The Burnt Island Burial Ground Part 6

There was no disputing that if the normally imperturbable John Tatum was calling something an emergency, he wasn't likely to be overreacting. Anna sighed with resignation. "We can go there, but only because I know John will have something in his toolbox that can get this ring off."

They pulled up in front of Lindsay's small wood-sided house a few minutes later. John Tatum leaned against the tailgate of his F-250, which was parked in the driveway. He stood about five and a half feet tall and had a st.u.r.dy, compact build. Alongside his ma.s.sive truck, he looked like a sailor about to climb aboard a galleon.

"What's up?" Lindsay said, climbing out of Anna's car. "You said something about forged inspection paperwork?"

John nodded and ran his hand over his trim, blond beard. "It's the d.a.m.nedest thing. I was finishing up that last bit of trimwork in the new bathroom this morning when I heard somebody pull up. Came out and this man climbs out of his car. Introduces himself as the county inspector. Said Turner had retired and he was the new guy-Doer was how he introduced himself."

John paused and stroked his beard again. His tone was as even as ever; only the appearance of a single worry line between his eyebrows betrayed the slightest hint that anything was amiss.

"I don't get it. Did it not pa.s.s inspection?" Lindsay asked. This seemed impossible given how meticulous John's workmanship was. On at least one occasion, she'd seen him completely redo work that had seemed perfectly acceptable to her because it didn't meet his own exacting standards.

"Pa.s.sed inspection all right. Mr. Doer was in and out of there in 15 minutes. Said it all looked hunky dory, and handed me the paperwork. Seemed a mite on the quick side to me, but I wasn't gonna argue with the man, especially if he was gonna be the new county building inspector."

Just then, a heavy-set man with a vivid white goatee and black-framed gla.s.ses stormed out of the house. He wore a thunderous expression on his face and brandished a sheaf of papers. "Weaponless? Is this some kind of a joke?"

"Weaponless?" Lindsay repeated the odd word. She looked at John, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

"Which one of you is the homeowner?" the man bellowed.

"I am," Lindsay replied. "I'm Reverend Lindsay Harding." She found that in volatile situations, especially volatile situations in which she was dressed like a slob and had a pulsating red swamp finger, it was best to play the "reverend" card immediately to establish some kind of credibility.

The man's expression softened slightly. "Any relation to Reverend Jonah Harding?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. Reverend Harding is my father."

"Why didn't you tell me she was a minister? And that Jonah Harding was her father? My sister goes to that church." The man glowered at John.

Anna put her hands up. "All right, people. Before this becomes a game of whose second cousin is married to whose Aunt Bessie, can we establish some basics? Like, for starters, what the h.e.l.l is going on? And John, while Colonel Sanders here is filling us in, please get a thin metal file and some wire cutters and get Lindsay's ring off her borderline-gangrenous finger." She grabbed Lindsay's wrist and waved the offending hand. She then pivoted towards the older man, extending her hand with a tight-lipped smile. "I'm Dr. Anna Melrose. And you are?"

"Franklin Turner, county building inspector." He regarded Anna's hand as one might regard a cobra emerging from a wicker basket.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Anna said, pumping his hand with what seemed to Lindsay to be unnecessary vigor.

The man's face turned an unnaturally-vivid shade of claret red, and he opened his mouth to say something. While Lindsay would admit privately that Turner's resemblance to KFC's Colonel Sanders was uncanny, it wasn't something she would've ever dreamed of saying within earshot of the man. Lindsay stepped between him and Anna. Anna's direct and dominant personality served her well in the Emergency Department, but Lindsay could see that a subtler approach would be needed if she didn't want to find her house slapped with a giant Condemned sticker. Affecting the best impression of a Southern Belle that could be managed given her present unwashed appearance, she said, "Mr. Turner, we'd be very grateful if you could fill us in."

Lindsay tried to make her expression as benign and unhurried as Anna's was aggressive and impatient. "Anna likes to get to the point of things. She's from New Jersey."

Turner nodded knowingly and addressed himself to Lindsay. "When I arrived to inspect your house a few minutes ago, Mr. Tatum informed me that the inspection had already taken place. He produced a set of doc.u.ments that had clearly been forged."

