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Chapter 30

“I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Pendergast turned to Tigg in surprise. These were the first words she had spoken since their talk early that morning.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The killer wasn’t expecting me to be home. That’s the only thing he said that I remember.”

Pendergast studied Tigg for a moment before voicing his next question.

“Who knew that you wouldn’t be home that day? Do you remember?”

Tigg gave a disgusted snort.

“Lots of people, unfortunately. That little scrap of information is not going to help all that much. But it means...” She couldn’t finish the statement.

“It means that the killer could have been someone whom you knew.”

“But that’s impossible. All of the people I told were friends. None of them were crazy enough to have done...Don’t you think I would have known if they were?”

“There’s no art to read the mind’s construction in the face.”

“Somehow I had hoped you’d find a better authority on the subject than Shakespeare,” said Tigg bitterly. “I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

“I understand. Many people have been surprised by how well a killer can hide their true nature. You are not alone.”

“How comforting.”

“You said that you recognized four people on the list Mr. Glinn provided. Were any of them among the ones who would have known?”

“All of them. Again, not much help. Besides, it also could have been someone who overheard, or was told by someone else, or...” Tigg lapsed into silence. The whole thing still seemed hopeless, despite Pendergast’s assurances that the killer could be found.

When Pendergast did not respond, Tigg sighed and turned to him.

“I’m sorry again, I’m being completely pessimistic. It’s a bad habit I’ve developed.”

“I can understand that as well.”

They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the small amount of morning traffic on Water Street. The sheriff was not in yet, or so the receptionist had informed them when they stopped in a few minutes earlier. She had told them that he would be in shortly.

“So,” said Tigg, “what’s out next move?”

“We are going to go speak to the possible witness for the Zoller case.”

“Witness? You mean Harlow? What makes you sure he’s even worth the time?”

“As you yourself mentioned, people who tend towards the fringes of society may have a clearer view of the social dynamics. I’m hoping that Mr. Harlow follows that precedent.”



Tigg was surprised to find that Harlow’s bookstore, Shanachie, was already open, and had been since the ungodly hour of seven. She followed Pendergast through the front door and stopped. A voice called from the back room.

“I’ll be right with you.”

Tigg barely heard it. She was too busy staring in wonder at the interior of the shop. Heavy wooden bookshelves lined every wall, some reaching to the second story ceiling. Old fashioned rolling ladders allowed access to the upper shelves. Free standing shelves, large tables and small stands packed with books filled the interior of the large open room. The store itself was divided into New and Used sections, and within each section, categories of books had been labeled and separated. Above each shelf a fitting quotation had been painted in flowing script. The shop smelled of old paper, glue, leather, and dust. In sharp contrast to the antiquated atmosphere, a radio was playing fairly loudly in the background, with Jimmy Buffett lamenting life in the tropics and his lost shaker of salt.

What a wonderful place, thought Tigg, momentarily forgetting the reason for their visit.

Pendergast gravitated towards a glassed in case which held several old, leather bound books, while Tigg wandered slowly towards the far wall of used books. She stopped briefly to study the Bestsellers, one of which appeared to be about either renaissance art or cryptanalysis, and read the quotation above: This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force. She shook her head and continued on.

She soon passed Comedy (Outside of a dog, a book is man’s best friend. Inside of a dog it’s too dark to read), Classics (Some books are undeservedly forgotten; none are undeservedly remembered), and stopped at a corner shelf which held a placard proclaiming “Read a Banned Book Today!” She read the quotation (An idea that is not dangerous is unworthy of being called an idea at all) and began to examine the titles. Some were familiar, but others were completely foreign, and she briefly wondered who this Rowling guy was and how he managed to get so many of his books banned. On the shelf above, she spotted an old favorite, removed it and started to read.

As Margaritaville switched to Sympathy for the Devil, the radio volume was lowered and she heard the same voice from before, cultured and with a slight east coast accent, coming from the front of the shop.

“How may I help you gentlemen this morning?”

Tigg continued to read the book. She knew Pendergast would soon start in on his routine.

“Hello. My name is...”

Silence. Tigg waited for a minute for Pendergast to continue, and when he did not, she turned to see what had rendered him speechless.

Next to the front counter stood a tall, well built older man. He wore a black t-shirt with “Nevermore” printed across the chest in white script, faded blue jeans and cowboy boots. His snow white hair was brushed back from his forehead and was gathered in a ponytail at the base of his neck. What had apparently startled Pendergast so was his face. The left side was clean shaven, while the right sported a long white beard and thick mustache. This strange, lopsided look contrasted strongly with his calm voice and air of professionalism behind it.

