She Can Tell (8 page)

The building was small, roughly measuring eight by ten feet. Though built of solid Pennsylvania fieldstone to match the main house, the outbuildings hadn’t been maintained as well over the centuries. Mortar crumbled and ivy climbed the patchwork of brown and gray rocks.

The weather-beaten door moved in the breeze with a squeak of old hinges. The padlock she’d installed lay in the grass next to the stoop.
Oh no
. Not the well. Panic swept her hesitation out of the way.

Rachel pushed the door open and stepped inside. Her gaze fell on the debris strewn across the dirt floor. She gasped. Before she could move, a shove between her shoulder blades sent her flying forward. Her hands instinctively shot out in front of her to brace her fall. Pain sang up her forearms as her palms hit the dirt floor. Something slammed behind her, and everything went dark.

Mike bounced along the gravel lane that led to Lost Lake and approached the turnoff for the controversial vacation home development project. Thanks to last week’s rock blasting, the construction entrance was flanked by diehard picketers, even on a dreary Sunday. The protestors were too spread out to capture with his dashboard camera. He grabbed his cell phone camera from the passenger seat and switched the camera function to video. Slowing the truck to a crawl, he steered around a bearded guy toting a hand-lettered sign and navigated the muddy ruts left by heavy equipment. As he passed through the crowd, he held up the phone and recorded the crowd on both sides of his vehicle. He now had two dozen vandalism suspects.

The rutted entrance opened to a cleared space littered with puddles and construction debris. Mike’s tires crunched on the gravel of a temporary parking area. He stopped his vehicle facing the lake. Beyond the scarred clearing and the weedy shoreline, water rippled in the late afternoon breeze.
Scenic, despite the bulldozer that was parked in the lake’s shallows, the top half of its yellow form visible above the surface of the water.

To his left, a twenty-foot section of chain-link fence surrounding construction equipment was flattened to the ground. In a wooded area next to the enclosure, two mangled port-a-johns lay on their sides, crushed like tin cans. Blue-tinted sewage spilled from gaping holes. A group of construction workers clustered around a guy Mike labeled as the foreman from his in-charge posture.

On his right, three men in their late fifties huddled in a conspiratorial cluster: Mayor Fred Collins, Vince, and a tall, thin guy dressed in the latest ruggedly expensive outdoor apparel.

Mike’s hands twitched on the wheel. He could turn around and drive away, let them fire him, but he didn’t want to give Vince the satisfaction of winning. Though why Vince wanted to get rid of Mike was a mystery. Vince had had it out for Mike since the first day of the new council term. Plus, there was the heavy load of responsibility Mike felt toward the residents of his hometown. He’d let them down once. He didn’t want to do it again.

With irritation pooling, Mike stepped out of his SUV. Protestors’ chants of “Save our lake!” competed with the tweeting of birds and breezy rustle of foliage.

Mayor Fred picked his way around a puddle. His off-the-rack gray suit and wingtips were splattered with mud. Vince was dressed more practically in jeans and work boots. He hung back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Mike. Vince wholeheartedly supported the Lost Lake project. Vacationers equaled more business. The rest of the town was divided. Residents who would benefit from the development, especially the large unemployed construction
workforce, were cheering it on. Environmental concerns were a luxury for those with stable employment.

“You have to do something about this.” Vince waved a wiry arm. “These pranks are costing the developer time and money.”

“Easy, Vince.” Fred gestured toward Moneybags. “Mike, this is Lawrence Harmon, owner of Harmon Properties.”

Well, that explained the expensive duds. As the Coming Soon sign out front clearly stated, Harmon Properties owned Lost Lake Realty.

Harmon held out a hand. Mike shook it.

“As Vince pointed out, Chief O’Connell, this type of activity is costing my company a great deal. We’ve already lost several weeks, and the project is still in its early stages.”

Mike scanned the wooded shoreline. Lost Lake had been little more than a deep, muddy hole until developers had run out of waterfront property on more-accessible lakes in the area. In the past six months, neatly spaced lots had been bulldozed free of trees and awaited construction of oversized vacation McCabins. Periodic blasting took care of rocky areas. An underwater survey was in progress to dredge the swampy lake for boating and fishing. Part of the shore was being cleared. Sand would be hauled in to make pretty, fake beaches for city people who wanted weekend nature retreats without all the mess and fuss of actual nature. Westbury was less than two hours from both Philadelphia and New York. Plus, Harmon Properties had recently announced its desire to build a hotel and resort on the south shore of the lake. The developer was scheduled to make a presentation at Tuesday’s town council meeting, which Mike expected to be a total mess.

He drew in a deep breath. The scents of decaying leaves, moist soil, and pine were decimated by the nasty odors
emanating from the flattened port-a-johns. “Mr. Harmon, I understand your frustration, but I’ve pointed out several times, the township police force isn’t equipped to provide twenty-four-hour security to private businesses.”

Vince’s thin face flushed deep red to the roots of his receding hairline. “We’ve never needed outside security in the past. When Bart Howell was chief, we never had crime like this.”

“Things have changed over the last decade,” Mike said. “In light of the recent increase in crime, I would suggest we expand our police force. A few more officers would go a long way toward providing better coverage.”

Population-wise, Westbury was a small community, but the township encompassed a large chunk of rural acreage. Mike’s five-member force, currently reduced to four officers, was inadequate without the problems at Lost Lake. Their backup, state and county law enforcement, was spread equally thin.

