The Psalmist (9 page)

 

Chapter 13

T
HURSDAY,
M
ARCH 16

I
N THE MORNING,
newly minted icicles hung from the wooden awnings and drain spout just outside the bedroom window. Luke pulled on his robe and stepped into his slippers. He savored the quiet of early morning, the chance to spend time in prayer, to be thankful. After thirty minutes in the sitting room, he walked down the hall and glanced out at the front lawn.

Sneakers was thumping his tail in anticipation as Luke debated whether or not to pull on his wool topcoat. He decided to go out in just his robe and slippers.
It's only to the end of the driveway and back
. Sneakers trotted out ahead of him but almost immediately stopped and hesitated, noticing the wet pavement under his paws. He looked mournfully at Luke.

“I know,” Luke said. “But what can we do?”

Starting down the driveway, he realized he should have worn his coat. The robe felt as flimsy as tissue. The wind gusts were like ice on his face. “Careful,” he said, steadying himself, walking backward in baby steps, his knee hurting again.

Stooping to pick up the
Tidewater Times
, he heard tires spinning into motion where the road tucked into the tall brown marsh grasses and veered east.

A white Audi skidded to a stop on the pavement beside him.

The tinted passenger window whirred down.

“Luke?” the driver exclaimed, as if startled to find him in front of his own house.

“Jackson?”

So he'd been right.

“How you been, Luke?”

“Good.”

“Thinking about you. You doing all right?”

Jackson Pynne set the car in Park and got out, leaving the driver's door wide open, the engine running. Walking vigorously around the front to shake Luke's hand, as if that was the important thing—­that they shake immediately. He wore an expensive-­looking cashmere overcoat, his scarf tucked inside, resembling an ascot.

Pynne still moved with the swagger of a young man, his arms swinging out to the sides, as if he was used to ­people giving him a wide berth. His face was striking, as always, hinting of drama as he stretched out his arm. For all that, though, it was a soft handshake, which had always struck Luke as peculiar for someone so forceful in other ways.

“So, how you been?” he asked again.

“Still good.”

“How's Charlene?”

“Charlotte? She's fine.”

“Good. You holding up okay?” he said, patting Luke on the shoulder, his breath turning to vapor.

“In what sense?”

“That business down at the church. Jesus Christ, I just heard about it.”

“Yeah,” Luke said. He glanced up for a moment at the branches moving in the wind. “What brings
you
here, Jackson?”

“Just driving through. Looking at a piece of property.” He nodded vaguely over his right shoulder, as if the property were across the road. “I'm on my way out of town, actually. Working on something down South. Just thought I'd swing by, say hello. Figured you might be walking your dog or something. Dumb luck finding you.”

Luke turned so his back was to the wind. He wondered how long Jackson Pynne had been parked around the corner, waiting for him to come out to retrieve the newspaper.

As he turned again, he noticed that Sneakers had jumped into Jackson's car and was now sitting in the passenger seat, watching them.

“So, what's the story down at the church, anyway?”

“The story?”

“Yeah.” Pynne pushed his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. His eyes shifted, becoming colder all of a sudden, as if he were about to rob him. “I saw the thing in the paper yesterday. And then today.” He nodded at the paper Luke held tightly in his hand. “Neither one really said anything.”

“I guess there's not much to say yet.”

“But
you
found her?”

Luke nodded, tightening the belt of his robe.

“She was
killed
, right? I mean, it wasn't suicide, an accident? Natural causes? Nothing like that?”

Luke shook his head. His teeth were chattering.

“They find anything? A car, personal belongings, anything like that?”

“I don't think so. But I'm sure the police could tell you more than I can.” He tucked the paper under his other arm, shivering. Sneakers's head was sticking out of the open passenger window of Pynne's car. “Can I invite you in for a cup of coffee, Jackson?”

“Nah, I'm in a rush.” A note of impatience in his tone.

“Sneakers! Come here,” Luke called.

Pynne turned his head partway, uninterested in what was happening with Sneakers. “And she was, what are they saying, early thirties? Asian features?”

“Mm hmm,” Luke said, although the original report in the paper had said “Caucasian.” A mistake that had struck him as odd, although the local paper was known as much for its mistakes as anything else.

“Asian features?”