After a few more moments of silence, Pendergast resumed his speech.

“Ah...yes. I am Dr. Daniel Prescott. My student, Mr. Crow, and I are here in Winstead as part of a research project. We are speaking with local businessmen and we hope that you would...ah...consent to be interviewed.”

And what an interesting interview that will probably be, thought Tigg.

As she turned back toward the shelf she glanced out the front window and saw the Sheriff’s cruiser pull into a space in front of the office.

Finally.



Harlow gazed at Prescott impassively before replying.

“What kind of research? I’m not sure I’d be appropriate for any type of study since I’m not exactly your typical ‘local businessman’.”

“We are investigation the psychological, sociological, and economic affect of a certain type of crime on small towns.”

Harlow raised an eyebrow. “What type of crime?”

“Mass homicide.”

“I see. And since our town has recently played host to such a crime, you decided that this would be the perfect opportunity for a study here. Yet again, why me? I’m sure there are plenty of other businessmen in the area that have been more affected.” The suspicion in Harlow’s voice was readily apparent.

“I spoke with some of them, and I plan on interviewing them later, but they seemed to believe that you had a ...unique perspective.”

“I see. The locals told you all about ‘Crazy Old Jed Harlow’ and his wild stories. You just had to see for yourself.”

“They did mention that you were a bit...eccentric.”

Harlow threw back his head and laughed.

“I hardly think I’m rich enough to qualify as ‘eccentric’. Most would say I’m just plain crazy.”

“A persona that I suspect you cultivate carefully,” said Prescott dryly.

Harlow grinned.

“You’re pretty astute for an academic. Yes, I have found that the only way to live a quiet life in a small town and the only way to be left alone is to have the locals believe I’m a ‘bit touched’. Harmless, yes, but not someone they’d with whom they’d want to associate on a regular basis. It’s worked so far.”

“But why isolate yourself? As I understand, one of the benefits to living in a small town is a sense of community.”

“That would require sharing my past experiences, something I’m not too keen on, to be perfectly blunt about it.”

Prescott gave him a questioning look. Harlow sighed.

“I’m a retired lawyer. State prosecutor, to be precise. I’ve seen too much that I’d like to forget, and the thought of re-hashing it to every local Tom, Dick and Harry is enough to make isolation seem like paradise. At first, I tried avoiding the questions, but to be frank, the locals are just plain nosy. Finally I ‘let slip’ a few wild stories. After that it was easy.”

“So, the stories the locals mentioned, they are all just that? Stories?”

“Most of them. But the one I suspect that you’re interested in is not.”

“Which one would that be, Mr. Harlow?”

“What I saw near the Zoller farm a few days before the murders.”

“The satanic ritual?”

Harlow snorted.

“Not exactly, but that’s what I told the sheriff in order to get his attention. It didn’t seem all that important at first, but after what happened...”

“Tell me about it,” said Prescott, withdrawing a pen and notebook from his jacket pocket.

“I was out for my evening hike. I own ten acres adjacent to the Zoller farm, and I enjoy a daily stroll in the woods. I was about a hundred yards from the property line when I saw a figure dressed in black standing near a small clearing. As I crept closer, I saw that the person was standing in the center of a semi-circle of trees, and a large bundle seemed to be suspended from several. The bundles had no discernable shape, but they probably at least the size and weight of a body. I saw no evidence of blood, but the whole thing was just strange. I watched the person fill another bundle with sticks and rocks, and then hoist it to the tree. This person then stood back and seemed to be admiring the work. It made no sense at the time. I snuck away to avoid a confrontation. Then a few days later, I heard about the murders. I called the sheriff out to investigate. Unfortunately, he sent his new deputy sheriff.”

“What happened?”

“We went out to the site, but there was nothing there. Then this new deputy, straight form the big city of New York, informed me that he saw no evidence of the ‘trappings of Satanism’, of which he had ‘seen enough of in the cases he had investigated’, and suggested that I might not have seen what I thought. I think he had spent too much time listing to the Nuts and Dolts club and had already formed an opinion.”

“I’m sorry, ‘Nuts and Dolts’?”

