Sarah Armstrong: Singularity Part 5

My cell phone was silent.

"Same MO, huh?"

"Nearly identical," I said. "Down to the cross carved on the old womans chest and the b.l.o.o.d.y cross on the wall over her head."

Again, Scroggins said nothing.

"That close," he finally said.

I knew Id hit a nerve when I reminded him of Priscilla Luca.s.s resources. No matter how much he wanted kudos from the top for closing the case, Agent Ted Scroggins wasnt the type to step too far out on any limb.

"Any fingerprints or DN A on this one?"

"No, same as the last," I said. "The scene was clean."

"Well," he said, restraint edging his voice.

Again only silence, and I knew he was carefully weighing what hed say next.

"Under the circ.u.mstances, I think Nelson and I will have another powwow with the a.s.sistant D.A.," he said.

Presuming wed made some progress, that he fully understood what David and I had discovered in Bardwell, I couldnt believe what happened next. As I listened, Scroggins made a complete one-eighty. I could almost hear the pounding as he hammered on our information, reshaping it to fit his preferred theory.

"But, you know, if you think about it, this really doesnt have to hurt our case against Priscilla Lucas. The way I see it, so you found another murder that might or might not be the work of the same killer. That doesnt necessarily change the situation," he ventured, slowly reclaiming his former confidence. "Think about it. So the same guy offed some old woman in some little town...that only confirms our theories."

"How do you figure that?" I asked.

"Were not claiming Lucas murdered her old man herself. Nelson and I have said all along that this was a murder for hire, probably by some a.s.shole whos murdered before. Another body changes nothing."

"It seems unlikely for this type of a killer, with this kind of MO, to be motivated by money."

"Unlikely but not impossible," he said, fully inflated with his old ardor. "When are you and the Quantico guru driving back?"

"We hope tonight-if not, tomorrow afternoon," I said. "Weve got work here first. We need to track this guy down or at least find out who were looking for."

"Well, Im going to get a pocket warrant," Scroggins mused. "That way when were ready to pick her up, the red tape will be out of the way."

"Thats probably a good idea, if youre convinced you need a warrant," I conceded. Issued and signed by a judge but not recorded at the county clerks office until an arrest is made, a pocket warrant is kept secret. "At least the press wont be the wiser. But wait until we get back to pick her up. Wait until we know what weve got here. Okay?"

"You got it. Well hold off," he agreed. "But if Priscilla Lucas doesnt start answering our questions and if you dont find something more concrete, were gonna haul her pretty a.s.s in and book her. Understand?"

"It would be a mistake," I said again.

"Maybe, maybe not," he said. "But its the way this case is going down."

Judging by the gully in the center of the mattress and the black c.o.c.kroach-nearly the size of a small mouse-that crawled out of the drain into the sink, I had little hope for the shower, but it turned out that the Easy Street Motels water supply was hot and plentiful, even if the towels were wax-paper thin. I pulled my only lipstick out of my purse, a light mauve called rose sunset. In my spare clean white shirt and Wranglers, my boots and blue blazer recycled from the day before, I emerged from my cabin to find David waiting, just as wed agreed. Hed already had his morning run and shower, but just like his business suit the day before, his jeans and white shirt hung undisciplined on his body. I briefly wondered what hed look like if he learned how to iron. Over a hot breakfast at the same hole-in-the-wall as the night before, I filled him in on Scrogginss news.

"That lady ought to just tell them what she used the money for, answer the questions," Garrity said, shaking his head in disgust. "If shes not involved, shes wasting their time and this thing could really backfire. She could end up splashed on the front page wearing handcuffs."

"She must have some reason for not talking," I said. "If we can figure out what that is, maybe well be able to sort through all of this."

"Sure, shes guilty," he said, using his fingers to comb back an errant fringe of hair falling over his forehead.

"You dont believe that," I said.

He paused, as if considering the possibility.

