Page 39 of Sour Layer

Clark

Chapter 23

The two FBI agents were talking on the porch when Clark pulled into the Lynnfield family’s driveway on the outskirts of town. He slipped out of the truck and slammed the door shut, slipping on his hat as he walked.

“Sheriff.”

“Special Agent Tate, Monroe,” Clark said as he stepped up onto the porch. Thunder crackled overhead, making the hair on Clark’s nape stand on end.

“Thanks for coming. We found something you might want to see,” Tate announced.

“The Canfield forensics team has already been over the place.”

“Yes, well.” Justice Tate gestured to the stairs that led to the basement. “What we found wouldn’t have been spotted by the naked eye. Not unless you knew where to look for it. We pulled the house’s blueprints before we got here.”

Their boots clunked on the wood stairs that led down into the basement below. The scent and smell of the room had been somewhat aired out since he’d been down there with Mercy before. She’d claimed evil had been in that room, whatever the hell that meant.

Clark slowed as he neared the opening in the floor where a rug once lay. The rug was rolled back against the wall, and the steel hatch was propped open, the locks hanging undone and free on the closure. A staircase led down into a lighted area below. He followed the light and stepped down off of the last step into the secret subbasement. A ratty mattress sat on the floor on the other side. Shackles with dried blood were attached to the floor. Small dresses with filthy dark patches were spread out on the table.

“I’d say the forensic department missed a spot. Wouldn’t you?”

He couldn’t answer as he surveyed the room. Now he understood what Mercy had meant when she said she sensed evil. The hidden room ran the length of the house above. Pictures of the girls they’d found hung on the wall alongside newspapers from several counties away, detailing the girls’ disappearances.

A half-eaten bowl of cereal was sitting on a child-sized table, a cup of coffee sitting next to it. Clark touched the cup. “It’s still warm.”

“We believe he’s been here,” Tate announced, walking across the room toward where a small, rough kitchen was laid out. He slipped on gloves and picked up a receipt from the table. “This receipt is dated yesterday.”

Clark abandoned the coffee and took the receipt. He scanned the contents. “Five-pound bag of rat poison?”

Tate opened the cabinet beneath the counter and gestured. “It’s not here, and we can’t find it upstairs either.”

“What do you suppose Lynnfield needs with rat poison?” Special Agent Monroe asked.

“That’s not even the interesting part,” Tate said, pointing toward the bottom of the receipt. “Who the hell is Betty Lynnfield? If I recall correctly, that’s not the wife’s name.”

“Probably the alter-ego,” Clark answered, stepping farther into the kitchen. He pulled a pen from his pocket and used it to lift an empty apple pie filling can from the trash.

His heart quickened as he dropped it and pulled out his phone. No service. “I know what he’s doing with the poison.”

Clark moved toward the stairs, and there was still no service, so he climbed them, taking them two at a time until he reached outside the property and speed-dialed Walker’s number.

“What?” Walker barked out on the first ring.

“Don’t let anyone eat the pie. It’s poisoned.” Clark ran his hand through his hair and rested it on top of his head.

“Good thing you called when you did. It’s in the oven as we speak,” Walker said.

Clark breathed a sigh of relief. “You back at the inn?”

“Yeah, and there’s another woman here. Another Bennett,” Walker announced. “She claims to be Mercy’s sister, but Mercy isn’t around to ask.”

“What the hell do you mean she isn’t around to ask? She better not have left.”

“She was gone when I got here. I’ll let you talk to the sister,” Walker said.

A second passed until a sweet female voice came on the line. “Hello?”

“Uh… Honor, wasn’t it? This is Clark. I met you as I was leaving.”

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