By now, John had climbed down from the bed of his truck and produced the tools Anna requested. Anna immediately took the tools from him, grabbed Lindsay's hand, and began to work the tip of the file underneath her ring.

"And you accused John of forging the paperwork?" Anna asked, not lifting her eyes from her task.

"Well, that's about the shape of it," Turner said.

John put his hands on his hips and the wrinkle on his brow lengthened. It was the closest he was capable of coming to an expression of rage. "Turner, you've known me for years. What earthly reason would I have for doing that?"

"Hiding shoddy work. Not complying with the historic preservation codes. Who knows?" Turner replied testily.

"I don't do shoddy work," John replied through clenched teeth.

"We all know you'd never do that, John," Lindsay soothed. She winced as Anna moved the file further under her ring. "Mr. Turner, if you know John, you know he's telling the truth."

"You've got to see it from my perspective," Turner replied. "In 40 years of doing this, I've seen a lot of contractors cut corners. I've seen forged paperwork, people trying to s.p.a.ckle over a termite infestation, you name it. But never once have I had a contractor claim that an impostor showed up at a job site with a set of fake papers."

John shook his head. "I'm as flummoxed as you are. Doer had an answer for everything. I even pointed out that the paperwork looked different. He said he was implementing some changes to go digital and cut down on duplication. It seemed plausible."

"What were you saying when you came outside?" Lindsay asked. "Something about a weapon?"

Anna removed the wire cutters she'd temporarily stashed in her back pocket. In one deft movement, she snipped the back of Lindsay's engagement ring in half. She gently coaxed the two halves apart using the tip of the file until she could pull it off. The intense throbbing in Lindsay's finger eased almost immediately. She clutched her finger with her other hand and began to rub the circulation back into it.

Turner flipped through the paperwork, showing Lindsay the signatures on each page. They were all signed W. Doer, except for the final page, which was signed in a thick, clear script-Weaponless Doer. Lindsay studied it carefully and then held the page out for Anna and John to see.

"I didn't notice that," John said, his brow creasing.

"What did this 'Weaponless Doer' look like?" Anna asked.

John shook his head. "No question I'd know him again if I saw him. Hairline started about here," he said, indicating a point in the middle of his forehead. "And he was stooped over like a hunchback with a big paunch belly. You know those charts they show you in school where the chimpanzee is supposed to be evolving into a human? Well, I reckon he looked like the third one from the right."

"Could it have been a disguise?" Lindsay asked.

They all looked at her for a long moment, their faces exhibiting an array of surprised expressions.

John conceded, "Didn't think of it at the time, but I reckon it could've been."

The throbbing that had disappeared from Lindsay's finger seemed to have been transposed to her temples. Although she stood in full late spring sunshine, her whole body began to shiver.

Anna and John locked eyes, and John quickly added, "I know what you're thinking, Lindsay. I'd have recognized him. I swear it. There's no way he could've disguised himself that much. This guy was taller, different voice, different build. Hear me? The man I saw was not Leander Swoopes."

Chapter 9.

"How can he be sure? He never even met Swoopes." Lindsay paced up and down the wide boards of her front porch, watching the last of the police cars pull away.

"We all saw the TV footage and mug shot a million times," Anna said. "Swoopes is very... distinctive. Besides, even if he's alive, which he probably isn't, why would he risk coming back here and posing as a friggin' county bureaucrat? It just doesn't make sense." Anna sat on the top step, her long legs stretched out before her. Dusk had fallen, and she slapped at the mosquitoes that seemed to materialize out of the shadows.

"What if he was scoping out my house? What if he comes back some night when it's just me and Simmy here?"

"It's gonna be okay, Linds. John's installed an alarm system. You said yourself it's like something out of a James Bond movie. Warren has arranged for an officer to drive by a few times a day to keep an eye on you. You'll be safe."

Despite Anna's rea.s.surances, Lindsay remained on edge, unable to exorcise the anxiety that seemed to penetrate her body right down to the bone marrow. Lindsay's house had always been a safe place for her. When she bought it four years earlier, she'd felt like she was finally doing the kind of wholesome, sensible thing that responsible adults do, like flossing daily. Setting down roots by buying the house had been a huge step for Lindsay, who had a preternatural fear of commitment. Now, however, even her beloved little house couldn't conjure the sense of security it had before.

