Hard Silence (5 page)

“Lex, I don’t remember you from the fall, but I didn’t meet everyone. Were you here?” He hoped the question didn’t sound like an interrogation.

The other man shook his head. “I got here in January. Fred Saunders sold me his practice when he retired. What brought you to Fiddler?”

He glanced at Abby, somehow surprised she hadn’t filled Lex in. “Work.”

“What do you do?”

“Professor.” Jeff didn’t say
FBI
to strangers. It made people nervous. “No family?”

“Just my parents in Missouri.” Lex gripped his fork. “My wife was set to come out here, but she changed her mind.”

“About moving?”

“About everything.” His mouth twisted into a wry smile. “What about you?”

“My family’s in Tennessee.”

“Where?” Abby asked.

Her interest pleased him more than it should. “Outside of Knoxville. I grew up there, and my sisters still live there. Ruth is an attorney, Janice teaches history, and Cass just graduated from college with a degree in Art, of all things.”

“What’s wrong. With art?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said, grinning around a bite of bread. “It’s just hard to make a living at it. Isn’t it?”

She nodded. “What about your parents?”

He swallowed and reached for his tea. “My mom teaches English at a community college. My father died when I was a teenager. He was murdered in the line of duty.”

“He was a cop?” Lex asked.

“Highway Patrol. He’d pulled over a speeder, only to find it was a group of bank robbers on the run from their last heist. He didn’t even have time to draw his weapon.”

Abby put her hand over his and squeezed his fingers, and he looked up into her sad eyes. She didn’t say anything trite, didn’t offer any platitudes. She’d lost someone, too. He’d bet his next paycheck on it. He squeezed back.

She left the table and returned with dessert—mixed berry shortcake and fresh cream. The delicious flavors distracted him from the sad conversation.

Sighing, with a goofy smile on his face, Lex carried his plate to the sink. Abby stood, and Jeff followed suit. Dinner was over.

“I’m going to go out and check on our boy,” Lex said as he gave the cook a one-armed hug. “Thanks, Ab.”

Jeff carried his plate to the sink and started the dishwater. “I’ll help you clean. It’ll go faster.”

She shook her head and gripped a dishtowel in her fist. “We shouldn’t distract you.”

“Please let me help you.” He wasn’t sure if he meant dishes or something else. But he watched as she hesitated. No further words came.
Baby steps, Crandall.
“It’s the least I can do in exchange for dinner.”

Her skin tinted pink. Averting her eyes, she nodded.

He washed; she rinsed and dried. Side by side, elbow to elbow, with the thumping dishes accompanying the classical melodies. They worked in silence, but somehow it didn’t bother him. Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was her humming along. And it did go faster. Dammit.

“Dinner was delicious. Thank you.”

She walked him to the door. “I’m glad you liked it.”

What did he do now? Hug her? Shake her hand? Nod? He opted for the same one-armed hug Lex had given her, pushing the door open with his other hand. “Good night.”

She shook in his grasp. Did she shake with Lex too? But she nodded and smiled, and waved as he walked down the steps to his car. Motion lights lit his path, and Lex waved from the stables. Jeff climbed behind the wheel. Abby was still in the door, the light casting her in silhouette as he backed away.

* * *

He was home reading an article on positive reinforcement of a curiosity, the laptop a bright square in the dark, when his phone rang.

“Has Harper recruited you to move to Hickville yet?” The question was a laughing greeting.

Jeff pushed away from his desk. “No way in hell. What’s up, boss?”

If he concentrated, he could hear Bob Myers’s office chair squeak. It was Sunday, late by Chicago time, and Bob was still in his office at the FBI. It was one of the perks of being the Special Agent in Charge. Or the director of the lab. Those hours were one thing Jeff didn’t miss about Chicago.

“How are you coming along?”

“I’m right on schedule,” Jeff lied. “Why?”

“We need your help on a case. The Bureau of Land Management in New Mexico found a body in the Sandia Mountains. They ID’d him as Ray Finch, a local who’s been missing for fifteen years.”

Jeff stayed quiet. Bob wouldn’t sidetrack him for one body.

“And the police chief in Lewisville, Virginia, found another one in a remote well. They’re assuming it’s a guy by the name of Beau Archer, since he once owned the property. He’s been missing since eighty-seven.”

Jeff grabbed a new notebook and plucked the pencil from behind his ear. “How did they find them?”

Bob hesitated, and Jeff recognized the hitch of excitement. “In Virginia, the local PD received a note with Archer’s name and the exact details of the dump site.”

Adrenaline coursed through his body. He knew it was wrong. These men were lost to someone. Still, the case sounded like fun. “But no note for Finch?”

