Dead Giveaway

Allie remembered the subtle evidence of vulnerability she’d witnessed in Clay last night, the embarrassment and humiliation, the anger and simmering resentment. He’d tried to flirt with her to ease the discomfort they were both feeling, so he wasn’t without sensitivity.

“He’s as human as the rest of us,” she said.

“No, he’s not. I could put a gun right between his eyes and cock the damn trigger—and he’d dare me to fire. I’ve never seen a tougher sumbitch.”

Clay was tough, all right. Allie suspected that life had made him that way. How else would he have survived the constant doubt, the suspicion, anger and animosity he’d battled for so many years? Allie could only wonder why he hadn’t moved as far away from Stillwater as possible. What kept him around? The farm? As Barker’s wife, Irene had inherited it when he disappeared. Then once Clay had graduated from college, she’d passed it on to him. Allie wasn’t sure what kind of an agreement he had with his mother and sisters as far as the property was concerned, but surely he could sell out, pay them off if he owed them money, and buy another piece of land where no one had ever heard of the missing reverend.

“Why do you think he stays put?” she asked. If he’d killed Barker and buried him at the farm, that would explain it. But if he was innocent…

“Where else would he go?” Hendricks asked.

“There must be towns where he’d be welcomed. He’s young, strong, handsome. Without Reverend Barker’s disappearance hanging over his head, he’d be like anyone else.”

Hendricks wiped the perspiration beading on his forehead. “Guess he stays ’cause he’s got family in the area.”

Why didn’t they all find a new home? Allie wondered. Molly, the youngest of Irene’s children at thirty, had left as soon as she graduated from high school. According to Madeline, she was currently designing clothes in New York. Grace had left, too, but she’d come back, and now that she was married to Kennedy Archer, Allie didn’t think she’d leave again. Kennedy, along with his father, owned the bank. He wouldn’t want to uproot his boys, abandon the family business and leave his parents. His father had just survived a bout with cancer. But Clay and Irene had never even attempted to get away. When he returned from college, she’d moved into town and let him take over at the farm. And that was that.

“Do you know much about Clay’s background?” she asked, adjusting her position so she could see Hendricks without putting a crick in her neck.

“Aren’t the details all there, in the files?” he asked.

Some of them were. But the Stillwater police force hadn’t investigated many missing persons—or murders, for that matter—and the files weren’t as detailed as they should be. She was looking for the word-of-mouth snippets her father and his predecessors had deemed unrelated or unimportant. If Hendricks was going to impose his presence on her, she figured she might as well learn what he knew. He loved gossip and generally picked up on whatever was being said around town. “There’re a few bare facts. Where he was born, that sort of thing.”

“He was born in Booneville, wasn’t he?”

She nodded.

“My little sister was in his class when he moved here. Said he made good marks in school. Until he was older.”

“Did his grades start to fall before or after Reverend Barker went missing?”

“Mary Lee told me it happened about the same time, but I’ve never checked his transcripts.”

“What about his natural father?” she asked.

“Ran off is all I heard.”

Clay’s file indicated that much, but no more. “Has anyone ever tried to locate Mr. Montgomery?”

“Not that I recall. Why?”

She shrugged, but to her surprise, Hendricks caught on, anyway.

“You don’t think Clay might’ve killed him, too?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m no genius, but my guess is Clay would’ve been too young.”

He didn’t respond to the sarcasm in her voice. “So you were thinking of Irene? Of course!” He clapped his hands as if they’d just solved the case. “Now I know why they paid you the big bucks in Chicago. I doubt anyone else has even thought of that.”

Probably because Allie was the only person in Stillwater jaded enough to consider it. The cops on her father’s force had never come up against the kind of heinous criminals she’d dealt with. “It’s worth checking,” she said slowly.

“Sure. Makes sense.” Hendricks’s head bobbed like the bobble-headed puppy Allie’s grandmother used to display in the rear window of her giant Oldsmobile. “If Clay’s father was alive, he would’ve come around at some point. The Montgomerys have lived in Stillwater for…what, twenty-three years? But no one’s seen hide nor hair of him. Curious, ain’t it?”