Luke nodded. Pynne turned his head and said something,
“Dammit!”
maybe. The wind blew strands of hair onto his forehead.

“You knew her,” Luke said.

“What?”

Pynne turned to him, his eyes wet from the cold, or maybe emotion.

“You knew her.”

. “What?” He feigned a laugh. “Who said anything about knowing her?”

“No, I was just asking.”

“Yeah? Well, you're asking the wrong question, then. Okay?”

“Okay.” Luke added, “I'd be glad to talk with you about it, if you'd like, Jackson.”

“Nothing to talk about, Pastor. And it's really none of your business anyway.”

“Okay.”

After a moment Jackson Pynne forced a smile, probably realizing that his response was inappropriate. Sneakers had jumped back out of the car and was sniffing tentatively now at Pynne's shoes.

“Look,” he said. “Don't get the wrong idea here, Pastor, okay? I'm just making conversation with you. I haven't seen you—­what's it been? A ­couple of years? I'm making conversation. What is this, you're giving me the third degree?”

“Sorry.”

Pynne pretended to laugh, but another version of himself had emerged and he couldn't just put him away. Luke had seen this often in the past; anger was Pynne's problem, the thing that got him in trouble and kept him from being where he wanted to be. Years before, he'd been charged with assaulting his ex-­wife, a detail Luke had forgotten until now.

“Anyway, good to see you,” he said, reaching to shake his hand again.

“If you want to talk, I'm here.”

“I heard you the first time, Pastor,” he said, smiling stiffly. “Okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” He walked around the car and got in.

“Oh, and Pastor?” he said through the passenger window, trying out a new demeanor—­polite, reasonable. “I'd greatly appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone we had this conversation. Or that you even saw me.”

Luke watched him.

“Can we agree on that?”

“I guess we could,” Luke said. “Do good things with your life, Jackson.”

“We agree, then.”

“Where are you headed?”

“South,” Pynne said. “Okay? I'll be in touch.”

Luke heard him pick up speed as soon as he rounded the corner, the Audi's wheels spinning on the wet pavement, heading inland, it seemed, although with Jackson it was impossible to know.

 

Chapter 14

H
UNTER WOK
E IN
darkness, disoriented, her alarm rattling insanely on the bed stand.
Was it really morning?
She shut off the alarm and blinked at the clock. Winston, sitting on her desk, meowed his approval that she was up. No doubt he was thinking already of his morning tuna.

By the time Hunter finally stepped outside for her run, a cold light was streaming through the clouds and glinting on the marina waters. She started slow, her legs stiff, her eyelids feeling pasted together. But the chill of the air—­wet with a trace of snow—­soon got inside of her and began to force her awake. Running north on the marina road, she found a rhythm, Maroon 5 cranked on her iPod as she strode through the long shadows of the shipyard, where crab and oyster boats were mounted on cinder blocks. She stretched out her stride on the long incline to Seven Shoals Road, beginning to sweat finally. Coming to the overlook where the road dead-­ended, she slowed to catch her breath and ran in place, looking out at the glittering scales of the Chesapeake, the fringes of foam down along the beaches of the bayfront houses. She turned in circles a ­couple of times, punching her fists in the air as Radiohead blasted in her ear, shouting twice, “We're going to solve this thing!”

It was Hunter's version of a “Rocky” moment.

As she ran back, morning light gilded the tall grasslands and blushed the narrow creeks and tributaries to the east. She let her stride unwind full-­tilt on the downhill, feeling inspired now, really starting to think that this might be the day the case would break open.

“H
EY!”
S
HIPMAN SAID,
waving Hunter over. He'd bought her meal and set her place with a ­couple of napkins and a spoon. Their breakfasts here were always the same: fruit and yogurt parfait with orange juice and a side of hash browns for Hunter; the Big Breakfast with hotcakes and a large Diet Coke for Ship.

“So,” he said, “you got my message.”

“I did.”

Noticing a smear on Shipman's eyebrow, Hunter touched her own brow instructively as she sat.. “You have something.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Ship swiped quickly, missing it, and picked up his fork again.

“No, other side.”

He touched his other eyebrow, showing a little-­boy expression of mock annoyance.