In times past, a combination of mistrust of authority and old-fashioned stubbornness would have kept her from calling the police about the bogus inspector's intrusion into her home. Her natural instinct had always been to take care of things herself, to keep things private, to pretend that everything was fine. Indeed, when her house had been broken into the previous summer, she was adamant that she could handle the situation without involving the authorities. Now, however, she had been the first one to suggest phoning the police.

Within minutes of the call, several units from both Mount Moriah's tiny force and the slightly larger force in New Albany had responded to the strange report of the sham inspector. Lindsay wasn't sure if the overwhelming show of force was due to the possible reemergence of one of North Carolina's most wanted felons or because she was Warren's fiancee. Frankly, she didn't care.

The responding officers, including Warren himself, had swept through the house looking for fingerprints or any physical evidence that could reveal the ident.i.ty of Mr. Doer. They'd also brought in a K-9 unit, who had searched, fruitlessly, for explosives or other anomalies. After they finished, John had headed off to the station in New Albany, where he'd been met by a police sketch artist. Although every single person Lindsay encountered continued to a.s.sure her that the imposter couldn't possibly have been Leander Swoopes, it was clear from the all-hands-on-deck reaction that no one wanted to countenance even the remote possibility that they would be the person to allow a dangerous criminal to slip through their grasp once again.

Warren emerged from Lindsay's house, where he'd been speaking on the phone to his contacts at the State Bureau of Investigation. "Good news," he said. "n.o.body's tampered with the alarm system. Once you enable it, it'll go off if anybody tries to open any window or door in your house, and we'll be notified immediately. You already know that the K-9s didn't turn up anything unusual around the property."

"What about the fingerprints you lifted?" Lindsay asked.

"They don't match Swoopes," Warren replied.

"Did they find a match?"

"They did. A con man named Terry Addison." He held up his tablet computer for her to see. "Do you know him?"

Lindsay studied Addison's mug shot. It showed a young man with long curly hair pulled back into a ponytail and a close-cropped goatee. Although she couldn't see his body, she could tell by his wide face and expansive upper body that he must've weighed at least 300 pounds. He glowered at the camera, as if he was daring the person taking the shot to photograph him.

"No," Lindsay said, shaking her head. "I've never seen him before."

"John didn't recognize him either. Mind you, this picture is more than a decade old, and we know for a fact that he must've lost some weight. John said he was heavy, but not as heavy as he looks here."

"What did he do?" Lindsay asked. "Is he violent?"

"He served time for felony fraud and theft in South Carolina about a dozen years ago. He was more than likely trying to make a quick buck, or maybe he was planning to scam you somehow. Anyway, since your laptop and other valuables are at your dad's house, he went away empty handed." Although Warren smiled as he relayed the news, Lindsay sensed a shadow of unease in his expression.

"What is it?" she asked.

He looked at her, seemingly weighing up the pros and cons of revealing what he knew. "Weaponless Doer," he said at last. "The SBI ran that name through their computer to check for known aliases."

"They shouldn't have bothered," Lindsay said.

"Why's that?" Anna said, rising to her feet.

"It's not an alias. It's an anagram," Lindsay said quietly.

"What?!" Anna and Warren said in unison.

"If you rearrange the letters, it spells Leander Swoopes," Lindsay explained.

"You'd already figured that out," Warren said, sounding half worried and half impressed. Although his words had been a statement rather than a question, Lindsay answered him anyway.

"It was such a weird combination of words. If you're going to come up with an alias, why not pick an actual name?"

"Holy c.r.a.p," Anna said. "What kind of a sicko would do that, knowing what that psychopath put you through?"

"Why didn't you say something as soon as you figured it out?" Warren asked.

"I don't know." Lindsay gripped the porch railing and looked into the distance. "I guess I wasn't sure I could say it out loud. It scares me too much." She put her hands to the sides of her head and gripped the hair at her temples. "I want this all to not be happening."