“You know that’s not in the budget, Mike,” Fred clucked. “And raising taxes isn’t an option.”

The mayor’s condescending tone made Mike’s teeth ache.

Harmon tilted a lean face. “This project is a boost to the local economy. We’re employing construction workers and administrative staff. We’re paying property taxes. The sales of these units will increase the taxpayer base and increase revenues for local businesses. I’d hate to see it all fall through.”

“Can’t afford to lose the jobs, Mike.” Fred’s head bobbed like bobblehead doll.

Mike put on his serious, neutral face. “Look, I’d love to help you out, Mr. Harmon, but I don’t have the manpower. I’ve suggested several times that your company hire outside
security.” Mike turned to the mayor. “Fred, if you have a suggestion about how to cover this amount of territory with five officers and no overtime, I’m happy to listen.”

“There’s always one officer on patrol, right?” Fred asked.

“Yes.” Mike tensed.

“I don’t see why that officer can’t park on this road during his overnight shift.”

“We have a few thousand other residents to protect,” Mike said. “Harmon Properties can’t monopolize the police force.”

Harmon crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow at Vince, not Fred, Mike noted. And the look that passed between the two men suggested they were keeping something important out of the conversation. A full background check on Lawrence Harmon went on Mike’s to-do list.

Mike’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket. “Excuse me. I need to answer this.” He turned his back on them and strode toward his truck.

“You’re on shaky ground, O’Connell,” Vince called out. “Watch your step.”

Mike pivoted. He stared at Fred. The mayor shifted his gaze away from Mike’s to study the submerged bulldozer. Hmm. Did that mean Fred was indecisive as usual or that he was going to backstab Mike? The council was split down the middle on most matters, and Fred’s deciding vote wavered with public opinion.

Mike cell phone buzzed again, sparing him the necessity of a response. He glanced at the display. Sean, returning Mike’s earlier call.

Mike retreated to his vehicle before punching the talk button.

“You called?” Sean asked.

“Yeah. I need a favor—”

“Says the guy who turned down my invite to a barbecue and pissed off my wife,” Sean interrupted.

“Come on, Sean. I really need your help. I’m serious.”

“So am I. You need a favor? Get your lame ass over here and ask me in person. While you’re here, you can score a decent meal and convince my wife you’re alive. Then I’ll think about this favor you so desperately need.”

“You suck.” Mike started the engine. “I don’t have time to party this afternoon.”

“What can I say? Happy wife, happy life. If you hurry up, we can talk before everyone else gets here.” Sean clicked off.

Mike tossed his phone on the passenger seat and suppressed a primal scream. Did everybody have him by the short hairs?

Terror rose in Rachel’s throat. Sarah was alone up at the house, and Mrs. Holloway was due back with the girls at any moment. Rachel rose onto her knees. Pain burst through her head as she banged it on a piece of pipe. Scant light filtered in through a narrow window high on one wall. Using a chink in the mortar as a foothold, she hoisted herself up to peer out the window. A dark shape disappeared into the woods.

Thank God he’d run away instead of going up to the house.

She picked up her flashlight from the floor where she’d dropped it and switched it on. The beam shone on the brown body of a wild rabbit stretched out on the dirt floor. A six-inch metal spike protruded from the middle of its body. The pool of blood seeping into the earth around it seemed way too large for such a small creature.

Lightheaded, she looked away. Tiny stars swam in front of her eyes as she surveyed the inside of her well house.

She swept the light around the dim interior; a few broken pipes and some ripped-out electrical wires littered the floor, but the storage tank in the corner was merely dinged. It appeared that she’d interrupted her vandal before he completely destroyed the larger equipment.

On the wall, words were painted in a dark red substance she doubted was paint.

Roses are red.

Violets are blue.

You’re a nosy whore,

And I’m going to kill you.

An image sliced through the haze; a hulking silhouette covered in blood. Her knees wobbled. Straightening, she walked to the door, twisted the knob, and pushed. It was stuck. She pushed harder. No give.

She was locked in.

Trapped
.

She closed her eyes and breathed. Composure, control, and a calm mind were the keys to defeating her fears. Everything would be fine.

She patted her back pocket. Empty. Her cell phone was in the kitchen. Rachel looked toward the small window. Dust motes swirled in the light angling through the dirty glass. Even if she could climb up there, she’d never be able to squeeze through. The door was the only exit.

Relax
. Sarah or Mrs. Holloway would miss her eventually. Someone would come looking for her. But the white walls seemed like they were getting closer, the air thicker.

She tried to insert the blade of her pocketknife between the door and the jamb in the approximate location of the door handle. Too tight. The wood was swollen from the
recent rains. Rachel wiggled the blade, her chest constricting as the point refused to go in.

“Rachel?” Mrs. Holloway’s voice was muffled through the door.

“In here,” Rachel yelled. She banged on the door with the butt of the flashlight. A few minutes later, the door rattled.

“Give me a minute,” Mrs. Holloway shouted.

Seconds ticked by in silence, followed by a bang, some scraping, and the creaking sound of wood being pried apart. The door opened. Fresh air blew in, along with Mrs. Holloway. She clenched a crowbar in one arthritic hand. The older woman was flushed and out of breath. “Goodness.”