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  “I’m here to interview Bobby Grissom, Officer…” he made an event out of reading the name on the badge pinned to the man’s overstretched shirt, “…Lykin. Say, that’s your blue Dodge in the lot isn’t it?”

  Officer Lykin’s eyes widened. Sam hadn’t made much of a guess. It was the only car on this side of the building with a Corrections Dept. window decal. Years of compulsive automobile evaluation sometimes came in handy.

  “That’s the one with the cracked windshield,” Sam said. “Gotta fix that before you get cited. My deputies have eagle eyes for things like that. Oh, where were we? That’s right, Grissom. I’m here to see Grissom. Now.”

  Officer Lykin gritted his teeth and buzzed Sam back into the visiting room. He clicked a mic and called for an officer to bring up Grissom.

  Sam adjusted his pistol belt and sat in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in front of the glassed-in visitors’ booth windows. Well before visiting hours, the room was empty.

  A corrections officer built like a beer keg brought Bobby to the other side of the glass. The prisoner’s face was one big blue/red bruise. His nose and jaw were swollen. One eyelid drooped.

  Sam’s first unprofessional and embarrassing reaction was to smile. This punk had been nothing but dirt his whole life, a know-nothing who took and never gave, a worthless husband to that cute Theresa at Treasured Things. How nice to see him properly positioned in the pecking order of real criminals. Sam put a serious face back in place. The two men picked up handsets.

  “Grissom.”

  “Sheriff,” Grissom said.

  He had the same condescending tone of disbelief the rest of the town had, as if the jail-bound jerk had any high ground to occupy. Sam dropped to his level.

  “You’re looking spiffy. Prison life seems to agree with you.”

  “That’s why I called you,” Bobby said. “Guards let a few bubbas in here beat the shit out of me. Didn’t say nothing.”

  “He fell in the shower,” the guard behind Bobby volunteered, muffled by the thick glass.

  “Sounds like a personal problem, Grissom,” Sam said. “I protect people outside of jail. Decent people.”

  “Yeah, well, I got some info that might earn me some protection,” Bobby said.

  “That’s doubtful.”

  “If’n it’s good, you might be able to get me a little safety in here, right?”

  “What could you know that’s worthwhile?”

  “If it’s important enough for Rhonda Mears to quiz me about it two nights ago, it’s probably important to you.”

  Sam sat up straighter. The former sheriff’s widow had barely been out of her house since her husband’s funeral. “You’re telling me Rhonda Mears came to see you?”

  “God’s honest truth.”

  Hearing Grissom use the phrase turned Sam’s stomach, but the dirtbag seemed sincere.

  “And what would she want from you?”

  “Wanted to know about my ex-wife and such. Was supposed to make it easy on me inside if’n I told her, but look how I ended up.”

  “And why would Rhonda want your razor-sharp insight?”

  “I gave her the inside story on my wife and that Locke woman and how they done conspired to get her husband killed.”

  “And how do you know of this conspiracy?”

  Grissom sat back with a pale approximation of an erudite expression on his face. “Oh, I knows stuff. I’m observant.”

  Sam knew what the grapevine said. The loss of her husband had devastated Rhonda. If she’d been home nursing ideas of revenge, even Grissom’s half-baked theories might set her down the wrong path. He got up.

  “Thanks for wasting my time.”

  Bobby whipped up close to the glass with a panicked look. “Hey wait, Sheriff. I’m telling the truth here. Hand to God!”

  Sam hung up the handset and walked away. Through the thick glass he barely heard Bobby shout, “Everyone I call done screws me over!” Officer Lykin buzzed him back through to the reception area.

  “That dirtbag says Rhonda Mears visited him two nights ago,” Sam asked Lykin. “Any truth to that?”

  “No one but law enforcement crosses that threshold outside visiting hours,” Lykin said. “State rules.”