“Nope.”

“Are you sure they’re related? There are a lot of years between them.”

“Two men dumped in remote locations, each with a hole at the base of his skull.”

“Gunshots?”

“Hammer. Our guys—
your
guys—think it was a roofing hammer.”

“Shit.” Jeff leaned back in his chair and stared into the darkness. “Send me what you have and who to contact. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Keep Quantico happy,” Bob cautioned, “and check your email. I sent everything earlier this afternoon.”

* * *

Wallis Riker scowled as she read
The Lewisville Clarion
headline blaring across her screen. It was already two days old. She and Hale had been out of town on a cruise. He’d won enough to keep her in the boutiques and had enjoyed seeing her model everything. They’d had a good time. She deserved a good time.

Then she’d come home and seen the alert in her email.

Why had anyone gone to that well, and how much had they found? After almost thirty years, it was surely just bones. Maybe not all of them, either. All sorts of critters—creatures—

prowled those woods. She’d covered her tracks, filed all the right reports, said all the right things. If they found her, if they came with questions, she’d know what to say.

How frightening to have him die so close to home! He must have sacrificed himself to save us. He loved us so much. My poor daughter would have been heartbroken. I’m glad she’s not alive to hear the news.

Chapter Four

The rain washed blood from Ron’s pale, bloodless skin and plastered his hair to his head. Sightless eyes stared into the flashlight’s glare from the depths of the hole. His macabre grimace widened as he reached for her. And he was crying, whimpering. She couldn’t get away. He pursued her as if he was trying to emerge, or pull her back down with him.

Abby woke, already upright, kicking the sheets tangled around her feet, pushing Toby away. He was fighting to get to her, just like that other dog so many years ago. Overcoming her nightmare, she pried her hands from his fur and dropped her head to her knees. The dog snuggled closer, and she let his soft head help calm her racing heart.

“Sorry, boy,” she rasped.

Once her breaths didn’t echo through the room, she stood and made herself walk down the hall and around each corner in the dark until her knees no longer wobbled. She’d fought fear for years, and she wouldn’t lose the battle just because of a nightmare.

Toby’s nails clicked a reassuring agreement. When they reached the porch, his sharp gaze searched the dark, seeing things Abby could only hear. Small creatures, non-lethal. She was safe.

“Go play. You earned it.”

He stopped on the top step and smiled over his shoulder before he bolted for the tree line.

Early morning was her favorite time. Buck had always moved around early, and he’d welcomed her tagging along. A man of few words, her last stepfather had never pushed Abby to talk. Instead, he’d explained things without waiting on her to ask.

A yellow square shined atop the hill, a beacon in the dark that drew her attention to the Simons’ house. Was Jeff a night owl or did he leave the kitchen light on all the time? In the quiet, the squeal of a rusty spring answered her question. Jeff was awake.

Before, that noise had been her cue to lift her hand in a wide wave, knowing Hank waved back as if they were on adjoining lots instead of acres apart. Her hand was halfway up before she dropped it back to the arm of her chair. She’d managed to keep away from Jeff for most of the week.

Please let me help you.

She’d been ready to pull every skeleton from her closet. He’d been talking about doing the dishes.

Sunday had been enjoyable. His soft drawl had added a lilt to the routine liturgy, and he’d interceded at lunch when she’d stuck her foot in her mouth. However, instead of contradicting her, of making light of her opinions, he’d changed the subject.

And after learning about his father’s death, she knew why. Loss had touched each of them in different ways, all of it violent. She, Jeff, Maggie and Gray were their own unique survivors’ club, even though they had no idea of her membership qualifications.

Maybe she didn’t qualify. She was a living victim, an escaped accomplice. A keeper of secrets and the teller of lies.

And why the hell had she invited a
profiler
to dinner? Or Lex, for that matter? She shouldn’t have people here, just like she shouldn’t go to Sunday lunch at Maggie’s, and she shouldn’t do...anything she’d been doing. It was too risky for them. She ought to go back to the way things were when she’d spent all her time and energy supporting herself.

But it was too late. When Maggie had finished college and returned to Fiddler, dragging Charlene and Tiffany in her wake, it had signaled the rebirth of parties, lunches and fun. There hadn’t been a way to say no; they’d just ignored her. And, God forgive her, she liked being included.

Abby dropped her head to the back of her chair. She didn’t deserve to be happy, but she wasn’t going to disappoint the people who’d sacrificed their time to help her, and she wasn’t going to turn her back on any more innocents—be they humans or animals. If her job was to keep everyone safe, she was going to succeed at it.

