Page 47 of Canyon Killer
She’d wanted to tell him that she saw through this transparent attempt to keep her away from Humboldt Canyon but held her tongue. He probably did need to rest and recover from his injuries, and she had things she wanted to do.
An attractive, middle-aged woman who introduced herself as Brenda greeted Bethany at the historical society. “I’d like to look through some older issues of theEagle Mountain Examiner,” Bethany said. “From the 1970s.”
“Of course.” Brenda led the way to the archives. “Is there something in particular I could help you find?”
“It’s for genealogical research,” Bethany said. She had decided not to mention Gerald and Abby. She didn’t want to explain her admittedly far-fetched theory that their deaths fifty years ago might be linked to Ian’s troubles in Humboldt Canyon today.
“Here are the older issues of the paper.” Brenda showed her the large folders. “Let me know if I can help you with anything else.”
Bethany selected a folder and carried it to the worktable at the center of the room. The newspaper pages were yellowing and fragile, filled with images and articles from a time that she knew only from old television shows and movies. Eagle Mountain appeared on the page like a fictional small town, full of smiling cheerleaders, winning basketball players, hand-shaking city councilmen and women showing off flowers they had grown or prize-winning recipes. She saw no people of color, no females in positions of leadership and no mention of crime or controversy.
After pages of such blandness, the shock of a headline about a house fire, complete with accompanying photos of a building ablaze, startled her.
“Fire Destroys Newlyweds’ Home,” declared the bold headline.The home of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Boston was consumed Wednesday evening in a blaze authorities suspect was the work of an arsonist.
Bethany checked the date. This had to be near the time Abby and Gerald had disappeared.
She turned her attention back to the newspaper.The couple escaped with only the clothing on their backs. They were asleep when the fire woke them and were able to escape out their bedroom window. The sheriff’s department has no suspects at this time.
She flipped through the issues of the paper that followed but found no further mention of this mysterious fire. Chin in hand, she tried to remember what else Craig Boston had told her about Gerald. She selected the folder for the previous year’s issues of the newspaper and flipped through it. Long minutes passed as she searched each issue, only the rustle of dry newsprint and a distant clock striking four interrupting her reading.
She stopped when she located a small headline: “Local Woman Injured When Car Tire Crushes Her Leg.”
Katherine Boston, 24, of 126 Bluebell Court, was hospitalized Friday after an accident in which the tire of a vehicle she had been riding in crushed her leg. Mrs. Boston says she was exiting the vehicle when the parking brake failed and the car moved forward. The momentum pushed her to the ground, and the tire rolled over her right leg and crushed it. She was found shortly after by her husband, Gerald Boston, and rushed to the hospital.
Bethany frowned. The article almost made it sound like Katherine had been driving the car. Or maybe Gerald. No mention of another man or if Katherine had been drinking.
She continued to search the papers and stopped again on a very small legal notice:A divorce was granted to Gerald F. Boston and Katherine E. Boston of Eagle Mountain.
Had her injury, possibly while intoxicated and possibly while out with another man, been the last straw for Gerald? Less than a year later, he had married Abby, and shortly after that, someone had set fire to their house. And not much later, the couple had disappeared. According to Craig—and the lack of any mention in the newspaper in the weeks after their disappearance seemed to back this up—everyone assumed they had simply left town. No one suspected murder, and their killer’s secret had laid buried for five decades.
Brenda entered the room. “We’re going to close soon. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“I think so, yes.” Bethany closed the folder and stood. “Thanks for your help.”
Outside, clouds had rolled in, darkening the sky except for the occasional flash of lightning. She hurried along the empty sidewalk, the threat of rain apparently having chased most people indoors. It was downright eerie, being out here by herself.
Then she realized she wasn’t alone. Other footsteps echoed behind her, though when she turned to look back, the sidewalk was empty. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she held her breath. But only the throb of her own pulse sounded in her ears.
She shook herself and continued down the street. The weather had been beautiful when she’d left her apartment earlier, but her decision to walk to the historical society didn’t seem like such a great one now.
That echo again—definitely footsteps.
Bethany whirled around and caught a glimpse of someone disappearing into an alley. “Who’s there?” she called.
No answer. She started toward the alley, then thought better of it, a vision of herself being yanked into that narrow, dark space sending her hurrying in the opposite direction.
When she reached Peak Jeep Tours she was relieved to see Dalton out front, washing off one of the Jeeps. “Trying to get the worst of this mud off before the storm,” he said as he directed the hose nozzle toward the mud-caked rear tires.
Any other time, she might have pointed out the rain would likely wash off the mud, but she didn’t have the energy for that now. She tried to slip past him, wanting to call Ian and tell him what she had learned at the historical society.
“Where have you been?” Dalton asked over the gush of water.
“Shopping,” she lied.
“What did you buy?”
“Nothing.” She watched in silence as he continued to rinse mud from the Jeep. “Can I ask you something?”
