Dark Inspiration Read online

  “Bobby!” Sheriff Mears yelled as he banged on the door. Bobby’s apartment was on the bottom floor of a fading Victorian that had been subdivided six different ways. Flecks of yellow paint fell from the door with each impact of the sheriff’s fist.

  The door opened a few inches. Bobby squinted in the daylight, face haggard and unshaven. An unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. All he had on were a pair of shorts.

  “Well, Sheriff,” Bobby rasped. “Always a pleasure.”

  “Rough night, Bobby?”

  “Nothin’ a little hair of the dog won’t cure.”

  “Where were you last night?” the sheriff asked.

  “Down at Slim’s ’til eleven,” Bobby said. “Then over to Vern’s ’til dawn.” The answer came out way too fast. Bobby could barely contain a self-satisfied smile.

  “Vern Pugh?” Sheriff Mears said. “When did you two become drinking buddies?”

  “Hell, Sheriff, guy’s a little misunderstood,” Bobby said. “I can empathize.”

  Sheriff Mears had heard some stinking stories over the years and this one reeked. Plus only the guilty forget to ask “Why?” when a cop asked for an alibi. “You know I’ll check that.”

  “Call the man, but he won’t be in any better shape than I am.”

  Bobby had a wad of paper towels bound to his arm with masking tape. Sheriff Mears remembered the blood at Treasured Things. He pointed at Bobby’s arm.

  “Looks like you cut yourself pretty badly.”

  “Little scratch. Caught myself on a rake in the garage last night when I got home.”

  “Mind if I take a look?”

  “Now I’m just touched by your concern, Sheriff. But I’m doing fine.”

  “How about I come in and take a quick look around before I go?”

  “If you got a warrant.”

  Mears hated when someone with no respect for the law shielded themselves with it, like a deserter signing up for VA benefits. “Don’t leave town, boy. We’ve got lots more to talk about.”

  “I’m thinking we’re done,” Bobby said. He slammed the door.

  Mears knew he wasn’t beat. He had Bobby’s DNA on file from a previous arrest. He could match it to the blood at Treasured Things and then he had him. Of course, unlike TV, it would take time. He’d have to ship it to Nashville and get in line behind more critical crimes like murders, rapes and kidnappings. But Bobby wouldn’t know that. And by mentioning the cut, Mears knew he’d planted the seed in Bobby’s tiny brain. In an hour, the loser would be convinced that he’d left evidence at the crime scene, and would be doing something stupid to cover up his involvement that would only further implicate him.

  But why wait that long. Bobby gave him a bogus alibi. Time to shake Vern and see what fell out. He could turn and Bobby would be behind bars before lunch.

  Twenty minutes later Sheriff Mears’ Charger was once more in Vern’s driveway. God graced him this time and spared him a trip into the dank trailer. Vern sat on his front steps, sucking the life from a stub of a cigarette. He didn’t look as worse for wear as Bobby. His eyes were clear and it appeared he’d taken the rare shower of the week.

  “’Morning, Sheriff,” Vern called. He waved with his cigarette between his first two fingers. “Had a premonition that you’d drop by today.”

  “Guilty conscience, Vern?” Sheriff Mears said as he approached the trailer.

  “It’s that charm that keeps getting you reelected, ain’t it?”

  Enough pleasantries. “Where were you last night, Vern?”

  “Spent some time at Slim’s,” Vern said. “Then came home for a nightcap with Bobby Grissom. Hung out ’til the wee hours.”

  Again, a rehearsed story that answered all the questions Sheriff Mears would ask. And again, no curiosity about why.

  “Didn’t know you two were so close,” Sheriff Mears said. “You two boys have a sleepover?”

  Fire flashed in Vern’s eyes, but he cooled it and didn’t rise to the bait. “Just two buds sharing some Buds.”

  “This is the same Bobby that used to call you ‘Nubs’? Once super glued your car shut?”

  “Long time ago, Sheriff.” Vern took a final drag on his cigarette. “A man can change.”