  Sam nodded and left. But by the time he got back to his office, the corrections officer’s answer didn’t sit well with him at all. He hadn’t answered the question, a tactic that would avoid a charge of obstruction or lying to a police officer. He hadn’t said that Rhonda wasn’t there, just that no one was supposed to be there after visiting hours. Those were two different things.

  If she had been there, she wouldn’t have signed in, and any surveillance footage would probably be conveniently missing. But his department might have caught her in the act.

  Back at the sheriff’s department, he logged on to the town’s traffic camera system. The same security-minded populace that kept his department in new Dodge Chargers had agreed to a few downtown surveillance cameras at the intersections around the town square, deterrents to any would-be thieves. Sam logged on to the one at Main and Taylor. Rhonda would have passed this one on the way to the jail.

  Cars idled at the red light on the live feed. He typed in 5:00 p.m. and two days ago. The picture rolled over to a duskier paused view of a pickup truck stopped at the light. He hit fast forward. Cars appeared to zip by and the traffic light bounced on the wire like a sugar-filled kid at a birthday party. The picture grew darker and then streetlights popped on. The lapsed time read just after 9:00 p.m. when he hit Pause and rewound the video.

  There it was. Rhonda’s Jeep Grand Cherokee, the only one in town with a Sheriff’s Association bumper sticker, cruising down Taylor. He fast-forwarded the tape another twenty minutes and watched the Cherokee roll back through the intersection in the opposite direction.

  Good cops didn’t believe in coincidences. Dirtbag Grissom had been telling the truth and there was a good chance that Rhonda might want some closure on her husband’s death. The death of the actual killer might not be satisfaction enough. The two women who were there might be.

  He had nothing to warrant confronting Rhonda. Corrections wouldn’t admit to letting her in after hours, Grissom wasn’t reliable, and if he started questioning the widow of the martyred sheriff, the town would tar and feather him. But he could check on Laura and Theresa. They may have observed something suspicious, or his tip might set them up to do so. It couldn’t hurt.

  He’d start with Theresa. He had to go pick up that lantern anyway, though he didn’t relish combining the two trips. She seemed genuine, and cute, and excuses to drop by her shop were hard to come by, unless he could get his sister to have housewarming parties more often.

  “Sheriff?” The scratchy voice of dispatcher Gladys, the dispatcher, came over his desk intercom. “The mayor called earlier and wanted to know if you had checked the fairgrounds this morning.”

  For a small town where little had happened since his elevation, today was certainly crammed full of law enforcement events. First things first. Deputy Winston was already down at the fairgrounds and Sam trusted him more than any of the others. That made his priority Theresa Grissom.

  “I’ll call the mayor later, Gladys.”

  He got up to leave his office. He picked up the wide-brimmed hat on the seat beside him. He slipped it on and tucked the thin leather band at the rear around the back of his head. It seemed to fit fine, finally. He pulled it off, tucked it under his arm and headed for his cruiser.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Two emotions collided head on when Theresa saw Sam enter Treasured Things.

  The first was a flitter of happiness. She’d put a little polish on the lantern, rationalizing that it had to look good enough to be a centerpiece of some fine Brentwood home. But the truth was that as long as it impressed Sam, she’d be happy. That light, little feeling he stirred inside her was worth a bit of cultivation.

  The second, stronger emotion smothered the first. The familiar thick,
black ooze of dread darkened her world. The nervous, anticipatory little smile Sam flashed and then hid only made her feel worse. She’d seen his terrifying future, a future of pain and fear and flames. Each step he took was a step closer to it, and he had no idea of the abyss ahead.

  She backed away from her dark insight and into the shielded role of shopkeeper Theresa. She imagined that Wonder Woman felt as relieved when she fell back to assume the part of Diana Prince.

  “Back for the lantern?” Theresa said.

  “I can’t show up at my sister’s empty-handed,” Sam said.

  Theresa brought out the lantern. Sam gave a look of admiration.

  “This looks better than I remember.”

