The Killing Vision

WEDNESDAY, JULY 11

8:05 AM

Wednesday morning, Edgar Castle and his wife, Wanda, had gone out on the river in their johnboat to get in some early fishing. It had cooled off considerably since the rain last week, and the fish were biting again. They had left a little before six, and Wanda had packed them a breakfast of sausage and biscuits, which they ate as they drifted downstream. The air was thick with swirling fog, and the golden sun was just peeking through the tree branches.

As they neared a slight bend close to Riverside Park, a cold breeze stirred over the water. It rushed past them up the valley, leaving them wondering if they’d really felt it at all. Later, Wanda Castle would remark to her friends that she felt “a goose walk over her grave.”

Edgar had just cast out his line when he noticed something white floating in the water close to the landing. He squinted to see it through the fog. This was where Sarah Jo McElvoy’s body had been found a week ago; the area was still roped off with yellow police tape. At first Edgar thought some kids had sneaked down to the river’s edge to play a cruel prank by discarding an old mannequin at the crime scene. Then, as the boat drifted closer and the fog lifted a bit, he could see that the pale arm reaching up out of the brambles was fleshy and real.

Wanda saw it, too. She screamed before she could stop herself.

Beside her, Edgar was already dialing 911 on his cell phone.

* * *

9:30 AM

Within thirty minutes of the first officers responding to the scene, Halloran and Chapman pulled up to the edge of the bluff overlooking the river and parked between two cruisers with flashing lights. A female officer was sitting at a picnic table with an older couple that looked shaken and sick. They must have been the ones that called in.

As they made their way down the dusty slope toward the landing, Halloran saw the response team barricading the area with new tape. Johnson, the most experienced, had just finished photographing the scene. The girl’s body bobbed close to the same spot where Sarah Jo had been found. Halloran shuddered uncontrollably.

Brooks, the first responding officer, met him on the landing. He was fresh-faced and eager and young; Halloran trusted him implicitly. There were very few of the younger guys that Halloran could stomach these days with all their strutting and loud mouths. Greg Brooks was different—soft-spoken yet confident. Halloran hoped one day to see him in the investigations unit. “What’ve you got for us?” Halloran said.

Brooks motioned up on the bluff. “The old couple found the body about an hour ago. They were fishing. Husband says he thought it was a prank at first, what with it being in the same place and all.”

“Any ID on the body?”

“No, sir.”

“Is it the Santos girl?”

Brooks nodded. “I believe so, Lieutenant.”

Stepping across the landing, Halloran made his way toward the edge of the water. He could see the hand now, blue and hideous. Carefully, he reached over and pulled the dead branches off the face. Carmelita Santos’ waxy eyes glared at the sky. Her throat bore the black bruises of strangulation. She was completely nude.

He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and carefully moved her head to get a better look at her throat. The cold skin beneath his fingers slid greasily over the bone and cartilage below. He pressed softly on the fleshy part of Carmelita’s thigh, and then he knew. This body had also been frozen, and it had not been here long; at least not long enough to thaw completely.

He stood and stripped off the gloves, carefully examining the shoreline around the body. He was just about to turn away when something caught his eye—a tiny glint in Carmelita’s black hair. He knelt and eyed it closely. “Brooks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need an evidence bag.”

“Be right back.”

Halloran never moved. His gaze was still locked on the single blonde hair that was caught in Carmelita’s tresses.

* * *

11:10 AM

Every time Joel thought about his date Friday night, his gut clenched in fear.

He had almost put it out of his head, had just about convinced himself he had dreamed the whole episode with Dana, when Wade said, “You oughta come out for a few beers with me Friday night.”

They were driving down Chestnut Street, going toward the college, passing the bars and clubs that catered to the college kids, and Joel nearly ran the truck up on the sidewalk. It was the first time Wade had ever suggested the two of them do something alone. Joel glanced over, and Wade was staring intently at the old Capitol Theatre as they passed it.

Joel shifted in his seat, looking back at the street in front of him. “I can’t.”

“Why not? Gotta stay home to flog your log?”

Joel felt his face blush. “I’ve got a date.”

He could feel Wade’s eyes boring into him. “You gotta be shittin’ me.”

