Page 42 of The Witch's Orchard
I tell him about my encounter with the old woman the day before,standing in the very spot I found Molly this morning. I leave out the fact that she’d given me actual, full-on heebie-jeebies.
“Local psychic,” he says.
“Dangerous?”
“Not as far as I know. She lives in a little shack in the woods and mostly keeps to herself.”
“Was she questioned the first time around?”
“Yes,” he says. “I was only fifteen when it happened, but even I remember hearing about her being taken in, questioned. Both the cops and the FBI. They may have even held her overnight, but I don’t remember for sure. I’d have to check the records.”
“Speaking of the records…”
“I’ll get you copies.”
“And the coroner’s report for Molly’s body?”
He nods.
“You could lose your job,” I say.
AJ shrugs. “It’s not important.”
“You sure?”
He meets my eyes.
“Molly Andrews was murdered,” he says. “That’swhat’s important. And Jessica Hoyle is probably still out there.That’swhat’s important.”
I nod.
“Okay, then,” I say. “Get me those case files and the coroner’s report.”
“What are you gonna do?”
“I poked the hornet’s nest yesterday,” I say. “This evening, I’m gonna go out and see who’s buzzing around.”
FIFTEEN
THERE ARE ABOUT TENother cars when I pull into the lot of First Baptist again. I get out, go up the stairs and inside, and then follow the sound of shouting and the loudthwapof fists and shins against pads downstairs into the church basement.
The pamphlet had advertised Good Works Mission Karate, and there are maybe twenty kids here. They have a variety of belt colors and they’re all sweating with exertion, their hair plastered to their faces.
Over to the side stands a man exactly like Shiloh had described: Santa Claus in a glen plaid suit and loafers. Only, this man doesn’t look at all as roly-poly as I’d pictured. He’s easily a foot taller than I am, with meaty arms and a neck so thick the pale yellow oxford shirt barely contains it. Up top, he’s got a horseshoe of snow white hair, and while his cheeks are slightly flushed, I wouldn’t call them rosy.
“Hello,” I say when I approach. I tell him who I am and he holds his hand out for a shake. His palm is smooth, strong, and warm.
“Nice to meet you,” Brother Bob says, extra friendly.
Something about the guy is familiar. Something deep down under all the outsized gregarious handshaking and smiling. I almost get my finger on what I’m sensing when he directs me into a little alcove by an old water fountain and says, “I heard about what happened this morning. How is young Max holding up?”
“About as well as you could expect.”
He shakes his head, clasps his big paws behind his back.
Again, I’m struck by a strange sense of familiarity, and then he shifts his weight from foot to foot and the bee buzzing around in my brain finally stops and stings and I know what it is. Military. The guy’s a vet. I don’t know how I know. I just know. Like I know a Charger from a Shelby Cobra by the sound of the engine, I know this guy served.
“And you’re… still on the case?” Brother Bob asks.