  “I just knocked the dust off it.”

  “And a little rust, I think.”

  Theresa passed him the lantern. He didn’t move.

  “I have a little official business as well,” he said. “It involves your ex-husband.”

  Theresa shook her head. “Bobby’s like malaria. Makes you sick and then keeps coming back after you think you’re cured. Now what?”

  “Now, this conversation is between the two of us. I’m going out on a limb discussing it with you at this stage.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “He claims that Rhonda Mears paid him a visit in jail. She drilled him on you and Laura Locke and what happened at Galaxy Farms the night her husband was shot.”

  Theresa did a quick mental reshuffle. She sent her actual recollections of that night to storage and pulled up the sanitized story she’d told the police.

  “What did she want to know? We told the police everything.”

  “People need to make sense of the death of a loved one, especially in such strange circumstances like that night. She might be creating answers to questions only she has. Has Rhonda been in touch with you?”

  “No. I saw her at a distance at her husband’s funeral, but that’s it.”

  “You haven’t noticed anything suspicious, anyone watching you?” Sam struggled a moment then added. “Maybe in a red Jeep Grand Cherokee?”

  “No, nothing like that. Should I be worried?”

  “No, no. How about Laura Locke? Isn’t she staying with you?”

  “Well, no, she isn’t anymore.”

  “Oh,” Sam said and looked down in discomfort.

  “She moved to an apartment for the start of the school year.”

  “I’ll get in touch with her, then,” Sam said. “I’m sure all this is nothing. Bobby embellishes a story, to say the least. Just keep an eye out.”

  He slipped a business card from his pocket and wrote a phone number on the back. He put it on the counter.

  “This is my personal cell number. You call this at any hour of the day if anything seems amiss. Anything at all.”

  The look in his eyes held more than the cold, professional duty of law enforcement. He had genuine personal concern for her safety. Guilt doubled the mental weight of her premonition. She reached out and put her hand on his. His fingers closed on hers.

  “Sheriff…Sam,” she said, “I have something else you need to know though. Not about my safety, but about yours.”

  His grip on her hand slackened. His eyes went colder, professional again. “Go on.”

  Theresa second-guessed telling him. She barely knew him. He’d think she was crazy. But he’d come in to help her. What she knew might help him.

  “I have this gift,” she said. “Ever since I was a little girl. Visions sort of, just flashes of the future. I know it’s hard to believe.”

  His hand closed around hers again. “Which makes it hard to share, I’d guess.”

  Theresa waited for the usual trivializing statement, but none followed.

  “Well, you aren’t dismissing me,” Theresa said. “That’s something.”

  “No, not at all,” Sam said. “My grandmother was a great believer in the supernatural. She gave me the ability to be open to a lot of things. Go on.”

  “I had a vision about you. Something bad is going to happen. A fire, maybe an explosion. A lot of people will be in danger. Including you.”

  “Well, as the sheriff, sounds like something I’d end up being at. Where is this going to happen?”

  “That’s the problem,” Theresa said. “I don’t know. And I don’t know when. The visions are rarely that clear. But they’re also rarely wrong.”

  Sam stared off in contemplation. “Can the outcome of your visions be changed?”

  “Sometimes, if I can figure out what they mean in time.”

  “Okay then,” Sam said. “I’ve shared a vague warning with you and you’ve shared a vague warning with me. Sounds like the start of something special.”

  He squeezed and released Theresa’s hand. She smiled.

  “Thanks for believing me,” Theresa said.

  He flicked a few strands of her hair with his fingertip. “It’s the red hair. It’s male kryptonite. Keep me in the loop if you get to know anything else.”

  “Same with you.”

  Sam left. Theresa touched the edge of the business card on the counter. She felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She’d warned him. He’d believed.

  He cared.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Theresa could not call the visions, ask for details, or pause scenes and expand them like some sci-fi movie. Mastering those skills would have turned the burden of prophecy into a delight. But she had to do what she could. Now that Sam was aware of her secret, and his safety relied on her interpretation, she had to find more information through other means.

