Authors: Kylie Brant
Waking Evil 02 (18 page)
She eyed them, searched for something to say that wouldn’t sound sarcastic.
“Ah . . . you’re working tonight?”
“Planned on it. Jotted down names and dates from Donnelle. Wondered if recent events would result in any activity ’round the cemetery this time.”
Ramsey was not often at a loss for words. But she was struggling now not to blurt out what was on her mind. Especially knowing that it would undoubtedly be a painful subject for him.
His mouth curved slightly, but the smile wasn’t reflected in his eyes. “Don’t know as I’ve ever seen you look so uncomfortable. So I reckon you heard some talk ’bout the last time the red mist occurred here.”
Her gaze fixed on his. “You have to realize what a conflict of interest this is for you.”
Brows raised in real surprise, he folded his arms across his chest. “Really? Don’t see how. I’m not the media or the police. It doesn’t really matter what my bias may be. That’s the nice thing ’bout chasin’ ghosts. They don’t much care one way or ’nother.”
She didn’t rise to the verbal bait. “If I hadn’t gotten called away today from the museum, you would have let Donnelle start in about the last murder in Buffalo Springs? Even as it implicates your father?”
He crouched down and began zipping up the cases of equipment he had piled on the floor. “She wouldn’t have done that. A true Southern gentlewoman would never discuss somethin’ so indelicate in front of the murderer’s son.”
It was difficult to say which of them was more surprised when she placed a hand lightly on his arm. “Dev.”
He stilled, staring up at her, and it occurred to her that was the first time she’d called him by name. Embarrassed, she withdrew her hand and clasped both of them in back of her.
Heaving a breath, he rose. “I was going to tell you at lunch. Been half waitin’ for you to question me ’bout it up to now. With the murder first then Simpson’s suicide, there’s no shortage of talk ’bout the deaths back then.”
“I’m sure.” Even if none of it had reached her ears until an hour ago, she was intimately acquainted with small-town memories. No single event could ever be lived down. Very little was forgiven. Nothing forgotten. And each time the gossip raged again, the retelling took another step further from facts and became the new truth. And living with that,
in that
, was the cruelest life imaginable.
in that
, was the cruelest life imaginable.
“I’m gonna have a beer. Do you want anythin’?” Before she could answer, he was striding through the small dining room to the kitchen. Slowly, she trailed along in his wake, lingering over the collection of photos that covered walls and shelves. If they were put in order, one could see Stryker’s development over the years from a towheaded toddler to a gap-toothed schoolboy, then to a young teen, already showing promise of those fallen angel looks, to a college grad. The sheer number of images astonished her. Ramsey couldn’t recall seeing more than three pictures of her that had been taken during her entire childhood.
He came back from the kitchen, shoved a beer she didn’t want into her hand.
“This is your grandfather’s house?”
“Yep, it is. Put him in assisted livin’ last winter, but he won’t hear of sellin’ the place. Gives him the feelin’ he still has a choice about his last years. I guess that’s important.”
She sipped from her bottle. “I guess.”
Reaching behind her, he pulled out a dining room chair. After she sank into it, he sat down as well. “I was two the last time the red mist was sighted in Buffalo Springs. Don’t remember anythin’ ’bout that night, of course. But the facts I’ve heard in the time since stay pretty true. Seems a gal by the name of Sally Ann Porter disappeared one day. Her mother—Jessalyn—was pretty upset. Sally Ann’s daddy was out of the picture—messy divorce years earlier—and Jessalyn was convinced Sally Ann had fallen victim to foul play.”
He’d shifted into the role of storyteller, she realized, as if that eliminated a bit of the sting from relaying a tale that held such a personal punch.
Tilting his bottle to his lips, Dev took a drink before continuing. “The sheriff at that time was my daddy’s brother, Richard Rollins.”
Jolted at the news, she interrupted. “But your name isn’t Rollins.”
