Chapter 34
Only one thing was missing from my vision.
The windows were covered with old-fashioned wooden blinds. Not a square inch of chintz in sight.
The resort was called Echoing Pines on Lake Lure. Unlike Harvard Boynton’s trailer park, the place was delivering on everything promised in its name. And it was a welcome escape from the heat still holding firm in Charlotte.
Our room was large enough to accommodate paired double beds, bureaus, and side tables, all made of over-varnished blond oak. A brick fireplace filled one wall, faced by rockers whose backstory might have involved the Amish.
A week had passed since the events at the Marlwood house. Days filled with police statements and lineups—and with a zillion reassurances to friends and family that I was okay.
Ryan and I were sharing a swing on the inn’s enormous front porch. He had one long leg stretched out to the railing and, now and then, was giving a gentle shove to encourage the movement that was making me slightly queasy.
“Très scénique, oui?” Ryan drew me close with an arm already wrapping my shoulders.
“Beautiful,” I agreed.
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
“What bird is that?” Ryan asked.
“I think it’s a Carolina wren.”
“Talented fellow.”
“How do you know it’s a guy?” I asked.
“While you were doing whatever toilette it is that you do, I flipped through the magazine provided by our kindly host. According to some Audubon enthusiast, only the males sing.”
“Did he introduce himself as Jedediah?”
“The bird?” Ryan said, smiling.
“Our host.”
“He did.”
“Quite the mountain-man name.”
“It is.”
Jimmy-jimmy-jimmy.
“Is that the same wren?” Ryan asked.
“I don’t know. Would you like me to request ID?”
“Hilarious.”
“I try.”
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
“Birdie would enjoy this place,” Ryan said.
“Birdie would enjoy eating that wren.” As I said it, I reflected that my cat wasn’t exactly the big game–hunting type. He much preferred the treats I purchased from the grocery store.
“We could have brought him.”
“He loves staying with the neighbor. She feeds him canned tuna.”
“Is that good for cats?”
“Doubtful.”
We fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the birdsong and admiring the peaceful tableau spreading out below us. The glistening lake. The shadowy hills fading into the deepening dusk.
Ryan was the first to speak again.
“There are still some details on which I’m unclear.”
“Nice grammar,” I said.
“Thank you,” Ryan said. Then, after a pause. “Let me recap. The guy’s name is Turner Long. He’s from Mobile but has worked as an driver in the Charlotte area for over three years. He’s unmarried, has no partner, no kids.”
Jimmy-jimmy-jimmy.
“Correct on all points.”
“Did Long ever serve time?” Ryan asked.
“According to Slidell, he did five years in Alabama for stealing a handbag.”
“A snatch-and-run got him a nickel stretch?”
“The old lady fell and broke her hip.”
“That’ll do it.”
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
Ryan gave the swing another gentle shove. We rocked backward. After swallowing, I continued the thread.
“Also according to Slidell, Long gets his jollies decorating and nailing dead animals to trees. He started out using roadkill, eventually shifted to snatching pets, then to robbing graves.”
“Long admitted to those things?”
“Yes,” I said. “With considerable encouragement from Skinny.”
“What about Quaashi Brown?”
“Long says he had nothing to do with Brown or the corpse at Cordelia Park.”
“Does Slidell believe him?”
“Not for a second. He’s running down the evidence that will nail him on both.”
“Where is Long now?”
“Central lockup. And, according to Skinny”—I hooked air quotes—“ ‘the scumbag ain’t going nowhere any time soon.’ ”
Another round of teakettle-teakettle-teakettle, then,
“How did this loser come to focus on you?” Ryan was trying to hide his anger, not really succeeding.
“Several weeks back, I admonished Long for making a sloppy delivery to my neighbor.”
“The asshole took offense and decided that you needed admonishment.” Ryan’s free hand went to his shirt pocket, came away empty, the move a holdover from his years as a smoker. A sure sign of agitation.
“Long told Acorn that he’d bided his time until he had a delivery for me,” I went on.
“When I answered the door, Birdie fired through the gap. Fearing he might dart into the traffic on Queens Road, and totally focused on recapturing the escapee, I instructed Long to leave the package in the front hall. While he was inside the Annex and I was outside in cat pursuit, Long raced upstairs, shot a quick video, then stuck a recording device under the sideboard in the front hall. A good one, sensitive enough to pick up conversations on most of the first floor.”
“That’s how he knew what scared you, what scared Katy.”
“No. That conversation took place at a picnic in a park. During his stealth strike inside the Annex, Long also dropped a device into my purse.”
