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Chapter 11

Charlie Quinn arrived at the Sheriff’s Office just before dawn. The night dispatcher, Arlene Jackson, looked up in surprise when he walked in the front door.

“Good morning, Charlie. You’re here kinda early this morning, aren’t you?”

“Good morning, Arlene. I have a very important meeting to prepare for today, so I wanted to get a head start.” He walked to the file cabinet, brought out the thick file on the Zoller murders, and took it over to the copy machine.

“Whatever,” said Arlene, and went back to her paperwork. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Quinn as he made copies of the file, clipped the copies together, and stacked them on the table next to the copier.

“What case is that?” she asked, as if she didn’t already know. Only one case in recent history had generated enough paperwork to make a pile that thick.

“The Zoller case.”

“Don’t you and Rick already have copies of that case?”

“We have someone new coming in to look at it today. I wanted us all to be able to read over it together.”

“Is it the F.B.I.?” Arlene felt a momentary rush of excitement. She had always wanted to meet an F.B.I. agent.

“No. It’s someone who once had a case that was similar. It’s possible there’s a connection between the two cases.”

“Oh.” Arlene swallowed her disappointment, sighed, and then went back to her paperwork. She worked in silence for half an hour, surreptitiously pulling out the crossword puzzle she had hidden under the desk blotter and jotting in an entry every few minutes. She was slightly annoyed at having her routine interrupted by Quinn’s presence, but had adjusted quickly. Quinn had finished copying and had returned to his desk to read over the file once again. You would think he would have that damn thing memorized,Arlene thought. At least it’s quiet now. That copier noise was getting on my nerves. The silence was soon broken by the ringing of the telephone. Arlene shoved her crossword out of sight and then answered it.

“Winstead Sheriff’s Office, how may I direct your call?” Even though most people knew to dial 911 for emergencies, there were those who still thought they had to call the sheriff’s office first. It never made sense to Arlene, but she had learned to deal with it.

“I need to speak to the sheriff, please. It’s very important.” The female voice was soft, but sounded as if the woman were close to panic.

“He’s not in at the moment. Do you need emergency services?” Arlene’s finger hovered over the transfer button.

“No, it’s not that. One of my former co-workers was supposed to be meeting with him yesterday, a man named Brian Cambry. I really need to talk to Brian, and I was hoping that someone there would know where he is.”

“Let me check, hold on just a minute.” Arlene hit the mute button on the phone and turned to Quinn. “Charlie, did someone named Brian Cambry come by yesterday to meet with the sheriff?”

Quinn looked up in surprise. “Yeah, he did, but the sheriff wasn’t in, and I met with him. Why?”

“There’s some woman on the phone who needs to talk to him. Says she’s a former co-worker.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Arlene handed the receiver to Quinn and pressed the mute button again.

“Hello, this is Deputy Sheriff Charles Quinn. I spoke to Mr. Cambry yesterday and I’ll be meeting with him again this morning. May I give him a message?”

“No, I need to talk to him. Did he stay in Winstead last night? Do you know where?”

Quinn thought a minute. “May I ask who is calling?” He heard an exasperated sigh at the other end.

“This is Deputy Amelia Harding of the Pine Mountain Sheriff’s Office. Do you want my badge number, too? Now please, just tell me where he is!”

“Ok, ok. He’s staying at Winstead Manor. Let me get the number.” Arlene quickly wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to him. She’s more alert than she looks, thought Quinn. He read off the number to Amelia.

“Thank you,” she said, and hung up.

“What was that all about?” asked Arlene?

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Quinn.



Brian Cambry guided his truck down the driveway away from Winstead Manor and turned onto Highway 8, his mind on the forthcoming meeting. Unable to sleep, he had stayed up well past midnight, making notes and rough sketches of everything he could remember from the Eastman case. He read over everything, adding what scant details were missing from the first draft, hoping the whole thing would be of use to Mathies and Quinn. Even after he had written all he could, he still had trouble relaxing. He had tossed and turned for hours, and finally rose at dawn. When he went downstairs, he was surprised to find that Mrs. Shoemaker was already up as well, bustling around her spotless kitchen preparing breakfast for her family. She had insisted that Cambry join them. Now, tired but well fed, he was heading into town for what he hoped would be a productive day. Cambry realized how much he had missed real police work. There was nothing like the rush you felt when pieces of a case finally started to come together, he thought with a smile. He almost wished he hadn’t retired 3 years ago, but at that point he was ready to get out. Working for Darrow took all the fun out of it. He had moved to eastern Kentucky to get away from Pine Mountain and all the unpleasantness, but here he was again, back in the thick of things, working on a real case for the first time in years.