Joel smiled in spite of himself. “No. I swear.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Nope.” Joel pulled the truck over, parking in front of the next house on their work orders.

Wade was still staring at him. “So who is she?”

“Just somebody I met.” He picked up the work order, pretending to check it over. He was not going to miss this opportunity to make Wade squirm.

“When in the hell have you been anywhere to meet somebody?” Wade pulled off his sunglasses and looked at him squarely. “Did you pick up one of those girls that hang around Fourth Street?”

Joel glared at him. “No.”

Wade was smirking. “You answer one of those personal ads on the Internet?”

“No. It’s nothin’ like that.” He climbed out of the truck and headed toward the house.

“Wait a minute.” Wade caught up to him. “Just tell me where you met this girl.”

Joel looked at him. “Church, all right? I met her at church.”

Wade backed up. “Church? You don’t go to church.”

Joel grinned at him and rang the doorbell. Messing with Wade’s head was fun.

* * *

By the time Joel got home, he was feeling pretty good about himself. Talking to Wade had made him realize how much he was looking forward to his date with Dana. Though he was still anxious about his first date in several years, it felt good just knowing he had something planned out to do, something to look forward to that didn’t involve the TV or Wade.

Thinking of Dana, the memory of her laugh or her infectious smile, was enough to send a thrill shooting through him. When was the last time he had felt that way about anyone? Hell, when was the last time he’d even been interested in anyone? Certainly not since—

Did you know there were canals on Mars?

Not since that night.

Really?

Yeah. A long time ago they thought that meant there was water there. And life.

Real Martians?

Yeah.

Hey, Roberts!

He shuddered and forced himself to think of something—anything—other than that night.

He pulled a beer from the refrigerator and plopped down on the couch, grabbing the remote and punching on the TV. Andy Griffith. God, he loved this show. Barney Fife just killed him.

He wondered again about his visit to the detective yesterday. He hoped he hadn’t come off as a nut, like some loser spouting off about government corruption and cover-ups, like Clifton. If Halloran had half the brains Andy Griffith did, that poor girl’s murderer would have already been caught. But nobody ever died in Mayberry. Not even of natural causes. A murder there would be unthinkable.

Good old Andy.

Joel settled back into the couch, watching Andy and Barney locking up Otis again.

At some point, he fell asleep. He had to be asleep, because there he was, by God, standing right on the street in front of the sheriff’s office in downtown Mayberry. Glancing down, he could see he was wearing a brown sheriff’s uniform; the sunlight glistened off his badge. The streets and sidewalks were deserted, and not even a bird disturbed the silence.

He stepped into the office, and the door slammed behind him. His mouth gaped at what he saw. Barney had pulled Otis’ head through the bars of the cell. He had him in a headlock, and his gun was pointed right at Otis’ temple.

Except Barney wasn’t Barney; he was Wade. And Otis was Clifton.

“Don’t make me do it, Andy,” Barney/Wade said.

Otis/Clifton looked at Joel with pleading eyes, eyes that filled with horror when Joel said, “Go ahead. Blast the f*cker.”

Barney/Wade pulled the trigger, and Otis/Clifton’s head exploded.

Barney/Wade holstered his gun and straightened his shoulders, unaware of the blood and brains dripping down the front of his uniform. “Now,” he said. “Now. Let’s go look at Mars.”

* * *

Joel jerked awake. His head was thick and fuzzy. He rubbed his eyes and reached for his beer. A laugh escaped him. He and Wade as Andy and Barney. He was going to have to remember to tell Wade about that one.

He glanced at the television and sat up rigidly. That Mexican girl’s picture was on the screen. He reached for the remote, but even before he got the sound turned up, he knew they had found her body.

Sure enough, the shaky video footage showed the shrouded figure being carried from the same spot where the McElvoy girl’s body was discovered. Then Halloran was again giving a news conference, flanked between the police chief and another detective Joel hadn’t seen. Right now there was no conclusive evidence that the two murders were connected, but he was urging the public to come forward with any information that might help the investigation.

He shook his head. What would he find now if he went back to the mayor’s basement? Would there be a new set of newspaper clippings added to the first? And what would he find if he looked around a bit more?

