HIGHWATER by T. J. Brearton

Author:T. J. Brearton [Brearton, T. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Police Procedurals, Supernatural, Ghosts, Thrillers & Suspense, Suspense, Paranormal
Amazon: B00O22XA54
Publisher: Joffe Books Thrillers, Mystery, Suspense
Published: 2014-09-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Tom pinched the phone between his shoulder and ear, smoked, and scratched at his paunch, watching the young kids who stood in the parking lot. Not a self-conscious man by nature, Tom was suddenly very aware of himself as he stood there near the entrance; a balding man in his late fifties with liver spots materializing on his scalp, notable gut hanging over his belt, brown dorky schoolteacher pants, pit-stained button-collar work shirt, and a hunting coat. He’d gained some significant style, he supposed, when Steph had been around (she’d bought him two sport coats and a handful of ties) but he had obviously regressed. It was a funny thing to be thinking about, given all that was going on, but it was one of those things you just couldn’t help when you were suddenly on display, people coming and going in a big public place like Fletcher Allen, and you, standing there.

“Hello,” said Tom, mashing his cigarette out on the ground. He wasn’t in a designated smoking area, he realized, as there were no ashtrays anywhere. “Trooper Cruickshand? This is Investigator Tom Milliner.”

“Hold on, please,” said the trooper on the other end. Tom heard a clattering and what sounded like a hand smothering the receiver and some muffled talk. More scraping noises and a gruff, and then the out-of-breath voice unmistakably belonging to Jim Cruickshand said “Yeah?”

“Jim. I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell.”

“Tommy? Where the hell are you?”

Careful, said a voice.

“I’m at Fletcher Allen.”

“What the hell are you doing there? Sheriff Johnston seems pretty pissed at you, Tommy. He didn’t say for what, but Jesus.”

“What did you find out at the Kingston place?”

“What did I find out?” Jim’s voice was loud in the earpiece. “What I found was a stockpile of dead women in Kingston’s shed, is what I found out. I tracked him through the woods for half of the fucking day and when I got back — fffipp — the bodies were gone. How come you never told me what was in the shed? What’s going on with you? You on the sauce again, Tommy? You know what happens to you, Tom, we all know what ha—”

“Jim, Jim,” said Tom, lighting another cigarette, “I never went into the shed.”

“You never went into the shed?” Nearly shouting, now.

“I could smell rotten meat — the kid said he’d shot coyotes.”

“You never went into the shed?”

“Jim, I didn’t have the right to. I didn’t have any probable cause to search the place. There was no reason to suspect that the kid was lying.”

“There were dead girls in there, Milliner!”

He had heard Jim yell before. Tom was unfazed, keeping his tone conversational. “Did you get confirmation of that? Have the bodies been identified?”

The other end was silent. Tom smiled at a woman pushing an older man in a wheelchair through the entrance doors. He watched the people coming and going, scrutinizing in particular anyone around the age of twenty-five, and anyone around eleven or twelve years old, unaccompanied or not.

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