“My mother remarried two years later and my stepfather adopted me.” There was a flicker of distaste on his face, as if the memory gave him no pleasure. “As I was sayin’, Uncle Rich tried to soothe Jessalyn’s fears, as it was his supposition that Sally Ann had taken off for New York or California or some such. Seems Sally was a free spirit. Liked experimentin’ with drugs and men, usually in unison. She’d talked about leavin’ town for a couple years. Everyone, even her friends, believed she’d finally done it.”
“But not her mother.”
“Not Jessalyn. She became more and more distraught. Can’t blame her there. And maybe she felt a little bit of guilt, on account of she and Sally Ann hadn’t been getting on up to then. They’d had harsh words over Sally Ann’s lifestyle and her taste in men. And since Jessalyn was known for her ability to tear a strip off a person and wrap them up in it, people started sayin’ as how they could see the girl wantin’ to get away.”
Maybe she was getting reacquainted with the roundabout way of speaking, but Ramsey felt no impatience creeping in as she listened. She had a feeling that this story would tell far more about Devlin Stryker than any of the words they’d exchanged so far.
He rubbed his thumb over the condensation forming on the bottle. “Jessalyn grew more and more disenchanted with the investigation and the entire Rollins family. Said she was going to look into things herself. But mostly what that amounted to was a lot of trash talk. Got to where she was even tellin’ anyone who’d listen that my daddy and Sally Ann had been lovers. That of course upset my daddy, so he resolved to go talk some sense to her.” He drank deeply, eyeing her over the rim of the bottle. When he lowered it, he continued, “Next mornin’ Jessalyn was found dead on the floor of her bedroom. Strangled. My daddy was passed out drunk next to her body.”
A bolt of pity twisted through her. She couldn’t imagine willingly returning to this town every summer trailing that kind of background behind. She hadn’t been back to Mississippi for more than a few days total in fifteen years.
“And that was enough to convict him?” It would have been more than enough, she imagined, nearly thirty years ago in a small southern town shaken by its first violent death in decades. Especially with the local legend thrown in to stir things up.
“That and the fact that he couldn’t remember anythin’ to defend himself. Said he couldn’t recall a thing past the time he’d had a beer with his best friend Lon Chelsey at Suds right before headin’ to Jessalyn’s. Now this is where the facts stop and talk takes over. People sort of figured he’d faced Jessalyn, got a tearin’ into for his efforts, and slunk off to pick up some liquid courage. Drank enough to work up a good mad and went back over to her house, tried again. This time with different results.”
“But there was nothing in the police report validating that? Interviewing people who might have seen him during that time? Someplace who sold him the beer? Neighbors who saw him come back? Heard something?” She broke off at the smile curling one side of his mouth. “What?”
“Nothin’. Just . . . you think like a cop.”
“What would you expect me to think like, a trapeze artist?” It would be interesting to see if that police report still existed. To track the course of the investigation and draw her own conclusions about its findings. “Your father was killed in prison?”
“Three weeks inside and he was stuck with a shiv during a prison riot. By that time, my mama had taken me to go live with her grandparents in Knoxville.”
Because her throat felt tight, Ramsey took a long swallow of beer. “That had to be rough on you.”
“Rougher on my mama, I ’spect. At any rate, she found husband number two quick enough. Later on it became a real good idea to separate the two of us for the summer each year, so she’d send me back to stay with my granddaddy.”
Her mind backed up to what he’d said earlier. “That’s only two deaths. With your father and Jessalyn, I mean.”
“Figured you’d key in on that. ’Bout eight months later some boys were hookin’ school and hangin’ ’round Ashton’s Pond, lookin’ for bull snakes. They saw somethin’ in the bushes and investigated. Found human hair. Took four days, but Uncle Richard and his deputies finally fished the body that belonged to it out of the water. Near as they could figure, it was Sally Ann Porter.”
Instinct flickered to life. “Ashton’s Pond again.”