“Which was conveniently accessible in the hall.”
I nodded.
“What a bastard.”
“Agreed. Get this. Among other things, when Acorn ran his background check he learned that Long was a grad student in psych at the University of Alabama for about two heartbeats.”
“Meaning?”
“He was booted from the program after one semester.”
“On what grounds?”
“That info is sealed. But apparently, Long’s interest in human behavior never waned. He took to nailing up grisly displays to observe how people reacted.”
“Bear,” Ryan said.
“Yes.” The jolt of anger I felt startled me.
“Did Long shoot the dog?”
“He refuses to discuss it.”
“Ralph Balodis?”
“He denies killing anyone. Skinny’s certain he’ll eventually get Long to crack.”
I thought back to my conversation with Adina and our definition of evil. An act that is horrific, intentional, inexplicable, and the cause of extreme suffering.
After so much cold-blooded killing—of animals and people—and so much elaborate orchestration meant to terrify, Long, in my view, met every qualification.
Flash image. The letters PE carved into flesh.
Suddenly, I understood the meaning of the cryptic message.
Pure Evil.
There followed another long stretch of silence interrupted only by the bird. Then Ryan posed a series of questions.
“Ruthie never was missing, right?”
“Not to her thinking. She’d gone off on the spur of the moment with her UNCC pals, sans Meloy and Hall. In her haste to connect with them on time, she’d failed to leave a note. Figured she’d phone from the car.”
“But forgot.”
“Yep.”
Another slow back and forth, then Ryan asked, “If Long was offing people for fun, why didn’t he kill you?”
“I asked my friend Adina her opinion on that.”
“The psychologist?”
“Yes. She compared Long’s behavior toward me to that of a cat toying with a mouse.”
“Long enjoyed observing your reactions when you were under duress.”
“That was her theory.”
Another pause. Then,
“Danielle Hall. What’s the story there?”
“Just a grad student who took a liking to Ruthie.”
“Do you find that weird?”
“Hall told me she’d had a rough time fitting in her freshman year of college. She thinks because of her size. Now, when she gives campus tours, if she spots a kid that looks iffy, she tries to mentor a bit. Ruthie fit the bill with her vociferous bad-mouthing of higher education.”
I did some tweaking in the translation of Hall’s account. Her language had been more colorful than that.
“Who was the guy with the neck tattoo?”
“Lester Meloy. His club really did call itself Live, not Evil. Nothing sinister, just a group of idealistic students wanting to change the world.”
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
“The black Honda you suspected was following you. What came of that?”
“Slidell tracked the owner. The car belongs to the grandson of a neighbor at Sharon Hall. Its presence near the Annex had nothing to do with me. Same goes for the one I spotted behind me in traffic.”
“What about all those hang-up calls?”
“That was the lovely Mr. Long, blocking his number. Apparently, the prick loves playing with gadgets that he learns about while doing deliveries. He used a voice modifier when talking to me down in the tunnels.”
“Does Slidell think it was Long who shoved the thumb drive up Quaashi Brown’s butt?”
“Long denies doing it. But yes, he does.”
“Why?”
“Clearly, the man has issues.”
“I hate that you had to go through what you did. But I’m still pissed off that you took so long to confide in me. And Slidell.”
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
“I didn’t want Skinny getting his shiny polyesters in a knot.”
“And me?”
“You abhor synthetics.”
Ryan rolled his eyes, then asked, “Has Skinny recovered from his little fun run?”
Triggered by my ID of Turner Long based on the deodorizer scent, Skinny had sprinted up the stairs and out the front door.
Seeing a scowling red-faced man bearing down on him, Long had attempted to flee in the truck.
When the engine failed to turn over, he’d flown from behind the wheel and dashed up the street.
Panting and sweating, Skinny had been hot on his heels.
“I thought we might need a respirator,” I said, picturing Slidell’s inelegant takedown of Long into a hedge. “Skinny is tougher than he looks.”
“Why the hell did the dolt hang around that long?”
“Seeing people react to the chaos he created was the point of his game.”
Another slow undulation, then,
“What now?” Ryan’s voice had gone softer.
“What do you mean, what now?”
“Will you continue your unending fight against the forces of evil?” Delivered in a superhero announcer’s baritone.
“As long as my powers hold out.”
“Abilities far beyond those of mortal men.”
“And women.”
“That’s not how the intro went,” Ryan said.
“It should have.”
Ryan rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.
“Ready to call it a day?” he asked.
“I am,” I said.
Teakettle-teakettle-teakettle.
“But I fear that wren may be warming up for an all-night gig.”