down from the
Wrangler, and walked slowly toward the far edge of
the field.
Four men
from the Illinois State Police were already at work
there. They were members of the state’s tech
squad. They handled crime scene investigations for
small counties that could not afford their own
experts. Bob Jeswalt was the unit’s lead
investigator.
"Hi
Fallon," Jeswalt said looking up when she
reached his side. "Sorry to have called you so
early." Jeswalt was a large man with dark brown
eyes, square jaw, and cleft chin. In his mid-forties,
he had the body of a weight lifter gone soft with age.
It had been
an early morning for both of them. Normally
fastidious in his appearance, Fallon saw on his chin
stray wisps of whiskers highlighted in the bright
sunlight. They had apparently been missed in his rush
to respond to an early morning phone call.
"Hello,
Bob." Fallon answered. In her early forties with
a short round body, but also with wide-set and
intelligent-looking gray eyes, she was one of only a
hand-full of women to serve as a sheriff. And in
Windtree County, she was the first ever.
She knew all
eyes in the county and even beyond it would be
centered on her actions over the next few days or
weeks.
"So do
we know who we've got here?" she asked.
Jeswalt rose
from beside the bloated corpse.
"It’s
Olny Parkman. The corpse has been out here so long, I
almost wouldn’t have known him if he hadn’t
been wearing that damn belt buckle. Always claimed it
was his good luck charm." He gave a swift shake
of his head.
Magare
glanced at the buckle. It was large and made of
silver and decorated with turquoise and red-onyx
stones--an odd talisman to serve as an identity
marker in death.
The body lay
on its right side. A thick cord bound its hands and
feet. A short strip of duct tape sealed its mouth.
Blood had spilt from a gaping throat wound and had
dried in a puddle to the right of the body.
Spikes of
dried oat stubble protruded from within the crusted
brown blood. The few broken oat straws surrounding
the body suggested the elderly man had not fought
hard when death came.
"Got
any theories on what happened here?" Magare
finally asked lifting her gaze to Jeswalt. He had
been first to the scene. But death had come in an
unincorporated field in Windtree County. The
responsibility for the murder investigation was hers.
"Not
much more than you can see for yourself. Throat’s
been slashed. Looks like he’s been dead about
three days . . . maybe more. So decayed, I doubt we’ll
know anything more definite than that even after the
coroner finishes with him."
"You’ve
called him, right?"
Jeswalt
nodded.
Magare let
her eyes study the barren field around them. The
piece of ground the body lay in protruded eastward
and turned north, like a hook, from the edge of a
field that was otherwise square. Its view from the
road was partially hidden by old-growth forest.
"Looks
like whoever brought him here knew what he was doing.
It’s a sheltered place. Good cover for a murder,"
she mumbled stuffing her hands into the pockets of
her twill skirt.
"Hmm,"
Jeswalt answered. "Not sure the murderer knew
that. We’ve got stubble broken all around the
field. Looks like whoever did this probably drove
around a bit before finding this spot."
"Maybe,"
Fallon nodded. "Or maybe that’s what the
murderer wanted us to think." She let the issue
go. She knew it was the kind of detail that only fell
into place with time. "Any tire prints?"
Jeswalt
shook his head. "Too dry. Ground’s too hard
to leave tracks."
"What
was in his pockets?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
Magare
forced her gaze back to the corpse. It was fully
dressed in chinos and a plaid shirt. Jeswalt's news
seemed to go against basic logic.
Reason told
her that most men put things in their pockets when
they put on their pants. Car keys, wallet, loose
change. Even after a robbery, there was usually
something to be found in a victim’s pockets.
"Think
maybe Olny was forced to dress in a hurry? Maybe he’d
been in bed when the killer attacked him?"
Magare looked back up at Jeswalt, who, at six-one,
towered over her. "That could explain the empty
pockets."
"That’s
possible," Jeswalt agreed. "There’s no
doubt, though, that he was killed here. It’s not
a case of a dead body being moved."
Fallon stood
quietly, her mind imaging an aged man, rousted from
sleep, dragged half way across the county to have his
throat slashed.
She wondered
if he had been aware of his impending fate. Had he
known terror throughout the entire drive? Or had he
been an unsuspecting victim, someone who believed the
driver beside him wished him no harm? She shivered.
"Who
found the body?" She returned her attention to
Jeswalt.
"Milton
Canfield. You know him?"
Fallon
nodded. "He and I went to school together."
"Well,
he farms this land for Matty. Said he was coming in
this morning to mow along the fences and decided to
hit the grass along the forest first."