Her nerves prickled under her skin. If she wasn’t going to sleep, she should work. Inside. She’d come out here again when the sun came up. She whistled Toby to her and went back into the house, arming the security system before she locked the door.

* * *

Once the sun rose, she left her computer and the programming code that had given her a headache. After rushing through her chores, she went to the stables.

When she entered Butcher’s stall, he raised his head and the sling creaked. His eyes seemed brighter. Lex kept telling her not to get her hopes up, but she couldn’t help it. The horse was getting better. He was.

“Good morning, old man,” she whispered as she stroked his nose. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

The vet had his way of doing things, and she had hers. He’d thought her homeopathic approach was nuts at first, and she couldn’t tell him she’d learned from jockeys and trainers across the country at the racetracks where Wallis had hunted her prey. Instead she’d shown him with dogs first, since she’d had more experience with them, and then with George. They’d come to an agreement on combining their approaches. So far it had worked well.

She hung a new IV bag full of fluids, vitamins and minerals and then washed Butcher down with water, witch hazel and vinegar. While his coat dried, she knelt at his feet and put a hand on his leg.

“How about it?”

He picked his foot up without her needing to lift. He
was
better. She conditioned his hooves one by one, checking for areas Lex should examine and finding few worries.

By now, the horse’s spindly, brittle coat was dry. Time to rub. Sighing, Abby stretched to loosen her muscles. Her left ribs pulled, and the scar in her hairline twinged in sympathy. Wallis’s final blows had left indelible reminders of her deadly promises, as if Abby’s memories weren’t enough.

Pushing that dark night away, she stripped down to her tank top and jeans, and went to work, rubbing mineral oil into Butcher’s coat and skin, taking care around his wounds, feeling for muscles that relaxed and spots that made him flinch. She finished by dabbing antibiotic ointment on the worst burns and aloe vera on the others. Every day she used more aloe and less medication.

Ears, mane, teeth, tail. By the time she was finished, she was exhausted. But then Butcher pushed his nose into her hand, and her weariness faded. Tears blurred her vision.

“You’re welcome, fella. I’m sorry someone hurt you, but you’re safe now. You’re going to be fine.”

Wiping her eyes, she opened his doors so he could get some sunlight and air. “One day your view will change. I promise.”

She cleaned stalls and cared for her tack and equipment. Then, sure everything was finished, she went to her darkroom.

Panic set in until her eyes adjusted. This wasn’t a closet. It wasn’t punishment. It was her sanctuary. Her hands shook as she poured solution and fumbled with film. She couldn’t develop yet. She’d make a mistake.

Instead, she looked at the photos hanging overhead. Melody Solomon and Kyle Monroe smiled at her from their engagement photos. She’d done Melody’s senior pictures, and then the prom photos for their first date. They were a cute couple. Working their wedding would be fun. They’d have cute children, too. They’d be good parents.

Abby unclipped the photos and put them in the file, then put the file on top of the cabinet. Every drawer was an alphabetized, photographic history of life in Fiddler—of everyone around her moving forward, of all their happy moments. Some of them they’d posed for, some of them they never knew she took.

Sure she was calm enough to work, she opened the film canister, unrolled the negatives and lost herself in the photos she’d taken over the past week. Hiking shots transitioned to Lex working in the stables, deep in concentration, then to Toby standing guard at the front door, then to fishing. Then to Jeff.

The black-and-white portrait came to life in the developer. His hair, gray at the temples, his salt-and-pepper beard. His mirrored sunglasses, and his broad white smile as he snagged his fish. Not posed, not wary on the witness stand, not exhausted and worried in the emergency room. He was
himself.

After hanging it to dry, she walked to the counter and plucked a new file folder from the shelf and her pink Sharpie from the tin can full of grease pencils and ink pens.

Crandall
.

* * *

Cursing the nightmare that had woken her too early and kept her running all day, Abby stood in her booth at the art auction and surveyed her handiwork. She’d raided her Humane Society office back by the kennels for a chair and a lamp, and the table was fashioned from spare boxes and covered with a half-finished quilt top. Toby’s bed lay in the corner, and she had a book ready in case no one stopped. Her photographs were arranged neatly across all three walls.

Her shoulder ached and sweat trickled down her neck, but she was ready. She was also surrounded by people and noise as they prepared their displays. Everyone had questions, and they were running her volunteers ragged.

Abby stepped into the breach, loading a cart with all the surge protectors, extension cords, duct tape, pens and nails she could find and roaming the aisles, helping without having to talk, grateful when the noise subsided from panic to organized work.

When she got back to her cubicle, Maggie Harper and Tiffany Marx were waiting on her.

