Constance pushed aside the sad remains of what was supposed to have been a Cobb salad. She'd picked it up from That Place on her way to the motel since it was rapidly approaching dinner time, and she wasn't really interested in venturing out once she'd managed to get settled. The salad was edible, but it had been devoid of avocado, shredded Colby had taken the place of the Roquefort cheese, and the only dressing they had was prepackaged pouches of ranch. Hindsight being what it was, she concluded that she should have ordered the meatloaf.
Stella, the waitress from earlier in the day had handled her order. She'd been courteous enough but never managed to achieve a state that could be construed as friendly. Constance had also experienced much the same reaction from the desk clerk when checking in to her room. Other than Merrie, no one seemed particularly happy about her presence here in Hulis. Even Clovis at the sheriff's office had been aloof around her, and she still wasn't quite sure what to make of Carmichael himself.
After digging through her computer case twice, she located an old Category Five network cable. The motel had boasted Internet access, however, as it turned out it was hardwired only. Apparently the concept of Wi-Fi hadn't taken hold in this small-town just yet. She hoped the cable would work. She was sure it had been quite some time since it had seen the light of day, so its condition was definitely suspect.
She crawled around on the floor and located the receptacle, then plugged in. The connector immediately popped out and fell to the floor. It took three tries before she realized the tab was broken. She turned it around and pushed in the other end, sighing when she heard it click and remain in place. Maybe she could just hold the other end in while she worked. Backing out from beneath the desk, frustrated, she misjudged the distance and banged her head on the underside as she came up.
“Oww,” she yelped, then mumbled, “Dammit...”
Rubbing the back of her head with one hand, she pushed the broken end of the cord into the jack on her notebook with the other. It stayed for a heartbeat then popped out. She gave it a thoughtful frown, then ambled over to the nightstand and opened the top drawer. Fortunately, the Gideons were on their game. She pulled out the hardbound Bible, sauntered back to the small desk, then shoved the cord back into the socket and plopped the heavy book on top of the wire, pushing it against the back of the clear plastic connector. This time it stayed, so she pointed at it and mumbled, “don't even think about moving,” then she carefully pressed the power button on the notebook.
While the computer whirred through its start-up sequence, she parked herself in a straight-backed chair that was so uncomfortable she was firmly convinced it had to be from the same matched set as the one sitting in the sheriff's office. Snatching up her cell phone from the desk, she thumbed through the screens to see if there were any text messages or voice mails she might possibly have missed.
Nothing.
She stared at the device and pursed her lips, then frowned. It was almost 5:00. Not exactly late, but that made it better than four hours since she'd left the message for Agent Drew. Of course, it was the holidays, after all. Maybe she needed to try calling one of the other agents who had been assigned.
Leaning over to the foot of the bed, she snagged a file folder from the outer pocket of the computer case and laid it open on her lap. Flipping her way through the documentation, sparse as it was, she located a number and thumbed it into her cell.
After a trio of rings, a voice issued from the speaker. “This is Keene...”
“Keene, hi, you may not remember me, but this is Special Agent Mandalay from the Saint Louis headquarters,” Constance announced.
“Mandalay... Mandalay...” he mused. “Brown hair, worked violent crimes, kicked Joe Lanting's ass in a close-quarters defense demo?”
She allowed herself a small chuckle at the last reference. “The same.”
“Broke his nose as I recall.”
“He had it coming, the way I remember it.”
“That he did. So, yeah, I remember you. Kind of hard to forget. How are you doing? I heard you took a couple of rounds awhile back.”
Constance reached for the scars on her chest out of unconscious reflex. “I'm good. Fully recovered.”
“Glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you?”
“Actually, I was hoping you might be able to answer a couple of questions about a case you worked a couple of years ago.”
“Sure. Which one?”
“The Christmas Butcher.”
There was a sudden and obvious silence at the other end of the line.
“Agent Keene? Are you still there?”
Keene cleared his throat. “Yeah. I'm here. Exactly where are you calling from, SA Mandalay?”
“I'm in Hulis, Missouri. I was assigned to the case. Do you remember it?”
“Yeah,” he replied, his tone shifting from warm camaraderie to a businesslike chill. “Hard to forget. So that's still open...”
“I'm afraid so.”
“I guess I'm not surprised.”
“Why is that?”
“Just a gut feeling,” he replied, then quickly shifted the subject. “Godawful what happened to that little girl.”
“Definitely,” she agreed. “So, I was wondering if you could help me out. I've been going over the file and it seems incomplete.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. For one thing, there was no mention of Sheriff Carmichael's connection to the original John Horace Colson case back in seventy-five. Also, there was no background on the parents and the sister, Rebecca Callahan.”
“Have you checked with archives?” he asked. “I'm sure I mentioned in my report that we'd been unable to locate the sister.”
“No offense, Agent Keene, but there wasn't much detail to your report.”
“My SAC signed off on it, right?”
“Yes, but...”
He cut her off. “I'm afraid I can't really help you, SA Mandalay. Like I said, maybe you can check with archives if you feel like something is missing from the file.”
“I plan to do that,” she said. “But since you worked the case I'd appreciate it if you could fill me in on...”
“Have you spoken to the girl yet?” he asked, interrupting her yet again.
“Merrie Callahan? Yes, I talked to her this afternoon.”
“So then you know about her mental state.”
“Yes, but that's not...”
“Try me after Christmas, SA Mandalay,” he said, heavily stressing the after.
“What?”
“If you still think you have questions after Christmas Day, then give me a call. But honestly, I don't expect to hear from you again. Not about this, anyway.” His words were followed by a rustle and then dull silence.
“What do you... Agent Keene... Agent Keene?”
Constance pulled the cell away from her ear and stared at it before mumbling, “Bastard.”
She waited a moment, still fuming over the bums rush she'd just received from a colleague. However, based on what he'd said and the way he'd gone cold at the mention of the case, she was definitely beginning to wonder if maybe Ben was correct when he suggested the possibility of a cover-up. It wasn't something she relished considering, but something was going on and it definitely didn't fit with standard procedure.
Once her flare of temper had mellowed a bit, she thumbed through the phone book on her cell, highlighted a number, then pressed the button to dial.
For the second time today she heard five rings, followed by a recorded voice announcing no more than a curt, “Leave a message.”
“Drew, it's Mandalay again,” she announced in the wake of the start tone. “This is my second message, and I need for you... Scratch that... Look, I'm sorry if I sound a bit frustrated, but, I just had a really bizarre conversation with Agent Keene. He was assigned to the Christmas Butcher case prior to you. Listen... I know you and I have had some differences in the past, but the case always came first, even when we disagreed. Something really strange is going on with this...
I could use your input. Just call me back, okay? This number. Thanks.”
She stabbed the end button with her thumb and noticed the pearlescent pink nail shining in the light of the desk lamp. Holding out her hand and splaying her fingers, she gazed at the retro manicure and felt herself smile, but only for a brief instant before the corners of her mouth bent into a deep frown.
Given what Sheriff Carmichael had told her earlier, she couldn't help but imagine the abject fear that was likely going through Merrie Callahan's tortured mind at this very moment, and it turned her stomach sour. As she sat there in silence, she could taste the acrid tang of bile on the back of her tongue.