She wondered
why Milt had reported the corpse to State Police
rather than to her office. As she wrestled with that
question, she struggled to keep her face blank. The
last thing she would want Jeswalt to guess is that
she took the oversight personally.
Reaching
into her skirt pocket, she drew out a wide, cotton
handkerchief. She lifted her broad-brimmed hat and
wiped sweat from her brow. It was early morning but
the day’s heat was already stifling.
"Where’s
Milt?" She asked glancing around the field at
the trucks and vans parked there.
"Turned
green. Said he was going home. I told him that wasn't
allowed. He just snorted and said if we wanted to
arrest him that was fine. He'd take his chances."
"I’ll
need to talk to him."
"He
knows that. I told him you’d be setting up a
meet."
Fallon
struggled for a breath. She wished for a moment that
she were younger. Humidity hadn’t seemed to
bother her so much then.
"I take
it there’s no sign of the murder weapon."
"Not
that we’ve found yet. I’m sending my men
into the woods next, though. Maybe the murderer threw
the knife away there where it’d be tougher to
find. But you’re right. We’re probably not
going to find it."
"Which
way did the driver get in? Can you tell?"
Bob Jeswalt
pointed toward County Highway 650 East. "Same
way you came in. Right through that gate in the fence."
Fallon
turned on her heel and glanced back toward the
roadway. The field was bordered by a low, rusting
fence. A gray weathered gate hung open about midway
along the fence line. She wondered if the gate was
normally closed and locked.
Turning back
to Jeswalt, she suddenly noted the dark circles
beneath his eyes and deep lines surrounding his mouth.
She knew it was more than just being called out early
that had put those creases of care on his otherwise
smooth features.
"How’s
Ellie?" she asked.
"Oh,
about as good as can be expected," Jeswalt
answered with a short, swift shake of his head. His
wife had been diagnosed with cancer nearly three
weeks ago. Since then, the woman had started long,
uncomfortable radiation treatments with only a small
chance for success.
"Tell
her I’ll be over to see her next week,"
Magare said, returning the handkerchief to her skirt
pocket. She knew what Bob and Ellie were going
through. Fallon had lost her husband to cancer just
two years ago. Dying, as she well knew, could be a
long, lonely affair--for both partners.
"I’ll
tell her you’ll be by," Jeswalt answered
with a curt nod. "She’ll be glad for the
company."
Behind them
they heard the roar of a motor and turned to see the
large, white coroner’s van pulling into the
field. They watched as the coroner steered his way
toward them and braked to a stop.
Jeswalt and
Magare stepped back to escape the dust cloud his
vehicle had raised in the rain-parched field. The
driver’s door swung open and a thin man with
balding black hair emerged from the van.
Who ya’
got here?" Windtree County Coroner Harold Peters
asked as he turned to slam the van door closed.
"It’s
Olny Parkman," Jeswalt answered.
Peters
scurried toward them with his gaze fastened on the
corpse.
"Parkman,
huh?" He stopped several feet from the body.
"Who’d want him dead? Even if they did, why
kill him? Had to be nearly ninety. Seems like he’d
have died soon enough. Not much need to help him
along. Not at his age."
Fallon
raised and lowered her shoulders. "If you’ve
got any suggestions, I’m listening."
Peters
studied the sheriff’s face closely. Magare
squirmed under his gaze.
"Too
bad our last sheriff died so soon after retiring,"
Peters said, shoving his hands into his pants pocket.
"He knew the county. Gonna be tough to break
this case for somebody who doesn’t."
Magare
considered telling Peters that she knew the county
too. She had been born here. She had grown up here.
But she had also lived away from it for the last
twenty-some years. Her absence was a weakness--a dent
in her political armor.
She decided
to let his comment go unanswered and turned back to
Jeswalt. "How long before your men can get over
to Parkman’s house?" Olny, they all knew,
had lived in Paradise.
The lead
crime-scene technician glanced at his watch. "I
can probably cut Randy and Steve loose right away if
you want."
"No
rush," Fallon answered. "I’ll meet
them over there . . . say . . . in about twenty-five
minutes?"
"You
got it."
"Thanks,"
Fallon answered with a smile. "And Harold,"
she said turning toward the aging coroner, "I
need whatever information you can get me on this as
soon as possible."
"I’ll
take the body to the Springfield lab. They’re
quick . . . and thorough."
"Thank
you. I appreciate that," she said with relief.
Although he had pierced her with his barb about
knowing the county, he apparently didn’t plan to
actively block her investigation.
"If you’d
both fax your reports over to my office when they’re
done, I’d appreciate it," she said, her
voice measured. "Now I’m not saying I’d
liked to have had them yesterday but it’s close."