"No, I dont. My guess is that youve been right from the beginning," he grudgingly admitted. "These murders have nothing to do with money or Priscilla Lucas. Were most likely looking at a serial killer. One who has visions of grandeur, a pathetic loser who tells himself that hes on some kind of twisted mission from G.o.d. They just crossed paths with the wrong guy."

"How?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did they cross his path?"

"Thats something we need to answer if were ever going to pull this thing together," he said.

I thought about that for a moment, and then ventured, "But you said, 'If Priscilla Lucas isnt involved. That means you still believe she might be."

David sighed, as if my insistence tested his patience.

"Sarah, come on, youve got to take those blinders off. Nothing here is certain, and we have to at least consider the possibility. The widow Lucas had motive and means," he said. "We dont really know at this point, do we?"

Stunned, I didnt answer. I couldnt believe David even vaguely agreed with Nelson and Scroggins. My silence hung between us, until David went on.

"One thing Ive learned is that you never dismiss a theory until youve got hard evidence that its wrong. Cases will surprise you. You think you know what kind of guy the killer is and whats motivating him, but you can be wrong," he said. "Remember that case in Virginia, the pretty young teacher everyone thought was killed by her husband? Everything pointed to domestic violence, every bit of evidence at the scene. The local cops easily built that case and nearly prosecuted the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Yeah," I said. "I do remember it."

"Well, I worked it. Helped the local cops profile the killer. We were right about the murder being an up-close and personal matter-h.e.l.l, she was bludgeoned to death with a tire iron. The guy smashed her face like a jack-o-lantern. Thats about as personal as anyone can get. We were right about the love-gone-bad motive, but we were wrong about who did it. Of course, we didnt know until later that she was bedding her students, widening the field of suspects who had a romantic motive to kill her. If the lab hadnt found that latent print on the body, we might have convicted the wrong guy of murder. Who would have thought it would turn out to be a shy sixteen-year-old, a member of the high school chess club, no less?"

Silent, I waited for him to continue.

"Right now all weve got is speculation that our guys a conventional serial killer, as if anyone who kills for kicks can be described as conventional," he said. "Do I think she hired the murderer? No. Am I in favor of charging Priscilla Lucas with solicitation of murder? No. But Ted and Detective Nelson have a lot of years of experience behind them, their own instincts, and an arguable theory with at least some evidence, including the unaccounted-for hundred grand. The biggest strike against Priscilla Luca.s.s innocence is her own behavior. Shes put herself under suspicion."

"You honestly believe theres the possibility that she hired the same person who killed Louise Fontenot to kill her husband and Annmarie Knowles?"

"I cant rule it out," he said. "And neither can you."

Nine.

The dense forests that begin in Maine carpet the East Coast and end in Texas, where they spread into the hybrid of woods, streams, marshes, and swamps called the Big Thicket. Its a bucolic setting, but Id learned early in my career that looks can be deceiving. During Prohibition, moonshiners counted on the Thickets dense vegetation to hide their stills from revenuers. For decades, escaped prisoners built hideouts in the woods, living off the land and feral hogs they castrated in the fall to fatten for a spring kill. In recent years, the Thickets sp.a.w.ned more than one sensational killing, including a state congressman shot through the heart by his trophy wife, after he beat her until doctors couldnt repair the damage; and the bizarre case of a small-town doctor, ostensibly happily married for nearly four decades, the father of six, the grandfather of thirteen, who slipped a deadly drug into the soft drink of every suitor his pretty young nurse dated. Since he also served as the county coroner, three young men died before the local sheriff realized that they couldnt all have had weak hearts and that there seemed to be more of a connection than that the docs nurse was particularly unlucky in love.

On the southern edge of the Thicket, Bardwell rested shouting distance from the Louisiana border and north of 1-10, the main highway that connects Houston and New Orleans. The town had a post office, a grocery store, three churches, a Wal-Mart, an old limestone courthouse across from a park, a Sonic, and a Dairy Queen. In the evenings, the locals congregated at a dance hall on the highway outside town to drink and listen to country music. Thats where David and I began our search.