“We’ve come to help,” Tiffany said as she surveyed the space. The tiny blonde was a dynamo, whether she was organizing preschool or helping with Sunday lunch.

“I’m. Already. Finished.”

“Tell her what you did, Tiff,” Maggie sighed.

“Don’t act like that,” Tiffany scolded. “This is a good thing.” She faced Abby, her blue eyes wide but her smile trembling. “I have a friend who owns a gallery in Boise. She’s seen the picture you gave me and Michael, the one we have over the fireplace, and she’s keeps asking about it. So I invited her tonight.”

A gallery. I’d love to have my work in a gallery.
Abby looked at the framed photos, imagining them under lights against clean walls like the ones she’d seen during college field trips.

And she saw the hand-cut mats, the frames she’d designed from found objects based on each subject, the temporary pegboard walls, her ragged tablecloth, and secondhand, worn furniture. Her shirt was sticking to her, and her hair was hanging in her eyes.
A gallery owner? Here?

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise, and,” Tiffany continued, blushing, “I thought you’d say no.”

“Luckily, she told me,” Charlene Anderson drawled as she joined them. Impeccably dressed as always, her four-inch heels adding to her already impressive height, she had a garment bag dangling from her fingers and a shoebox under her arm. “Come on.”

The three of them pushed her into her office.

“Put this on,” Charlene ordered.

“I smell,” Abby objected. Charlene’s clothes were always too nice to sweat in.

“Then go wash up in the bathroom and change in there. There’s a bra in the bottom of the bag, and I bought you new underwear, too.”

Abby blinked at the three women who’d appointed themselves as her non-wicked stepsisters. Maggie shooed her out the door. “Go. I’ll do your hair. Char will do your makeup. Hurry.”

In the bathroom, Abby slid the bag from the hanger. The clothes were far too fancy for a silent auction that was basically an arts-and-crafts swap meet, but they were perfect for a gallery show. After peeling off her dirty clothes and washing her hands, she slipped into new underwear and the strapless bra that was necessary because the black blouse hung low on her shoulders. The cream skirt was long with a deep slit up one leg and a black lace panel. She wobbled on the spike heels of the strappy black sandals.

She could do this. She’d been more dressed up for weddings. She’d be on a level surface, not in the paddock. And she wouldn’t have to move. Much.

The three women smiled when she rejoined them. Maggie pushed her into a chair. “We’ll leave your hair loose. I brought dry shampoo.”

Charlene winked at her. “You look like a million bucks. Don’t worry.”

They were done in minutes, and Tiffany added the final touch with a necklace and a cocktail ring. Abby walked across the room a few times so they could check the outfit and the shoes, and then they all went out together.

No one noticed the change, although Toby might have stared too long.
Great. I get dressed to the teeth, and the only person who notices is my dog.

“Where are the guys?” Tiffany asked as shoppers began to mill through the booths. “They can’t spend all night outside.”

“Calm down, Smurfette,” Nate Mathis, Maggie’s twin brother, drawled as he walked up with his wife, Faith, under his arm. “They’re right behind us.” He winked at Abby. “The girls have been at it, I see.”

Blushing, she nodded.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Tracy Hoover is coming to see her,” Tiffany said.

Abby’s knees trembled at the name. The Hoover Gallery was one of the best in the Northwest. It had a national reputation for showcasing western art and landscapes by top-tier artists. Oh God. She couldn’t do this. That woman would take one look and laugh all the way back to Boise.

“She’s here,” Michael Marx whispered as he hurried to the group. “Right behind me. She stopped to look at a quilt.”

Kevin Anderson and Gray Harper ambled up behind him. Kevin whistled softly. “Char picked well. You look great, Abby.”

Gray squeezed her shoulder. “You can do this. No doubt in my mind.”

Abby looked around the small space at everyone’s smiles. This is why she’d added them all to her List of People to Protect From Wallis. For so long it had only been Maggie. Then it had grown to Nate and the rest of the Mathis family. When Wallis left, Abby had added every family in Fiddler who had taught her to take care of herself. As she’d needed less physical help, she’d begun to list the people who befriended her or encouraged her. She’d added Lex after his first visit to the farm.

A cloud of expensive perfume warned them of Tracy’s approach. Abby took a deep breath and smiled at the blonde in casual clothes that had probably cost more than her first truck. “Hello. I’m Abby Quinn.”

“Tracy Hoover.” Her smile was wide, and her handshake was firm. “I have to tell you how impressed I am. There are some beautiful pieces displayed, and everyone has been quick to tell me you’re responsible for organizing the entire event.”