For a few breathless moments, he seriously contemplated going back. He could always say he was checking something with the cable. Then, if he was sure he was alone, he could do some snooping. Check out the red room some more, look for anything out of the ordinary that might link the mayor to either girl. But he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d already left a message for the mayor at his office yesterday; showing up on his doorstep might be a bit much. He didn’t want Mayor Carver to think he was a stalker.

No, he told himself. He’d gone to the police. He’d told Lieutenant Halloran everything he knew. He’d done all he could. It was up to the cops now. Whatever happened was out of his hands.

* * *

6:25 PM

Halloran sat at his desk, the freshly-processed photos of the body dump site spread before him. They were eerily similar to the pictures in Sarah Jo McElvoy’s file.

He stared at them, studying every object, as he had the others. There was no sign of any struggle at the water’s edge, so Carmelita had obviously been killed somewhere else and dumped at the landing. Surely she had been brought there intentionally; the odds were just too great that her body had simply drifted downriver to rest in the exact spot as Sarah Jo’s. But there were so many shoe prints and so much contamination of the scene from the last investigation that anything new would be hard to spot. He blew out an exhausted sigh and stacked the photos.

Mrs. Santos had not taken the news of her daughter’s death very well. As soon as she spotted Halloran and Chapman at the door, she began wailing. It was a hideous sound, a cry of grief that seemed to emanate from her very womb. Other women in the house had led her away, eyeing the detectives as if they were demons. Halloran told Mr. Santos what they had found, and the man only nodded grimly, saying nothing, tears sliding silently down his cheeks. Finally, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Halloran and Chapman had left.

Halloran was devastated, knowing there was a murderer in town and that the department had been unable to stop him from killing again. He felt powerless, impotent. Would any more girls disappear? He hoped not. But how many more times would he uncover a young girl’s body? How many more times would he have to stand before a mother and tell her that her daughter was dead?

He pulled out the photographs again, studying the dirt around the body. If Carmelita had been placed there deliberately, she had been carried; there were no tracks to indicate the body had been dragged. That would mean whoever they were looking for was an extremely strong individual; Carmelita was not fat, but she was fairly stocky, and an average-sized man would have a difficult time carrying her down the rocky bluff to the landing.

He looked at the river behind the body. Could she have been dropped there from a boat? The water was relatively shallow at the landing, and many years ago a sightseeing boat used to moor there. It would not be easy to dump a body from a small boat without danger of capsizing, but it could be done. The nearest boat ramp was about ten miles upstream at Caneyville, so a person would have to haul a boat there and cast off from a public fishing area, an act certain to attract attention in the middle of the night. If a boat had been used, it was likely something small that could be launched off the riverbank. And if that were so, a search of the banks upstream should reveal some evidence.

He had just reached for the phone to call Chapman when it rang, startling him. Scotty’s voice on the other end was cracking with excitement. “We’ve got a match on the hair you found,” he said.

Halloran sat up straight. “Sarah Jo’s?”

“Yep. Just got the call from the lab.”

“Great work.”

“Hey, you’re the one who found it.”

Halloran hung up the phone and stared at it while he fondled his cigarette pack. It was time to organize another search of the riverbanks.

* * *

8:15 PM

Wade was sprawled in the recliner, sipping a beer and leafing through a J.C. Whitney catalog. Poring through page after page of Mustang parts and accessories made his mouth water with anticipation. Thinking about what he and Derek could do to the car was almost more fun than actually working on it. But damn! By the time he got everything they needed for it, he would almost spend another four grand.

Across the room, Marla sat cross-legged on the sofa. The TV was blaring some sitcom, and the television audience was roaring with laughter. Marla stared empty-eyed at the screen; she was not paying any attention to the show and he could tell. He looked at her above the edge of the catalog, watching her pretend to look at the TV and biting on her nails. What the hell was she thinking about? Where was her mind?

It was times like this that he almost feared her, when she just blanked out like she was now, though he would never let her know that. Knowing how much she hated him sometimes, how little they got along anymore, he wondered if she was considering leaving him. Or something worse.

He had been so pissed when he found out she had called Joel. He wanted to go off on her, but by the time he got home from work he was too tired to get into it with her. He hadn’t mentioned it, and neither had she. But God help her if she ever did it again.