Warren put his arms around her, and she leaned heavily against him trying to steady her whirling mind. "Just take me to my dad's house, okay? I just want to sleep."

Chapter 10.

"How's your finger?" Warren asked.

"Fine," Lindsay said.

She stared out the windshield as the lights of Mount Moriah's familiar landmarks zipped past-the CITGO, the expressway underpa.s.s, the Wal-Mart with its sprawling parking lot.

"You know I don't care about the ring, right?" Warren said. "We'll get the diamond put in a different band if you want."

Lindsay made no reply. Warren had tried to start several conversations during their drive, but had been met each time with terse answers or silence. "We'll find whoever this guy was, okay?" he said.

"Like you found Leander Swoopes?" Lindsay snapped back.

"Letting him slip away was the worst mistake of my career. And worse than that, it almost caused me to lose you. Do you realize I think about that every day? What could've happened? What he almost did to you?"

"Sorry, I'm tired," Lindsay said. She put her hand on his arm. "I just don't want to talk about it."

Lindsay wanted to tell him that she didn't blame him, but something stopped her. How could she explain that the person she blamed was herself? It seemed impossible to form the words that would describe the well-trodden pathway inside her brain, formed after her parents were arrested all those years ago, that always led her to hold herself responsible whenever things went downhill. She had thought that all the introspective self-study she'd done during her chaplaincy training had redrawn that path. But here she was again, hearing the same sinister, insidious voice in her head, whispering that this was all her fault, telling her if she'd just called the police earlier, if she'd paid more attention, if she'd just killed Swoopes when she had the chance...

"I looked into that thing with Otis Boughtflower, by the way. The body and the money? He didn't have a criminal record of any kind-no arrests, no convictions. Not so much as a speeding ticket. All the old timers I talked to said the Boughtflowers always kept themselves to themselves. And Otis has been a complete recluse since he sold the sock factory."

Lindsay just nodded. They pulled into the driveway, and Warren cut the engine.

"You don't need to come in. The light's on. I'll be fine," Lindsay said.

Warren put his hand on her leg. "Lindsay, please don't shut me out again. I'm in this with you, but I can't be there if you won't let me."

"I'm not asking you to," she said.

Her eyes stung with unshed tears. Adrenaline had carried her through the immediate aftermath of the New Year's attack, but in the weeks that followed, she had descended into depression and anxiety. It had taken all her energy to pull out of the tailspin that time, and she wasn't sure if she had enough gas in the tank to do it all over again. She'd taken almost a month off of work to recover-the longest she'd gone without working since she got her first babysitting job at the age of 14. During those weeks, she'd remained holed up in her bedroom, jumping at the slightest sound and then berating herself for being so terrified.

Never before had she felt so far away from the comfort of her faith. Even in her darkest times, she'd always thought of G.o.d as a pilot light deep within her soul-a perpetually burning spark of love and hope just waiting to be kindled. Sometimes, like when she saw a seemingly miraculous recovery in the hospital, or when she looked into a perfect Carolina blue sky, her faith would ignite, warming her right down to the tips of her toes. In those moments, she felt so close to the divine, her whole being lit up from within. But throughout that long, dark month, whenever she searched her soul, all she felt was an icy, hollow chill. Only with gentle encouragement from her father and Warren, and the less-than-gentle kicks in the rear from her friends Rob and Anna, had she finally been able to reclaim her life and rediscover that hopeful, little spark.

Warren stroked her cheek and smiled. "At least let me come in and tell Kipper about our day."

She smiled wanly and nodded. She loved that Warren wanted to go in and make sure the house was safe before leaving her. And even more, she loved that he knew better than to tell her that he wanted to go in and make sure the house was safe before leaving her. She would have automatically bristled at that kind of intrusive care-taking.

They walked in the back door together. Lindsay was surprised to hear the orchestral crescendo of a cheesy easy listening song.

"Lionel Richie?" Warren said, raising an inquisitive eyebrow. "I thought your dad only listened to hymns and gospel."

"He makes an exception for Dolly Parton and Lionel Richie," Lindsay replied. "He used to play this one sometimes when he was working on his motorcycle. I haven't heard it in forever."