“That’s the name I gave to the ‘group of local businessmen’ you’ve spoken to. They used to hang out in the hardware store until the new owner took over and remodeled, then they had to move to the diner. I never bothered to give them a new name.”

“I see...What else?”

“I went back later to check the scene myself. I found grooves in the tree branches where those bundles had been hauled up. The deputy missed those, I guess. He never really bothered to look up.”

Prescott checked his notes before continuing.

“Have you formed an opinion about what you saw, Mr. Harlow?”

Harlow lowered his voice, and for the first time an expression of fear crossed his face.

“Yes. I don’t think it was a ritual at all. I think it was practice.”



Mathies took the new case report, faxed in that morning, form Sherri, went to his office without a word, and shut the door. He sat down at his desk with a sigh and opened the report. More horrors, now familiar lay within. He read through, noting the differences. He didn’t even need to have the Zoller case to compare. He knew it practically by heart. After a few minutes, a creeping sense of doubt entered his mind. The differences between the two cases seemed almost deliberate. He shook his head.

No, the killer didn’t know about this crime. It has to be a copycat.

Just as he reached the last page, he heard a tentative knock on his office door.

“Yes?”

Sherri stuck her head in.

“Rick, Bill called earlier. He checked with the hospital and they said Rebecca Jenkins had been at work since 6 that morning. She did go outside to make a phone call at the end of her first shift but she was only gone for maybe ten minutes. I know you don’t...anyway, Bill thought you’d just want to make sure everything was covered.”

“Thanks Sherri. The report says that the time of death for the Jenkins family was somewhere between 2 and 4 PM.”

After a quick glance to the outside window, Sherri stepped into the office and shut the door.

“I...can’t believe it. I just spoke to Chris a few days ago. It seems impossible to think...”

“Yeah, I know.”

“How is Becca handling it?”

“Badly.”

“Bill said you think—”

Mathies looked up sharply.

“Bill was told not to talk about the case,” said Mathies in an angry voice.

“I’m sorry, but...well, you know, we both work here and—”

Mathies expression softened.

“I know Sherri. Sorry.”

“You really think it’s a copycat? Even though it was so much like the Zoller case?”

“That’s the theory for now, but we’re keeping that within the department. The public needs to think it was a random crime, a burglary gone bad or something. We can’t afford for this to get out.”

Sherri’s face went pale. Her normal professionalism seemed to be crumbling and when she spoke again she sounded as if she was close to tears.

“Why...why is this happening? Why here?”

“I really wish I knew.”



“That will make an interesting...ah...sidebar for our research Mr. Harlow. However, I need to return to the task at hand.” Prescott looked up to see that Harlow was staring at something near the far wall.

“Mr. Harlow?”

“I...I think there’s something wrong with your student.”

Prescott turned to stare a Crow, who was still standing in front of the corner shelf. He appeared to be staring at the wall and the book he had been reading was dangling, forgotten, in one hand.

“Mr. Crow?” Prescott called. Crow jumped and slowly turned towards Prescott’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

Woodenly, Crow started to walk towards the entrance of the store. When he reached the front door, Harlow called out to him.

“Did you want to buy that book?”

Crow walked to the front counter and laid the book down by the register. He reached into his pocket and slowly withdrew a crumpled $5 bill, which he handed to Harlow with a trembling hand.

“Ah, To Kill a Mocking Bird, one of my personal favorites. It’s in fairly good condition for a used book, isn’t it?” said Harlow, trying to elicit a reaction. Crow said nothing. Harlow placed the book in a paper bag and handed it to Crow along with his change. Crow turned without a word and walked out the door.

“What was that all about?” asked Harlow.

“I am not sure,” said Prescott, his attention fixed on the retreating figure. “I believe I’ll have to cut this interview short. I hope that we can continue at a later time.”

“I’ll be here,” said Harlow. “Tell Mr. Crow I hope he feels better soon.”

Prescott nodded and walked out of the shop. Harlow looked after him for a moment before returning to his work.



As Pendergast approached, he saw that Tigg was leaning against the truck, one hand on the hood. She was visibly trembling.

“Tigg?” asked Pendergast in a gentle voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The sheriff is back,” she said in a whisper.

“I noticed. We can now go retrieve the statistics report and inquire as to his absence last night. But something else...?”

“I know why he never showed up last night. He was busy.”

“Busy?”

“Yes.” Tigg finally turned to face Pendergast, and even beneath the disguise he could read the stricken look on her face.

“There’s been another murder.”

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