The fog that had been thin up at Winstead Manor had thickened considerably as he descended the long hill. Cambry tried to keep the speedometer under 40, but gravity was working against him and his truck continued to pick up speed. Near the end of the descent, the road curved sharply to the right, and Cambry pressed his foot down on the break pedal as he approached it. His foot sank to the floor with almost no resistance. Oh, shit, he thought, and tried again. Nothing. He tried not to panic as he pumped the break pedal, but the truck was going nearly sixty as he approached the curve. He tried to steer into the curve but the truck would not respond and the wheel spun uselessly in his hands. I’m not going to make it, he thought, as the line of trees loomed ahead. He unbuckled his seat belt, opened the door of the truck and threw himself free just as the truck left the road and crashed through the underbrush at the edge. He tried to roll as he landed, but he had misjudged the drop-off and hit the ground hard. Cambry heard something snap, followed by a flash of excruciating pain. His head connected with the ground and the pain faded as darkness washed over him.



As the sun was rising over Black Mountain, Pendergast made his way up the twisting trail towards the summit. The woods were silent except for the occasional birdsong and rustle of leaves as small animals dove into the underbrush at his approach. Pendergast had noticed several signs that marked the area: No Trespassing, Posted: No Hunting, and Private Property. He stopped and read the next sign he saw posted at a curve in the trail. Warning: Private Property. Trespassers Will Be Violated. Survivors Will Be Shot. Pendergast shook his head and continued on. After almost two miles of hiking, he arrived at a wide clearing. On the far side of the clearing was a large log cabin with a stone foundation and two stone chimneys at either end. A covered porch ran across the front, and a set of worn stone steps provided access at one end. To the right of the cabin were two cordoned off areas, one much larger than the other, with fences made from thick branches stuck in the ground and tied together with twine. To the left of the cabin was a grove of small but well tended trees. Several boxy white wooden structures were standing in a group off to one side near the edge of the woods. Pendergast noticed a thin column of smoke rising from the ground about 20 yards from the edge of the clearing, and as he approached he saw that a fire had been built in a large flat bottomed pit. The pit had a ledge around the outside between the bottom and ground level, and a perhaps three or four dozen small pottery vessels had been placed on this ledge, their openings pointing toward the center. A stack of kindling, thick branches and logs had been placed to one side. Pendergast turned and walked toward the cabin. Thin wisps of smoke rose from both chimneys, but the windows were shuttered and no sounds were audible from within. He climbed the steps and walked towards the front door, past a large stack of firewood. On the far side of the door was a pile of grey, white, and tan stones. An old canvas tarp, littered with small chips of stone and slivers of wood, covered the floor and a small wooden stool sat in the center. On the far end of the porch was another large stack of firewood.

Pendergast knocked on the door three times, stepped back, and listened. The cabin was silent. He walked back to the end of the porch, down the steps, and around to the back of the cabin. The windows on the side and in the back were tightly shuttered as well. At the edge of the woods, a chopping block stood next to a large pile of logs, a heavy maul lay on the ground next to the block. Pendergast scanned the woods behind the cabin and spied another trail leading down the mountain. He followed it for a hundred yards where he found an old shack that looked as though it had been built into the side of the mountain. The door was slightly ajar, but the shack looked as deserted as the cabin. He continued down the trail until he came to another clearing at the edge of a mountain lake. A small wooden boat lay on its side near a patch of dead cattails and an old floating dock bobbed just offshore. Pendergast surveyed the area around the lake, but saw no sign of movement amongst the trees. The lake area was as quiet as the cabin and the shack, the silence only broken by the mournful call of a dove in the distance. Pendergast returned to the path and followed it back to the cabin, senses on high alert. At the edge of the clearing, he paused. He has the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. He took a step forward, paused again, and his acute sense of hearing detected a slight rustle in the leaves behind him. Before he could turn, he felt the twin barrels of a shotgun pressed into his back. He froze, and then slowly raised his hands into the air. After a dozen heartbeats, a soft voice, menacing and hoarse from disuse, broke the silence. “What’s the matter, city boy? You lost?”

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