  More details could, no doubt, be gleaned from the book. Certainly it was an historic treasure trove, but she had to get one specific question answered. What was the vision she’d had at the warehouse, the terrifying scene of leaping flames and the parchment flap of great primeval wings? The premonition had come when she’d touched the desk. The desk had given her the journal. The journal would give her answers.

  She pulled the book from under the counter. When she set it down on top, flecks of paper cascaded down three sides. She opened the book and turned each creaking page with care. She wanted to rifle through and find a section on bats or something that related to her vision, but the dense entries did not lend themselves to a quick scan, and each was fascinating in its own right. Familiars. Amulets. Talismans. Spells. The author went through a list of the tools of the trade. Some of the powers had to be fictional, as the listed “broom riding” was too clichéd to be true.

  One page discussed bewitching herbs, a combination of plants and dried animal parts that, when ingested, rendered the person anywhere from susceptible to suggestion to comatose. Theresa bought that concept, though perhaps with powers not supernatural. Marijuana, peyote and opiates would all do that to some degree. She vaguely remembered some author’s quote about anything people didn’t understand becoming attributable to magic.

  She tried to turn the page and it pulled from the book.

  “Shoot,” she muttered and set the page aside on her desk. If this thing was going to fall apart, she’d never learn anything useful.

  She turned the next few pages with great care, praying to find a clue to her vision. She touched the next page and the words on it dissolved as it disintegrated into yellowed flakes.

  “Oh no.” She swept a few away from one corner and revealed a line drawing of a folded bat wing.

  Her heart skipped a beat and then went to double speed. The wing was a dead ringer for her vision.

  She thought quickly and grabbed a large manila envelope from her desk. She slid it under the page with the drawing and the crumbling page above it. She pulled a box cutter from the drawer, slit the far edge of the pages at the binding, and slid the pages and the manila folder out from the book. As she did, the friction collapsed the remaining pages into a jumble of spotted flakes.

  She rummaged in the drawer and found a pair of long-handled tweezers from an old surgical kit. She picked the top layer of bits off the fragile second
page. Piece by piece, she uncovered a picture of a hairless humanlike creature with a long face and a mouth full of sharpened teeth. From its back sprouted a pair of long, folded wings. Underneath was the name “Longarex”.

  Above and behind her, the air conditioner rumbled to life. A blast of cold air ruffled her hair and caught underneath the manila envelope. Theresa’s hands shot for the pages a split second too late. The folder flew up into the air. The pages fragmented and fell to the ground like volcanic ash.

  “No!”

  She stood frozen in disbelief as hundreds of paper shards sprinkled on the floor. She had spent her life searching for answers to the questions her visions posed. This one exploded just when it was within reach.

  It was almost time to pick up Dustin. She knelt before the counter and swept the collection of paper bits into the envelope. Maybe she could emulate all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, and put the page back together again.

  She grimaced when she remembered that the horses and men had actually failed at their reassembly task. She didn’t think her odds were much better.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The world’s hardest puzzle covered Theresa’s dining room table. Each piece had a uniform background inscribed with little bits of cursive letters. Add in that half the pieces were for the wrong page and it was tough to believe the situation was anything but hopeless.

  Dustin was in his room doing math homework, and dinner wasn’t due for a while, so Theresa set to work on the unsolvable. An hour later, hope rose like false dawn as she resurrected the drawing of the longarex. Then she realized why the task had been easy. It was the only drawing on the page. She wondered if the creature’s satanic visage had been as embellished as the broomstick story or if it really looked that horrible. For the next half hour, she flicked a few flakes of paper around with tweezers, in a completely nonsystematic attempt to find them mates. She assembled a few phrases by sheer luck, but nothing enlightening. Her enthusiasm waned when she realized that her scant progress could have been assembling the top page, the page she did not need.