A metal building the size of a small house, cooled by fans and open garage doors on all sides, J. P.s wasnt ready for business yet, but as we drove by, its owner, J. P. Lancett, a stubby yet muscular man with dark olive skin and dyed, thinning black hair greased straight back from his forehead, hauled in stock, a case of Lone Star Beer in longneck bottles hoisted on his right shoulder. I put the Tahoe in reverse and swerved into the parking lot.

Minutes later, we were seated in the clammy shade of the bar. Insects buzzed loudly in the surrounding woods as we inquired about the late Miss Fontenot.

"b.i.t.c.hy old lady," Lancett said, his bulk uneasily balanced atop a rickety wooden bar stool that wobbled under the strain. "She never had a good word to say about anyone."

"Fifteen months ago, before the murder, was there anyone in particular she was talking about, anything out of the ordinary happening in town?" I asked.

"Theres always something going on around here," he said with a frown. A lack of teeth folded his chin into his upper jaw, making it appear that the lower half of his face had collapsed. "Girls turn up pregnant. Maybe some old boy, hes got a lunchtime date with some girl in the Thicket for a little fun. Sometimes wives leave husbands or take up with someone elses. Old Lady Fontenot, she didnt let any of it go without talking it up to the good ladies in town."

"But right before she died," I repeated. "What was she talking about then?"

"She was always talking about someone, but at that particular time, I cant hardly think of who it wouldve been. If she hadnt been talking, now that wouldve been news," he said.

"Is there anyone in town you suspected at the time the murder happened, for any reason?"

"Nah, cant say as I did."

"Anyone who disappeared about the time of the murders, maybe a young man with blond hair?"

The barkeep stroked his whisker-stubbled chin and considered my description of the possible killer. "n.o.body I can think of," he admitted.

"Did you ever hear rumors that anyone in particular was complaining about Louise Fontenot, for any reason?" David asked.

"Like I said before, I didnt hear anything," he concluded with a shrug. "It seemed to me at the time that people were pretty befuddled by the entire thing, her dying like that and all. Murder aint particularly something that happens every day in this town. Especially an old lady like that. Just wasnt natural, thats all."

"Well, thanks for your help," I said, taking out a card and scribbling on the back. "This is my cell phone. If anything comes to mind after we leave or if you mention what weve discussed with anyone who believes they might have any information, call."

"Bet I will," Lancett promised.

Despite his avowed enthusiasm, we watched as he tucked the card in among a sheaf of matted, stained papers next to the cash register that looked as if theyd remained untouched for decades.

As we drove away, I asked David, "What do you think the odds are well be hearing from Mr. Lancett?"

"About the same as the odds that hes reporting all his liquor taxes," he said with a short laugh. "Sometimes, in towns like this, its my impression that people make it a point not to notice things."

"Except for Louise Fontenot," I said. "She would have been the one with a theory or two. Too bad shes not here to ask."

With no firmer leads than a list of the names and addresses of the "good ladies" supplied by the sheriff and the barkeep, David and I began circulating through the town to clapboard houses with porch boards that squeaked under our weight. Timid old women answered, their white hair secured with bobby pins. To our insistent questioning, they each maintained they remembered nothing about what their murdered old friend, Louise Fontenot, might have told them in the months preceding her death.

By noon, we were canva.s.sing block to block, house to house, repeating the same questions until they became routine. We always finished with "Do you know of anyone in town who disappeared around the time of Louises murder?"

"Cant say as I do," said Sally LeBoef, the owner of the Cut and Curl Salon on Oak Street, as she chopped Cyndi Lou Styless mane of thick, midnight-black hair, at about three that afternoon.

"Think back," Garrity asked. "It could be anyone, but most likely a man with blond hair, maybe in his twenties or thirties?"

LeBoef stared at us, wrinkled up her nose as if deep in thought. Styles shrugged.

"You know, theres lots of people back in them woods. It could be one of them, but I cant say one in particular comes to mind," the hairdresser said. She flicked the switch, and raising her voice she shouted over the hum of a blow dryer. "If you leave your number, though, Ill be more than glad to ask my customers and call if any of them have an idea."