He shook his head. “Nothin’ like this last time. There was barely enough left of her to autopsy after the fish had feasted on her for so long. They figured she’d been hangin’ out down there, doin’ some speed, puttin’ some space ’tween her and Jessalyn, and fell in. Too doped up to swim to the edge and pull herself out.”
Maybe. Any pond or lake was bound to have a death or two reported within a thirty-year period. But Ramsey was more determined than ever to look up the old case files, if they still existed.
Every town had its share of tragedy, regardless of its size. But as Leanne had mentioned, there was definitely a pattern in Buffalo Springs. And she was becoming more and more interested to discover if there was any tangible link between the deaths she’d heard about. Not one that depended on ghosts and red mist and all that rot. But one that laid the blame for each death squarely where it was due—at some human’s feet.
And three decades ago that human had been Dev’s father.
Absently, she ran her thumbnail under the bottle’s label to loosen it, surveying Dev soberly. “I can understand that you have questions. But I don’t see how coming back here now, with all that”—she jerked her head toward his mound of equipment—“is going to provide you any further information about what happened with your father.”
“See, that’s where I figure you’re wrong.” He drained the bottle and sat it on the table in front of him. “I know you’re one of those types who don’t believe anythin’ you can’t see and feel and examine.”
“I believe in facts,” she put in.
“Facts are nice when they exist. But I’m here to tell you I’ve seen a few things in my time that science can’t explain. Not often, mind you. I see far more that turns out to be nothin’ but hype and hoax. And I spend plenty of time in my books exposin’ those. But there have been a few times . . .” The look on his face almost had Ramsey asking for details. Almost.
“Anyway, now’s the perfect time to explore the legend of Buffalo Springs.” He stood, walked back to the kitchen to put away his empty bottle before rejoining her. “And the thing I’ve noticed about murder is that it tends to get people agitated. And when they’re agitated, they talk. Not so much to outsiders, but they’ll talk to me. Most of it isn’t worth listenin’ to, but every now and then details come out that are sorta interestin’. I’m hopin’ enough of those details emerge to help me get a clearer picture of what happened the last time the red mist was sighted.”
It seemed like a masochistic way to get information, but since she could now understand what drove him, she remained silent. It was, she admitted, a braver way to deal with his past than leaving the state and refusing to go back the way she had.
Not that she was about to rethink
that
decision.
that
decision.
“Well.” She slid her half-empty bottle away from her and rose. “I guess I shouldn’t keep you.” She stood, glanced at the equipment in the next room and then back at him. “I mean . . . I suppose midnight is the time you want to be in the cemetery, right?”
From the grin on his face, it was apparent she’d said something idiotic, but to his credit he said only, “The time really isn’t important. Other than being out of there before dawn. People don’t take kindly to having others lurkin’ ’round the graves of their loved ones, no matter what my intentions are. I’ve alerted Mark’s office that I’ll be there, in case anyone reports lights or some such.”
Ramsey’s impression of his intelligence had marginally increased since hearing his take on the supernatural events he explored. But it still seemed like a strange way for a person to make a living.
But then there were some, including her own family, who often pointed out that traveling around from one location to another investigating the most violent of crimes didn’t exactly fit within the “normal” range, either.
She made her way through the room with him following her and stepped carefully around the stacked cases of equipment. But something stopped her as she had her hand on the door.
Turning, she surveyed him soberly. “I’m sorry about your father, Stryker.” And she was. The failures of the parents inevitably impacted the child. She wondered now if that seemingly incessant affability of his had developed as a defense mechanism against some of those blows.
He closed the distance between them. “Have to admit, I’m not sorry you know the whole story. Half promised myself you needed to know that much before I did this.”
She knew him well enough to mistrust that gleam in his eye. But obviously not well enough to guess what it meant. Because when his mouth lowered to cover hers, she could only stand there, stunned. Oh, she could feel. God, yes, she felt. As his lips molded hers, there was a kick to her system that jumpstarted her pulse. Fired tiny missiles of heat to parts of her body that hadn’t been warmed in . . . The thought grew fuzzy. Jesus . . . God, he was good at this.
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