Page 61 of Blood Moon

“He’d be willing, but he has time constraints. Besides, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize his concentration. One slip while he’s working, and he’s dead. I’ll only ask for his help if it becomes absolutely necessary, and even then he might not be available.”

“So who?”

“There are a handful of people within the department that I trust. I propose getting them to do the grunt work like looking up addresses and phone numbers.”

“You’re sure they’re trustworthy?”

“As sure as I can be. They’re not Barker fans, and have made it known, which has cost them promotions.”

“Call them. I trust your judgment.”

“All are on the day shift. I’ll start calling them when it’s over. I don’t want them doing this anywhere inside the department.”

He turned to his computer and opened a document. “I’ve made a list of key people we should talk to. Look it over. You may want to add to it. While you’re doing that, I’m going to take Mutt out, walk around the property.”

At the mention of his name and the wordwalk, Mutt awoke, shook himself, and headed for the door. John lifted the shotgun off the wall-mounted rack. He made sure it was still loaded, and pocketed two more shells he took from an old cigar box shelved in a bookcase.

Beth asked, “Is the shotgun necessary?”

“For my peace of mind, yes.” He nodded down at his pistol, which he’d left on the table next to his computer. “Point, pull the trigger.” He waited for her nod, which she gave him with obvious reluctance. He then followed Mutt’s lead out the door.

He made a loop, checking both the camouflaged garage and the hiding place where he kept the boat. Then he propped himself against a tree trunk and began making calls, opening each one with, “This is Bowie. I’m sure you know what happened today.”

Everyone to whom he spoke was happy to assist. He explained the basic research he needed done, stressing that ithad to be done covertly, using a personal computer. He gave each the number of a burner phone. “If I change phones, I’ll notify you. In the meantime, this is the only way you can reach me, but get back to me as soon as you have something, even if it’s the middle of the night. This is acutely time-sensitive.”

Each cautioned him not to underestimate Tom Barker’s treachery.

When he returned to the cabin, Beth was in the kitchen, butcher knife in hand. “How was your walk?”

“I’m glad we got it in when we did. It’s going to rain again.” He joined her in the kitchen and, as he filled Mutt’s food and water bowls, saw that she was chopping fresh vegetables. “What are you making?”

She replied with a question. “Omelets okay?”

“Fine. Need help?”

“No thanks.” She lifted a bottle of beer from the countertop. “I helped myself. Want one?”

“Would love it, but I’m abstaining. I told Mitch I needed to keep my head clear.”

“I added a couple of names to your list of people we should contact.”

He sat down at the makeshift desk, woke up his computer, and read her additions. Noticing one in particular, he said, “Gracie Oliver died.”

Gracie, Billy’s grandmother, had reared him by herself. His mother had never named his father, possibly because she didn’t know. She died of a drug overdose when Billy was still in diapers. Without hesitation or complaint, Gracie had taken him in. She nurtured and loved him, and her affection was reciprocated.

When Crissy went missing, John and Mitch had questioned Gracie several times about her grandson’s relationship with their neighbor. John remembered her anxiously twisting an embroidered linen handkerchief and saying over and over,They’re friends, Mr. Bowie. My boy wouldn’t do that girl no harm.John had been inclined to believe her. Tom Barker hadn’t.

Beth abandoned her chopping and moved up behind his chair. “I hadn’t heard that she died. When?”

“A few months back. She was in a nursing home. Mitch’s wife saw a notice of it in the parish’s online newsletter. She called to let me know.”

Last night, Beth had accused him of being a man without feelings, one who didn’t give a damn. What she didn’t know, nor would even suspect, was that his emotions used to run hot. None of them, from rage to remorse, had had a moderate temperature setting.

That had changed the night he’d had to tell Gracie Oliver that her adored grandson Billy had hanged himself in his jail cell.

Straight from the gruesome scene and Barker’s repulsive, insensitive remark, he and Mitch had gone together to Gracie’s house, hoping to reach her before the media reported it. He couldn’t bear the thought of her seeing Barker on TV boastfully making the announcement.

When John broke it to her as gently as he could, she’d collapsed. He and Mitch had waited until friends from her church were notified. They’d arrived in numbers, soon filling the modest mobile home to mourn with her. He and Mitch then had extended her their pathetic, useless condolences and had said their goodbyes.

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