Chapter 4
The drive to the low country and Billy Huber’s farm took little more than thirty minutes.
The April day was bright, the sun rising and promising heat.
She rolled the windows down and felt the wind whip through her hair, then drove past the lane leading to the Huber farm, making certain that no police vehicles—or any other vehicles, for that matter—were on the property.
She couldn’t really tell, as the lane curved, but after driving by once, she decided to chance it. Even so, she parked nearly a quarter of a mile down the road, around a corner, on a spur of another drive where the shoulder was wide enough to pull off.
With her bag slung over her shoulder, she jogged back to the lane, which had been overgrown by an untamed hedge of saplings, scrub brush, and berry vines.
The gate was now closed and marked with crime-scene tape that fluttered slightly in the morning breeze.
She pushed it open and started along the curving drive to the cluttered, junk-filled yard surrounding the house and outbuildings.
Though not as garish as it had appeared the night before, the area was blanketed with all kinds of junk and broken tree limbs.
No dog in sight.
No signs of life.
The air still.
Quiet.
Almost eerily so.
No birds chirping or insects humming.
Oh, get over yourself. It’s just a quiet morning.
Nervously, she eyed the woods surrounding the house and barnyard. A forest of hickory, pine, and live oaks separated Huber’s scrap of land from the rest of the world. As she studied the woods, her skin prickled. She imagined someone hidden deep in the undergrowth.
Someone watching.
Or maybe the missing dog?
Or maybe nothing—Maybe it was all in her fertile, suspicious mind.
It was a crime scene, the spot where a murder had taken place.
Her nerves were just on edge, that was all.
Knowing that Pierce would throw a fit if he knew she was here, and that at any minute a police cruiser might roll up the drive and she would have to explain herself, had made her jumpy. That was all.
“Get on with it,” she told herself, slipping her phone from her pocket.
She started with the matted grass, still stained with blood and the spot where the tiller had been.
Quickly, she snapped pictures of the area: the flattened grass and weeds where Huber’s body had landed, the torn gutter on the barn, the remaining collection of junk.
Who had wanted him dead?
And why?
Again the question haunted her.
Carefully, she backed up, avoiding the clutter and making a wide circle while taking shots of the barn, sheds, an abandoned chicken coop, a pump house, and a woodpile, where she was certain hornets and squirrels had nested.
She clicked off images of the collected rubble, piles of horseshoes, and car parts scattered everywhere.
As she snapped off a series of shots of the cabin itself, she ignored that little tingle of anxiety that crawled up her spine while she called the dog.
Nothing.
No one was here, not even the shepherd.
She was alone.
She was just being a ninny, letting her wild imagination get the better of her, she thought, trying to convince herself as she stumbled over a dirty baby doll that cried out as she stepped on it.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered and backed up to the fence surrounding the house. She took a quick picture of the doll, eased through the gate, and made her way along the path to the porch, where last night she’d stayed with the dog.
The canine, of course, wasn’t around.
She tried the door.
Unlocked. Probably just like the night before.
So far, so good.
Nerves strung tight, she slipped inside the gloomy interior.
Softly, she called to the dog again, but heard only the steady drip of the kitchen sink. No whine or bark or claws scraping on the floor. The air was unmoving, the scent of old cigarette smoke mingling with a foul odor seeping from the partially opened door of an ancient refrigerator.
A faded floral love seat was pushed against one wall, and a recliner sat in front of an old bubble-screen TV.
One corner housed a woodstove, where ash was piled high behind a cracked glass door.
And everywhere, on every surface, was clutter.
Magazines, books, tools, records, all covered with a thin layer of dust.
She stepped around a stack of old forty-fives and pushed open the door to a bedroom in the same condition as the rest of the house.
A double bed with a bare mattress and sleeping bag rested beneath a single window and was surrounded by clothes and more trash.
She thought there might be a dresser near the closet, but she couldn’t be sure.
A hoarder’s delight, she thought, spying the single bathroom that looked as if it barely functioned. Rust and rings on toilet and sink, the floor of the shower stained as well.
She saw nothing that indicated why Billy Huber had been killed.