  “You understand the phrases ‘obstruction of justice’ and ‘accessory to a crime” don’t you?”

  Vern stared past the sheriff.

  “I’ll have some physical evidence that says your new best friend Bobby wasn’t with you last night,” Sheriff Mears said. “I know he was out busting up his wife’s shop down on the square. When that evidence comes through, that will make you guilty of one or more of the felonies I just mentioned. So before we get to that, do you want to rethink the story of last night?”

  Vern mashed his cigarette out on the step. “Just two buds,” he said, “sharing some Buds.”

  “Remember you had this chance, Vern.” Sheriff Mears got back in the Charger and backed down the driveway. Vern just sat on the steps and watched the car depart. Sheriff Mears knew he was just waiting for the cruiser to pull out of site before he whipped out his phone. He’d be railing at Bobby, wondering what evidence he’d left behind. Bobby would mention the blood and they would both know they were screwed.

  After that Sheriff Mears could only win. Either Vern would change his story to avoid prosecution, and he’d have Bobby. Or Vern wouldn’t turn, the DNA would come back, and he’d still have Bobby but he could also nail Vern.

  Police work took patience. Maybe not on TV, where everything had to wrap up in forty-two minutes, but in real life it took patience. Sheriff Mears had it in spades.

  That sealed it, Vern thought. The plan was in motion.

  Dumbass Bobby had probably left his driver’s license or some other hopelessly incriminating evidence at the scene of his crime. Too bad for him. His role was over. Theresa wouldn’t be out visiting the neighbors tonight. If she had any sense, she’d be holed up somewhere, fearing for her life. That meant an early night for the Lockes and a long night to find Sarah’s remains by the pond.

  Oh, and he’d find them. Somewhere out where that old oak got walloped by lightning, she’d be there. Finding her would get him back in Uncle Mabron’s good graces. Then the two of them would get Galaxy Farm back. One way or another.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “What happened here?” Ruby asked as soon as she walked into Treasured Things.

  It was four p.m., but even Theresa’s full day of cleanup hadn’t gotten things back to normal. There were two piles of damaged antiques against the back wall and Theresa was scrubbing orange paint off the wall with a green pad and some acrid chemical solvent. She wasn’t crying now, but her bleary eyes confessed to a previous bout of tears.

  Theresa gave Ruby a dejected look. “Hurricane Bobby made landfall last night. Category Four winds. Category Zero IQ. Believe me, the place looked worse than this earlier.”

  “The sheriff’s on him?”

  “Like a fly on shit.”

  “And, honey, that ain’t just a metaphor.” Ruby sat down next to Theresa. “You and Dustin okay?”

  “Sure,” Theresa said. “But we’re going to my parents’ house tonight if Bobby’s not behind bars. Bobby might mess with my shop, but he won’t tangle with Daddy’s deer rifle.”

  “What set him off, anyway?” Ruby said.

  Theresa gave a guilty shrug. “Me, maybe. He was around the house last week and instead of calling the sheriff and letting him handle it, I went out and told the shithead off. He probably let that simmer on low boil until…”

  “No, no, and hell no!” Ruby said. She pounded a foot on the floor for emphasis and a nearby glass crystal lamp responded with a tinkling shudder. “You are not to blame for what he does, ever. You stood up to him, then good for you. About damn time. The man had any sense, he’d take his licks and move on. You got a court order and he needs to follow it. This ain’t your fault. Uh-uh, no way.”

  Theresa cracked her first faint smile of the day. “It d
oes sound stupid when you put it that way. You can sure cut through the crap.”

  “Honey,” Ruby said. “That’s what girlfriends do.” She stood up to leave. “Don’t think I’m not going to give the sheriff a dose of reality as well. Now, you don’t worry about none of this.” She gave the mess on the floor a wave. “I got some items I know you can move for me. They’ll be in here tomorrow to fill this floor space.”

  Theresa stood and gave Ruby a hug. “Thanks.”

  Ruby headed for the door. “You know why men are like paper cups?” she said over her shoulder.

  Theresa smiled again. “Because they’re dispensable.”