His phone rang, jarring him from his thoughts. Marla looked over at him, then turned back to the television. He glared at her as he picked it up. “Yeah.”

“Hello, handsome.”

It took him a moment to place the voice, and then he realized it was Abby. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much,” he said. “Just watchin’ TV.”

“You comin’ out Friday night?”

“I might.”

“We’ll be there around nine. I get off work at six, but Shelley’s got to stay ’til seven-thirty.”

“Well, that sucks.”

She laughed. “Tell me about it.” There was a pause, and she said, “Hey, guess what this sound is.” He strained to hear a slight raspy, bristly sound. “You hear that?” she said.

“Yeah, what was it?”

She giggled. “I was touching myself. Thinking about you.”

His face grew hot and he felt a sudden twinge between his legs. “Yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm. Still doing it, too.” She let out a slight sigh.

Wade shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to accommodate his growing erection. “Really?” He eyed Marla, who was still staring at the television.

“Yeah. But I sure wish it was your fingers instead of mine.”

It was all he could do to swallow. “Me, too.”

“Are you touching yourself, too?”

“You bet,” he lied, wishing to God Marla would leave the room. If she would just go to the bathroom, or go wash the f*cking dishes.

“I wish I was there. Watching you do it. Watching your big strong hands giving yourself pleasure. Maybe I could use my mouth. Would you like that?”

“Uh-huh.” He froze. Marla was staring at him, her eyes boring through him. He shifted the catalog so she couldn’t see the bulge in his pants. “It’s Joel,” he mouthed to her, and she nodded and looked back at the television. “Go on,” he said into the receiver.

“I can’t wait ’til Friday night,” Abby was saying. “Can you come over now? We wouldn’t have to tell Shelley. She won’t be home ’til almost midnight.”

“I can’t,” he said.

“Please? I’m going crazy over here. I want you so bad.”

“Same here,” he said. “But tonight’s not good.”

She sighed. “All right,” she said sullenly. “But Friday you could come by early, before Shelley gets home. We could have some fun, just the two of us.”

“You bet,” he said. “We’ll push the envelope.”

Marla looked at him as he ended the call and Wade shook his head. “If he don’t leave me alone about working on this goddamn car…” He opened the catalog back up and took a drink from his beer. His hands were shaking. He pretended to study windshield washer fluid reservoirs.

Finally, after an eternity, Marla looked away, back toward the television.

* * *

9:45 PM

Carmelita’s body coming to rest at the same spot on the riverbank had been brilliant, even though it had just been a stroke of luck.

Last night when he got himself together he had carried Carmelita out to the car and had driven to his spot. The water was deep here and alive with the croaking of frogs. First he scoured both sides of the river, making sure he was alone. Then he dragged her out of the car toward the bank. She was still stiff, and it was an effort to maneuver her. He poised her on the edge, and the sheet around her unfurled as she tumbled freely to the water below with a hollow splash. With shaking hands, he lit a cigarette and watched to make sure she floated, not taking a drag until he could tell she was drifting downstream. Then he balled up the sheet and threw it into the car. Sweat was pouring off him in the heavy air. Quickly checking the weed-choked path behind him, he started the car and coasted out to the highway, where he switched on his lights and headed east toward the lake.

About five miles before the entrance to the state park, he turned off the main road and headed back into the darkness, where the thick undergrowth of the woods hugged tightly to the gravel lane he followed. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of an abandoned farmhouse and grabbed the sheet from the back seat. On the backside of the house was an old well, its wooden cover gray and splintered with rot. He lifted the edge of the cover and threw the sheet into the blackness beneath. He didn’t hear a splash, and he wondered if the well had gone dry, if perhaps that was why the house had been left empty.

As he stepped back into the car, a sparkle on the floorboard caught his attention. It was a crucifix. For a moment he was puzzled. Then he remembered it dangling from Carmelita’s neck as she slid into the passenger seat, and how he had caught his thumb in the chain as he grabbed her. He held the crucifix before him; Jesus’ agonized eyes were black and hollow. He shuddered, then looked away and shoved it into his pocket.

Now, back in the solace of his special place, he held it up before him. He touched it lightly with his fingertip and watched it spin. Jesus’ eyes caught his.

Jesus was watching.