If Clay’s father was dead, and the circumstances surrounding his death were at all suspicious, Allie needed to examine that coincidence. But Hendricks was getting more excited than such a slim possibility warranted. “Not necessarily. There could be lots of reasons we’ve never seen him. So don’t get carried away,” she cautioned. “Chances are, Mr. Montgomery’s alive and well and living in some other state.”

“Right,” he said, but she could tell he wasn’t really listening. He was too busy jumping ahead. “If we got Irene for one murder, we’d get her for the other. It’s brilliant.”

“Hendricks.” She stood and grabbed hold of his arm to make sure he understood that she was serious. “It’s a real long shot, so don’t go spreading it around.”

“Who me?” He waved a dismissive hand. “I won’t breathe a word,” he said. But it wasn’t a day later that someone approached her at the Piggly Wiggly to ask if Irene Montgomery was a serial killer.

Reverend Portenski’s hand shook as he removed the floorboard in the far corner of the old church and reached into the dark hole beneath. He had stumbled upon this small recess quite by accident a decade ago, when he was moving furniture and doing some repairs to the building—and had rued the day ever since.

If only God would let him know what he should do with what he’d found. While trying to decide, he’d replaced the heavy table that had hidden the loose floorboard and tried to forget its existence, to forget what was beneath. But during the dark quiet hours of the night, when the pressures of the day began to dissipate, he remembered the contents of this hiding place, which conjured up images he wished he’d never seen.

After ten years, he was tired of the guilt, the nagging worry, the indecision. It was time to put the matter to rest. He pulled the paper sack from the hole and walked as quickly as his arthritic joints would allow to the small study at the back of the church.

A fire burned in the sparsely furnished room. He wasn’t as poverty-stricken as such a study might indicate. He could’ve afforded more elegant appointments. But he had no wife or children to make comfortable and eschewed all but the most necessary physical possessions. He craved knowledge and enlightenment, and believed that intelligence was the true glory of God. So he spent every dime he possessed, above what he devoted to the church and his flock, on books. They lined the room on three sides, residing on makeshift shelves he’d built himself, using unfinished wooden planks and cinder blocks.

It was a sacrilege to bring what he carried into this room. The words of some of the greatest men who’d ever lived—renowned philosophers and theologians—resided here. But the devouring heat and glimmering flames of the fire beckoned.

Portenski pressed closer. He felt as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels as he drew his hand back to toss the sack into the fire.

Do it! Throw it! his mind screamed. And never think of it again.

But he couldn’t. As much as he wanted to protect the church and the faith of his parishioners, he couldn’t in all conscience destroy what he’d found. Neither could he take it to the police. He’d waited too long. Besides, doing that wouldn’t change anything; it was too late.

Which brought him right back where he’d been for the past ten years: he was the guardian of a secret he could neither tell nor keep.

Slumping into his seat, he slowly opened the sack and spread several Polaroid pictures on the desk.

As penance, he forced himself to focus on each one—and then he threw up.

His mother was calling him.

Clay shaded his face with his arm and gazed toward the driveway that circled around to the chicken coop, barn and outbuildings. Sure enough, there she was, hurrying toward him in a red dress, a flamboyant hat and high heels.

“Stay there, I’m coming,” he called and dropped his shovel before she could break an ankle in the loose gravel. He’d been cleaning out irrigation ditches all morning. The exertion made his long-sleeved T-shirt stick to him, but it was actually a mild, overcast day.

“Have you heard?” his mother cried before he could reach her.

He didn’t know what she was talking about. If the shrillness of her voice was any indication, he didn’t want to know. But she wouldn’t have left the boutique where she worked unless it was important.

He braced himself for the worst. “What’s wrong?”

“Allie McCormick is searching for Lucas.”

He’d expected to hear Barker’s name. “Lucas?”