  “Amen, sister.” The door slammed with a jingle of bells.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Laura stayed late at school that evening. She completed tutoring class and then graded the day’s tests in her classroom instead of at home. She had a plan to contact the girls, and the later she got home, the greater its chance for success.

  It was pushing past seven p.m. when she walked through the front door. Doug had just stepped off the staircase. He’d probably been up in the turret room, waiting for her to come home before stopping whatever it was he was doing. She glanced into the kitchen and nothing was cooking. Perfect.

  “Say, babe, long day?” Doug asked.

  Not even a question about where she was last night. Avoidance-practicing jackass.

  “You have no idea,” Laura said. “TCAP tutoring is something else.”

  A month ago a vague answer like that would have triggered a probing question from her husband. No worry about that happening today.

  “I didn’t know what time you’d be home,” Doug said. “What about dinner?”

  No time to kill with that, she thought. The faster he scurried off to his writing retreat, the sooner she could get to work.

  “I’m not too hungry,” she said. She reached past him and pulled a couple of power bars from the pantry shelves and a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I’m going to get some quizzes written up for tomorrow. Might as well get on it.” She wondered if he’d grab the bait.

  “Really?” Doug said with barely contained relief. “Same here. I’m in the middle of a chapter that begs to be finished.”

  Hook, line and sinker, Laura thought. He didn’t care if they spent time together and if she gave him the opportunity to opt out of it guilt-free, he couldn’t refuse. Self-centered son of a…

  She forced herself to give him a kiss on the cheek. His hair reeked of alcohol. His clammy skin reminded her of washed-up seaweed. She suppressed a shiver.

  “Write up a storm,” she said with a pasted-on smile. That sealed it. Doug was upstairs before she had the door to the nursery closed.

  After she was certain Doug was engrossed in whatever he was writing, she pulled the static generator out and plugged it in to the outlet next to her desk. She could reach the on switch with her foot and not startle the girls when they were in the room with her. Then if she was lucky, she’d see the two girls she dreamed about with her own eyes.

  The sun set and she left only the desk lamp on as she opened the class science book. There was something about the night that drew the girls, and Laura knew they wouldn’t show until then.

  Laura faked perusing the book and her mind wandered to questions about her spirit visitors. Were they happy with one foot in this world and one foot in the beyond? Did they even know they were dead? They died eighty years ago, how did that much time feel? So many questions that she couldn’t answer through EVP alone.

  The tremor came. The little ripple in her consciousness that said “They’re coming” made its evening debut. The air went cold and goose bumps sprouted on Laura’s arms. Laura exhaled a little puff of vapor and rotated in her seat so her foot rested on the switch for the static generator. She grabbed the blue hand-exercise ball from her desk and tossed it up and down in one hand.

  “Constance?” she said. “Elizabeth? I know you’re here. Are you ready to play?”

  Laura tossed the ball so it bounced against the far wall and back into the center of the room. It lay still and Lauren worried for a moment that they wouldn’t touch it. She wanted a way to estimate their position, to know where to watch when she hit the juice, just in case the vision was fleeting.

  The ball wiggled. Then in spun on its axis like a supersonic toy top. Laura tapped the switch.

  The static generator hummed to life. Sparks arced up between the metal rods in the tube. The hemisphere took on a dull glow and the hairs on Laura’s arms tingled and stood on end. The pitch of the generator rose.

  The blue ball levitated and hovered a yard off the ground. Then in flew in a slow lob across the room, only to halt in midair again.

  The generator whine maxed at a high-pitched thrum. Static charges like Lilliputian lightning spit from the surface of the hemisphere, a flickering uniform dance in all directions. Then the charges migrated to the side of the generator facing the girls. Combined into a more powerful stream, they reached out toward the floating blue ball like silver tentacles. The stream narrowed until it appeared to be one bright thin tendril. It shot out to the middle of the room.