“Here.” Hunter leaned across the table and wiped what appeared to be a bubble of dried shaving cream away with a napkin. “Okay,” she said. “All gone.”

“Actually, I was saving that for later,” he said, and they both laughed heartily. Somehow, Shipman's jokes always made Hunter laugh, even when they weren't funny.

“So, anyway,” he said, his eyes going back to the hotcakes and hash browns. Sometimes, Shipman acted as if he had important news to convey when all he really wanted was to meet. “I wanted to tell you, something changed last night over in the Sheriff's Department.”

“Oh?” Hunter felt a quick rush of anger at the mention of the Sheriff's Department.

“Yeah, there's been a shift in the case.”

“What kind of shift?”

“Not sure,” he said.” He lifted his soda and slurped.

Jackson Pynne, Hunter thought. The sheriff must know about him now, too. Pynne would slow down the rush to indict Robby Fallow. So maybe it was a good development.

Shipman took another bite, and made a face indicating he had to finish chewing before he could speak again.

“The other thing I'm hearing?” he said. “They're pretty sure now there were two ­people involved.”

Hunter shook her head. “And I'll bet Robby Fallow's still one of them.”

“Fallow's one of them, yeah. From what I hear, the sheriff has something solid on him now.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Well.” He was sawing a sausage link. “Supposedly, they found a .22 caliber shell in Junior Fallow's cottage. Robby owns a .22 handgun. Which, as we know, was the weapon involved.”

“But they haven't shared that with us.”

“I know.”

“This
is
our investigation, right?”

“Right.”

Hunter looked out at the traffic, forcing herself to calm down.

“So what's the theory du jour, then?” she said finally.

“The what?”

“The sheriff's theory.”

“Oh. That Junior Fallow got into a fight with this woman. Who was an escort.”

“But an escort working where? There are no escorts in Tidewater County. And Fisch hasn't found evidence of any escorts anywhere else.”

“I know, I'm just saying—­”

Hunter shook her head. “I don't think so,” she said. “If the Fallows killed an escort, they would have dumped her somewhere, they wouldn't have broken into a church and posed her. Although I can't imagine them being involved with an escort in the first place.”

Shipman cleared his throat, nodding.

“Is it possible the sheriff would do something to, let's say, enhance the case against Fallow?” Hunter asked.

Ship momentarily stopped chewing, his eyes widening as if he were a student who'd been asked a difficult question. “Well,” he said. “I mean, do I know that he's ever done anything like that before? No, I don't. But, I mean—­is it possible? Sure, I guess it's possible.”

“And do they think they have enough to convince a grand jury?”

“Well, I mean, it doesn't
take
a lot, right? Will they have enough to indict? Probably. Convict? I don't know. But you know what?”

Hunter realized that her cell phone was ringing. Luke Bowers.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Let me take this.”

“Oh, okay. Sure.”

She turned away from Shipman: “Hunter.”

“Good morning,” he said. “In case you're interested, I just spoke with Jackson Pynne. He came by my house. I got the impression he knows the woman we found in the church.”

“Really.”
Hunter stood and walked toward the window. “Please. Tell me more.”

He did. Hunter let him talk, glancing several times back at Shipman, who was hunched over, eating the last of his pancakes, straining to listen.

“And what was he doing in Tidewater County?”

“He said he was passing through, looking at a piece of property. I almost got the idea that he came here to talk with me. To ask about the woman in the church. He said he was working on some kind of deal down South. I don't know that it means a lot, but I thought you'd like to know.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you for telling me. I'll call you later,” Hunter said, watching the sparse morning traffic, figuring out where to go with this.

“Jackson Pynne,” she told Shipman, setting her phone down on the table. “That's the new development.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

Hunter nodded, and explained. Afterward, Ship got a look in his eyes, one she recognized.

“Tell me what you're thinking.”

“Just that Pynne had a connection with Fallow,” he said. “Pynne tried to buy his property a few years ago, when he was living here.”

“Haven't a lot of ­people tried to buy it?”

“I guess.”

Hunter put the lid on her empty parfait cup.

No, she thought, looking past Shipman to the highway. The case
is
shifting. But not necessarily in the ways the sheriff thinks it's shifting.

“Actually,” she said to Ship, “I don't think we're looking at the right things yet. I think maybe we need to go in a completely different direction.”