Page 91 of The Killing Plains

“How do you know?”

“Lowell couldn’t have killed Adam Parker in ’98—he was away at college when it happened. And nobody but the police and the killer knew about the rabbit mask.”

Unless you told him, Colly thought. Would Russ do that?Anyone’s capable of anything, under the right circumstances—he’dsaid so himself. Assumptions based on trust could be fatal to an investigation. Russ was not Randy, though the fact that they looked alike made it harder to remember.

Somewhere in the darkness, an owl hooted mournfully. Colly pulled out her phone and checked the time. “It’s ten o’clock. I looked over the case files last night, but I want to spend more time with them before bed.”

They moved towards the house. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Russ asked.

“I’ve got to figure out who’s stalking me. We’ve come up empty on the snake in the van and the anonymous text. That just leaves the red ballcap. If Tom Gunnell didn’t see who took it, maybe the farmers on Salton Road did. I thought Avery and I might knock on a few doors. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Watch out. Dave Carroway’s place is over there.”

“Carroway? Isn’t that—?”

“Yep. He’s the kid Willis molested at church. That was thirty years ago. His folks are gone, and he runs the farm now. He went through a rough patch—bar fights, drugs, a few DUIs. Served a stint for assault. Seems pretty stable these days, but tread lightly. He hates Newlands.”

“Good to know.”

They mounted the porch steps, and Russ faced her. “I’m glad you’re okay, Col. See you tomorrow.” He leaned in suddenly and kissed her cheek before turning and striding back to his truck.

Colly watched with her hand on the doorknob until his taillights vanished in the distance.

“Shit,” she murmured. Then she opened the door and went inside.

Chapter 24

Thursday dawned chilly and damp. The pale disc of the sun struggled to penetrate the thick fog blanketing the scrubland. As she drove Satchel to school, Colly was relieved that his volatile mood of the previous evening had dissipated, and he was acting like himself.

“Do I have to wear my sun-sleeves? It’s not sunny,” he whined as he climbed out of the car, the Iron Man toy clutched in his hand.

Colly raised the brim of his bucket hat and kissed him on the brow. “The fog’ll burn off by recess.” She wiped away the lip-balm smudge she’d left on his skin. “Remember, Aunt Brenda’s picking you up after school for another playdate at her office.”

Satchel’s face lit up, and he trotted into the building without further protest. Back in the car, Colly phoned Avery and explained her plan—Avery was to find Jimmy Meggs or another available officer and interview the farmers on Salton Road. Being a local, she’d have better luck than Colly would.

“Find out if they saw anything suspicious Monday when the ballcap disappeared. And ask about the day Denny was killed. That’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try.”

“Where are you going?” Avery asked.

“Turbine plant. If I can catch Lowell off guard, maybe he’ll corroborate some of Jace’s story. It’s best if I fly solo,” she addedbefore Avery could object. “He’ll be mad that you interviewed his employees the other day without his say-so.”

The Newland Wind Industries manufacturing facility lay west of town on a barren plain between two stony ridges. It was a large complex composed of some dozen windowless metal buildings, each the size of an airplane hangar. Acres of asphalt skirted the facility, dotted with storage sheds, heavy equipment, and neat rows of turbine blades awaiting transport. Colly parked in the visitors’ lot near the road. Entering through the glass doors of the closest building, she found herself in a lobby decorated with potted ficus trees and framed posters extolling the virtues of wind energy. Colly introduced herself to the young receptionist and asked her to tell Mr. Newland that she wanted to see him regarding a police investigation.That’ll piss him off, she thought. An angry Lowell would be less careful of his words.

The girl looked startled and uncertain. She reached for the desk phone, then changed her mind.

“Wait one moment,” she said, and vanished through a door behind her desk.

She returned nearly five minutes later accompanied by a plump, olive-skinned young man with round glasses, a powder-blue bowtie, and dark, short-cropped hair. He introduced himself as Manny Pareja, head of community relations. He was delighted to meet his boss’s sister-in-law. Unfortunately, Mr. Newland wasn’t available. But he, Manny, would be happy to help.

“Great, I’ve got plenty of time,” Colly said. “I’d love a tour of the place while I wait.”

Manny blinked rapidly, but his broad smile never wavered. “Certainly.”

He ushered her down a nondescript office-lined hallway—the “managerial hub,” he called it. “But the real magic happens back here.” Colly followed him around a corner and through a pair ofheavy doors. Manny stopped and gestured theatrically. “The molding floor.”

They were standing in an immense room, longer than a football field, though narrower. Forklifts, golf carts, and strangely shaped vehicles of unknown purpose maneuvered along a series of crowded workstations, the sounds of their motors echoing in the cavernous space. High above, the ceiling bristled with catwalks and steel tracks supporting enormous gantry cranes. Down the center of the space marched a series of gigantic shell-like molds. They were long—fifty yards each, Colly estimated—broad at one end and tapering at the other, as if a turbine blade had been filleted like a trout and laid, open-faced, on a long metal platform. Inside the mold nearest Colly, workers in gray coveralls were arranging long strips of white fabric in an overlapping pattern.

“These are the packers,” Manny explained. “They’re laying fiberglass sheeting. When it’s hardened, it forms the outer blade wall.”

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