Both men
responded with grim smiles and curt nods.
*****
Fallon said
her farewells and walked slowly back to her Jeep
parked at the far end of the field. It was simply too
hot to rush. The Wrangler was her personal vehicle,
and its keys had been the first ones she had grabbed
that morning. She also knew driving it to the murder
scene had been a mistake.
She stopped
a moment and examined the fence gate and its lock.
The padlock was old but unmarked. There were no
indications it had been forced. Then, she
straightened and returned to her original path toward
the car.
Stepping up
into the driver’s seat, she quickly switched on
the ignition, shoved the gearshift into first, and
gunned her way out of the field. Behind her loose
gravel spun into the air. She turned the Jeep left
onto County Road 650 East and headed home.
As she
drove, her thoughts turned to Chief Deputy Lonnie
Kirks. She knew he would be wondering what was going
on. Swallowing a sigh, she held the steering wheel
firmly with her left hand, leaned to her right,
opened the glove box, and withdrew her cell phone.
She punched
in her office number. The call was answered on the
first ring.
"Windtree
County Sheriff’s Department."
"Hi,
Lonnie. Fallon here. Glad to hear you’re on duty."
"Well
from the scanner chatter, I knew something was up. I
just didn’t know what," he answered curtly.
"So . .
. what’s going on over there?" She
deliberately ignored his complaint. He had a valid
point and she knew it. Since he was her chief deputy,
she should have called him. But old habits are not
easily changed.
As a Chicago
detective, when a call had come in, it had been her
duty to get to the crime scene quickly. Next time,
God forbid, she would call Lonnie before rushing to
the site of a killing.
"Couple
of reporters have called from the radio stations,"
Kirks said. "They heard the same scanner chatter
I did. Wanted to know what’s going on. Said they’d
like to get the story before their morning news casts
end."
"Tell
them we’ve found a man knifed. Name’s being
withheld pending notification of next of kin. We don’t
know yet how long he’s been dead, but the
killing apparently happened more than a day ago. We’ll
release more details later. Fax that out to all of
the local media . . . newspapers, too. That should
hold them off for a while. Anything else?"
"Yeah.
George Fillet wants to know what’s going on."
Fallon
sighed. Fillet was the Windtree County Board Chairman.
He was used to getting inside information on crimes
in the county. He also liked to share what he knew
with his buddies in the local coffee shop. It
cemented his reputation with local voters.
In this
case, Magare wondered if it might not also provide a
pipeline of inside information to a killer.
"Anybody
else?" Fallon pressed.
"Yeah.
Apparently lots of people were listening to their
scanners."
"Had a
busy morning, huh?"
"You
could say that. But since I didn’t know what was
going on, I didn’t have much to tell them."
Fallon
winced at his renewed complaint. "Well, tell
Mike Jaynts to take over the phones, and tell him
there’s still nothing to tell those folks. They
can get their questions answered by the news reports.
And for now, the only inside information Fillet gets
is that the victim’s Olny Parkman."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah.
Found in one of Matty Williams’ fields. And
Lonnie, I want you over at his place as soon as you
get Mike filled in on his duties. We’ve got the
crime techs arriving there in about twenty minutes. I
need you there."
"Yes,
Ma’am," Kirks snapped.
"Lonnie,
I’m glad you came in to the office to cover this.
That was a good move. Also, I took my own car this
morning, so I’m going home to get my cruiser. In
the meantime, keep that mob off our backs and keep
what you tell our politico-types to a minimum. Okay?"
"Sure.
They won’t like it. But if that’s the way
you want it, fine by me."
Fallon could
hear a self-satisfied grin in his voice. She shifted
uncomfortably in her seat and answered, "It
might not be the way I want it, but it’s the way
I think we need to handle it for now."
*****
Fallon
punched off her cell phone and returned it to the
glove compartment. Glancing at the fields as her car
roared past them, she wondered how best to deal with
her chief deputy.
As a
detective in Chicago, she had enjoyed a free hand to
plow forward in murder investigations. She had never
had to mend bent egos within the department. Plus,
she knew that Kirks was sensitive to her treatment.
Kirks had
been chief deputy and heir apparent when Sheriff
Gentry Woulds had announced his retirement. Then
Woulds had called her and asked her to run for his
seat.
"What
about Lonnie?" she had asked.
"He’s
too young," Gentry had barked. "He'll be
ready someday. You bring him along. Now, don't
misunderstand me. I see good things in that boy, and
he's a damned good shot, too. Like having our own
private SWAT team. But for now, the county’s
changing. We need someone over here with more
experience than Lonnie has yet. Frankly, Fallon, we
need you."