Since no one noticed our guys absence, David and I decided LeBoef could be right. Perhaps our killer lived away from the townsfolks prying eyes. So after the Cut and Curl, we gave up on Bardwell proper and focused on the back roads that radiated from town, onto gravel and dirt roads that turned into driveways and ended next to double-wide trailers. When those were exhausted, we followed paths that led to hunting cabins with deer blinds anch.o.r.ed on stilts and camouflaged to blend into the foliage.

No matter how many questions we asked, it seemed we were destined to learn nothing about the three murders.

Early that evening, David Garrity and I agreed on one more day in Bardwell before we admitted defeat and drove home. There were still camps and houses, hidden farther back into the Thicket, we hadnt been able to reach without a guide. Since there was nothing to be done until morning, we checked ourselves back into our rooms at the Easy Street and contemplated dinner at the usual place. I showered, pulled clean clothes out of my stash from the trunk, wishing Id brought something nicer than T-shirts and jeans, and thinking about my dance with Garrity the night before. As I smoothed a healthy layer of rose sunset on my lips, I wondered what Bill would think of me prettying up for dinner with Garrity.

I looked in the mirror, my shoulder-length dark-blond hair fanned out like Id been hit with a bolt of static electricity. I wet my comb and tried to tame my hair, but it was no use, so I pulled out a black scrunchy from my purse and yanked my hair into a tight ponytail. In the mirror, my skin seemed paler, more sallow than I remembered, and my face more drawn. I squinted and my forehead furrowed. "Well, Bill," I said to the mirror. "If youre watching, dont worry too much. The way I look, a man would have to be blind."

That reminded me of Moms admission that she sometimes talked to my dad, and I chuckled. I had time to call home before dinner. The first thing Mom said was that Maggie had been in a blue mood all day. "She needs you here. She seems to be struggling with things but wont talk about it with me. Sarah, I love Maggie like my own child, but shes not. And I cant be a subst.i.tute for her mother."

"I know, Mom," I said. "But I cant come home. Not yet. Put her on the telephone. Let me talk to her."

"Sarah Jane..."

"Mom, please," I said, not in the mood for an argument. "Just put Maggie on the telephone."

When she picked up, Maggie sounded even less pleased with me than Mom.

"I really wanted you to come home tonight," she said.

"I wanted that, too. But I cant," I said. "Whats wrong, Magpie?"

"I dont know," she said, and I thought she probably didnt.

"You know I love you, that Id be there if I could."

At first quiet. Then, "I changed my science project," she said, her voice still sad. "Im doing it on singularity."

"Singularity," I said. "And that is?"

"The center of a black hole. The vortex," she said. "Some scientists think it rips apart stars and gobbles them up. But others think the stars get caught in the vortex and it crunches them down to s.p.a.ce dust and spits most of it back out. But its destruction for any star that gets too close."

"Wow," I said. "And its called...?"

"Singularity," she said, again. "Im going to call my project the monster void that devours stars. Strings says its more exciting than a lunar eclipse."

"I think hes right," I said. "And whats he doing? Still the dinosaurs?"

"Yeah, still the dinosaurs," Maggie scoffed. "Hes going to prove its possible that they exist somewhere. I havent changed my mind. Its dumb. But Im helping him on the computer. He talks about dinosaurs all the time, how were going to go dinosaur hunting together when were grown up and were both archeologists."

I laughed again. Maggie sounded more like herself, but not over whatever was needling at her. Something was still wrong. "Is that all thats bothering you, that Strings is droning on about his dinosaurs and that Im not there to help with your science fair project?" I asked.

Maggie was quiet, too quiet.

"I guess," she said, but, of course, that wasnt true. Her voice had that familiar melancholy that always found its mark, the ever-expanding section of brain cells where I stored my anxiety and guilt. If Bill had been there, she wouldnt have missed me so. I knew that, and part of me wanted to get in the Tahoe and drive home. But I couldnt. If we were dealing with a serial killer, it wouldnt be long before he killed again.