Who had hated him so much to spark such violence?
She kept snapping pictures as she climbed a rickety, low-ceilinged stairway that wound upward to an attic landing, where one door opened with a shove.
Had the police even been inside? It didn’t seem so.
But they would be. And probably soon. She didn’t want to be caught poking around, and she sure as hell didn’t want to compromise the investigation.
But she couldn’t quell her curiosity, and so she carefully squeezed into the dark room, which smelled of mold.
When she used the back of her hand to turn on the light, nothing happened, so she swept the beam of her small flashlight over the small space with its sloped, raw-wood ceiling and water stain running down one wall.
The single, small window was covered by a black curtain and the ever-present cobwebs.
But unlike the rest of the home, in this room there was no clutter.
No bags of clothes or broken furniture or forgotten books.
Instead, she found a small table draped in a black cloth and back-dropped by a dusty mirror.
Swathed in cobwebs, reflected in the glass were baby items: a rattle, a yellowed onesie, a bit of hair tied with a ribbon, along with a framed picture of a newborn and a hospital souvenir birth certificate with inked footprints.
She sucked in a breath and read: Caleb Farmer Huber. The baby’s weight, date, and time of birth were listed as well. Her heart twisted, and she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.
All of the items had been placed around a Bible and a blue ceramic heart.
A small urn.
On an altar.
For an infant.
She forced herself to take a picture, her own ashen reflection caught in the shot. She swallowed hard, feeling the loss of this child, knowing the pain.
Suddenly, Billy Huber’s disinterest in life made more sense.
A cool whisper crawled up her spine, the feeling of being watched.
Ridiculous.
She was alone.
No one else nearby.
And yet … was that the creak of a floorboard downstairs?
The back of her throat went dry, and she froze, straining hard to listen for any sound.
But the house remained still.
Eerily so.
Enough, she thought, and she hurriedly clicked off a series of pictures of the bare room and the disturbing altar, an area frozen in time.
She paused on the landing, looking over the rail, listening and searching the lower level for any sign that someone was inside.
But there was nothing other than the beating of her own heart.
Maybe she’d been mistaken?
Still on alert, she eased down to the main area and out the door to the porch, where the air was fresh, morning dew still glistening on blades of grass that grew between the scattered car parts and other junk.
She’d spooked herself, that was all. She’d let the dreary house get to her and—
From the corner of her eye, she caught movement, a dark shadow dashing around the corner of the house.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Someone was here?
No. Not someone.
The dog.
No longer barking his fool head off. Now quiet as a church mouse.
Good.
It was one of the reasons she’d come.
She latched the gate before the shepherd could escape and then spoke in soft tones to the cowering animal. It took off, leaping onto the porch to dive under the same rocking chair as it had the night before. As she cautiously approached, it growled, showing teeth, dark eyes focused on her.
“Oh, stop that,” she said, deciding that it was more scared than angry.
And, no doubt, hungry.
She reached into her bag, where she found the half-eaten hamburger. “Look what I have for you.” Quickly, while the dog continued to stare at her, she unwrapped the remains of the burger, tore off a corner, and tossed it onto the porch.
The shepherd’s gaze flicked to the morsel, then to her before he crawled from beneath the chair to snap it up. She noticed the blood on his matted coat and was more determined than ever to get him to a vet.
Before he could retreat, she flicked out another piece.
Again, the hungry dog scarfed it down.
And didn’t retreat to its hiding place.
Good.
Carefully, she laid the leash in a circle on the uneven floor boards and placed torn bits of the burger in the circle.
The dog waited.
Nikki didn’t move.
After nearly five minutes, hunger overtook fear, and the ratty-looking mutt took the bait, gobbling up each torn bit of hamburger and sticking his nose into the circle of the rope, which, when he stretched his neck far enough, she pulled tight.
Startled, the dog yanked back.
Nikki talked to him in soothing tones, and after immediately surging back against the leash, the dog finally relaxed, all fight gone.
Using the last scraps of the burger, she lured him along the lane and road to her Subaru and the waiting crate inside the cargo space.
Time to see the vet.
Then call her husband.
And face the music.