Page 28 of Confessions of the Dead

While that was common out on Route 112, surrounded bymountains of granite, it made no sense in the center of town less than two blocks from the sheriff’s station, unless there was some problem with the antenna up on the roof. Maybe one of the birds Matt mentioned had managed to hit it just right. It hadn’t been replaced since her father’s long stint as sheriff, and even then the job had gone to the lowest bid.

She’d worry about that later.

Ellie was still trying to wrap her head around what Matt found at the Tatum house when she pulled to a stop in front of the Hollows Bend Public Library. Built around 1900, the library was two stories of hand-forged red brick topped by a stone and copper clock tower that had an on-again, off-again relationship with accurately telling time. She noted it was only off by two minutes today, which was fairly impressive considering the last three times she’d checked it had been off by more than an hour.

Ellie was barely out of her car before the head librarian came running over, cradling a fire extinguisher in his lanky arms.

Edgar Newton was in his early seventies, at least six foot four, and thin as a rail, weighing maybe a buck-sixty. He was bald and had a nose well out of proportion with his closely set eyes. He’d worked at the library for as long as Ellie could remember. When she was a kid, her friends had called him the Stork. As she got older, she learned most of the adults called him Bean, which wasn’t much better.

“Mr. Newton,” Ellie said, careful not to call him either of those names as she looked past him toward the library entrance, fetching her hat from the passenger seat. “What’s going on?”

Newton hefted the fire extinguisher from his left side to his right, cradling it under his arm. “Follow me, I’ll show you.”

He led her through the entrance, past the main counter, and down several aisles to a smoldering pile of books stacked under a framed photograph of Oscar Wilde. Everything was covered in white powder discharged from the extinguisher. The air was stillcloudy with it. Beneath the dry odor not unlike baby powder was the pungent stench of some kind of accelerant.

Newton brushed the bottom of his nose with the back of his wrist and sniffed, as if he was trying not to sneeze. “It’s Ms. Gilmore; I don’t know what’s gotten into her. I came in just as she dropped a match on this pile. I managed to get the fire out, then she disappeared in the stacks, pulling books as she went, mumbling some nonsense about filth.” He glanced deeper into the library, narrowed those beady eyes, and turned back to Ellie. “She opened this morning. If I hadn’t come in thirty minutes early, she might have burned the entire building down.” Although he was clearly flustered, he spoke in barely a whisper. Each of his words was articulated perfectly, as if he were giving a speech. Somehow, his voice dropped even lower. “She’s covered in lighter fluid, Sheriff, absolutely reeks of it. She was carrying one can, and I saw at least one more in her purse. I’ve known her for the better part of fifty years, and she’s never once acted like this, I’m afraid something in her may be … broken.”

Ellie looked around the library. It seemed oddly still. Only about half the motion-activated lights were on. The tall bookshelves made these elongated shadows across the Berber carpet.

“Where did she go?”

Newton pointed through the maze of books to a spot in the back left corner. “She was near Young Adult the last time I saw her.”

21

Matt

“EISA,NO!”

Matt lunged from the car to where she hovered over her husband, but not fast enough to keep her from bringing down the tenderizer again. She didn’t weigh much, maybe 110 soaking wet, but she put every ounce of herself into that next swing, and Matt knew from the deep thud that resonated from the man’s skull as the mallet cracked against his temple that Norman Heaton was dead. Eisa managed to hit Norman two more times before Matt was able to pry the mallet from her grip. She fought, clawed at him, spitting and kicking like some wild animal, then she simply went still. She collapsed on the pavement beside her dead husband like some kind of rag doll, like someone had reached in and pulled out her spine.

Matt quickly checked Norman for a pulse, didn’t find one, then snapped his fingers in front of the old woman’s eyes. “Eisa, can you hear me?”

There was no reaction. Her eyes were open, and she was breathing, but it was like she couldn’t see him.

A woman screamed.

Several neighbors had come out of their houses and surrounded them in the street. The scream had come from Pat Peterson, who twisted and buried her face in her husband’s chest. It was nearly noon, but both of them were still wearing pajamas under loosely tied robes.

“Take her back inside,” Matt told Stu Peterson. Then he looked around at the others and raised his voice. “All of you, get back inside your houses!”

A couple of them shuffled back a few steps, but nobody left the street. At least half had their phones out and were recording video.

Matt shook his head and quietly told Eisa, “Let’s get you in my car.”

She made no effort to stand. Her entire body was limp. He got both his arms under her, gently hefted her up, and carried her back to his car.

Without a free hand, he couldn’t open the back door. He was about to set her down when Stu Peterson came over and opened the back door for him. When he saw Josh Tatum already in the back, the two locked eyes for a moment, then Josh turned away and faced out the window. Matt eased the woman down on the seat and closed the door gently, as if he didn’t want to wake her. He was reaching for his radio microphone when Stu Peterson placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke in a low voice.

“Right before you got here, Pat and I heard gunshots. Three of them.”

“Hunters up on Mount Washington?”

Peterson shook his head. “Sounded like a pistol to me. Three quick shots, like a semiautomatic. The mountain adds an echo. I didn’t hear that.”

Stu Peterson did three tours in Afghanistan, and Matt regularly ran into him at the range up in North Hollow. Former specialforces, he kept a large gun safe in his garage and several handguns around his home, all of them properly registered; Matt had helped him with the paperwork.

Peterson looked up and down the street. “Somewhere close. One of these houses, I think. We tried to phone it in but couldn’t get through. What the hell is going on?”

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