  Laura gasped. The energy vanished mid-flight as the spirits absorbed it. The two girls materialized; two fuzzy, transparent black-and-white apparitions. They wore long dresses with lace trim and high collars. Long blonde hair went almost down to their waists. They smiled at each other, unfazed and apparently unaware of their new visibility. They had a soft focus quality that made details indistinct, but nonetheless, Laura recognized them. These were the girls from her dream.

  Laura yearned for contact, to physically touch the spirits who had already touched her emotionally. Her heart pounded in her chest until she thought it would explode. Laura went to her knees facing the girls and spread her arms wide.

  “Constance, Elizabeth,” she whispered. “Come.”

  The girls looked at her, and then shot a glance to the opposite side of the room. They smiled. One dropped the blue ball to the floor and they darted into Laura’s arms. She closed her arms around them but stopped short of the outlines of their dresses, though she felt no physical boundary and was sure she could pass right through them. A kiss of warm breath brushed each of her cheeks and in her right ear she heard a soft, high voice from another dimension.

  “Mother.”

  An unimaginable sense of completeness filled Laura. Tears welled in her eyes and she choked back a sob. Even on her knees, she barely had the strength to stay upright.

  The girls disappeared. The static charge snapped back to dance around the plastic hemisphere. Laura bowed until her forehead touched the floor. Tears fell like raindrops against the polished wood. For the first time, she understood the true magnitude of what she lost five years ago in St. Luke’s.

  But it would be all right now. She could have what she was missing. The girls could have what they needed. Together, in this house, perhaps they could all find family.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Hours later, Doug needed to stretch. He’d been hunched over his laptop since dinner. Was it after two a.m. already? The love triangle between the brothers and the wife was reaching a climax and he’d been absorbed in the writing.

  The bedroom was dark, as was the nursery downstairs. Laura had to have gone to bed. Great. She’d gotten over whatever had upset her last night. He figured she would. He crept downstairs in the dark.

  A noise came from outside the house. It was faint, grinding and rhythmic. Nothing a wild animal would make.

  Doug crept into the nursery and peered out the bay window. The night was bright with a waning moon high in a clear sky. Down by the propane tank a thin man probed the ground with a pole. The orange glow of a lit cigarette bobbed in front of his face. Vern was back.

  Anger swelled inside Doug. Enough of this was enough. He felt none of the trepidation he experienced during Vern’s last transgression. Just a boiling rage. What the hell was this scumbag doing on his property again? Th
e sheriff said he had warned him. One warning should be enough.

  On his way to the back door, Doug grabbed the iron poker from the holder in front of the fireplace. He rested the heavy round handle against his shoulder and slipped out the back door.

  He kept the tank between Vern and himself and moved forward in a slow crouch. His feet moved silent as a snake across the grass, closer to the cadenced smack and grind of Vern’s probing pole. He forced himself into longer, quieter breaths. When he reached the tank, he leaned back against it. He felt the cool steel of the tank through his damp shirt. His lips pursed into a little crooked smile.

  As Vern prodded the ground on the other side of the propane tank, Doug crept around the far end. He raised the poker off his shoulder, point in his palms and the metal globe handle hanging in space. He slipped up behind Vern. The scent of Vern’s stale beer sweat mingled with the stink of the stagnant pond. Doug wound up like a Hall of Famer and delivered a crushing blow to the base of Vern’s neck. Bones split beneath the skin with muffled cracks. Vern dropped to the ground with a whimper.

  Doug rolled Vern over. The dazed intruder sucked in short, shallow breaths. Doug would need to bash him again to finish him. But how long would it take to beat a man to death? And what kind of a mess would the blood make? It seemed an inelegant solution. He remembered the last time he made this decision in this same spot. He remembered the fox.

  “Well, Vern, old buddy,” Doug said. “Let’s go for a dip.”

  Doug grabbed Vern by the shoulders of his shirt and dragged him down to the pond. Pulling the dead weight made Doug’s back twinge in protest. He waded into the pond backward and his struggle eased as Vern’s body went buoyant. Doug pulled Vern past him until he stood knee deep in the water at Vern’s waist. Vern’s face floated above the water. His mouth stretched as if trying to speak.