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Flynn heard Sherlock’s laughter. He said, “Yeah, I used to make promises like that to Beth.”
Ty looked at him in the rearview. “Your wife?”
“Yes,” Flynn said, “back when.” He said nothing more.
Everyone had baggage, Ty knew, herself included. She let it drop.
Gatewood stood on Point Gulliver, a low promontory that stuck out into Lake Massey like a fat thumb. It was the perfect movie poster for the classic haunted house, made of unrelieved pale gray stone quarried from Scarletville, sixty miles east. There was a wide porte cochère along the side, a detached garage beside it. The driveway wound through the trees to a narrow two-lane road. There was a long, skinny beach of pebbled coarse brown sand dotted with tumbled piles of driftwood and rocks strewn about. A long dock looking ready to collapse stretched fifteen feet over the water.
A half dozen oak trees faced the lake, stalwart sentinels, misshapen and bowed from years of winter storms. A wide gray stone path led from the dock to six deeply indented stone front steps. The porch was narrow, and Savich could see from twenty feet away that vandals had ripped up many of its dark wooden planks.
Savich paused, stepped back, studied the house, and opened his mind. He felt nothing but the sun’s warmth on his face and a cool breeze off the lake. He’d bet the gray stone hadn’t looked this grim when people still lived here. He could picture colorful flowers in the beds and boxes hanging from the ceiling of the porch, a rich green lawn, a good-size boat tied up at the dock. He turned slowly and looked back over the lake. He pictured the murderer wearing a ball cap and dark jacket, rowing the Green Gaiter through the early morning fog away from the dock. Had he forced Ryan to hold still while he tied weights around her body to keep her under once he’d killed her? Why hadn’t she fought him? Had he parked a car in the porte cochère? Or hidden it in the garage? What did he do with the oar he’d struck her with? There had to be blood on his jacket. What did he do with it?
Ty pointed. “That’s my house, directly across. See the dash of bright red? That’s rhododendron in one of my flower boxes.”
Savich stowed the questions for the moment. “You’ve got quite a location.”
“I was lucky. The lady who lived at Bluebell Cottage—no, there aren’t any bluebells around here—decided to move to Florida. She gave me a great deal. Let’s have a look at the Green Gaiter.”
They walked the stone path down a slight incline covered with tall blue lobelias, pale purplish-pink Joe-Pye weed, swatches of black-eyed Susans, and other plants Ty couldn’t identify. Charlie walked to the end of the dock and pointed down. They saw the hazy outline of the Green Gaiter, sitting upright on the rocky bottom some fifteen feet down. A simple rowboat, its only distinctive f
eature the acid-green paint job. Charlie said, “I don’t see any oars. I guess they floated away.”
Ty said, “Even if we did recover the oar he used to kill her, it wouldn’t help, the lake water would have washed it clean.”
Savich said, “I gather you haven’t been inside the house?”
Charlie shook his head. “No reason to since the teenagers found the rowboat in the water.”
Savich could tell from Charlie’s face he wasn’t eager to go inside the house. The chief said in a cool voice, “Okay, sure, let’s take a look. I’ve only been downstairs. You’ll see it’s been trashed.”
She paused on the first step and turned toward Charlie. “Charlie, would you stay here, keep a lookout for the FBI forensic team?” Since he’d been raised on the stories of Gatewood’s bloody history, she imagined the last thing Charlie wanted to do was go into Gatewood. Charlie looked relieved, but he tried to be cool about it. “Sure, not a problem, Chief, I’ll keep an eye on the Green Gaiter.”
Savich followed the chief and Flynn up the steps onto the wide-oak planked porch and into the house through the double front door, once beautifully carved and now so battered it looked ready to fall off its hinges. It creaked when Flynn pushed it open.
8
* * *
Ty laughed, hating that her voice sounded high and jumpy. She said, “I hope the script doesn’t have us going down the basement stairs.”
Flynn said, “Hey, there are three of us, and we’re armed. No self-respecting ghost would want to take us on.”
Savich stopped dead in his tracks when he stepped into the entrance hall. He felt a bone-numbing cold.
Ty cocked her head at him. “Is something wrong?”
He realized no one else felt it. Only him.
She asked again, “Dillon, are you all right?”
He drew a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Ty. You were right about the desecration.”
She nodded. “Some morons even smashed the beautiful etched front windows, at least I think they were once etched. I’ve always wondered why people, kids especially, get off on destroying things.” She pointed to the floor. “Look at those Italian tiles. You know they were beautiful once, but now they’re filthy, gouged, and chipped. And the white walls, covered with graffiti that probably goes back years. See, here’s one dated 2003 and signed, Motown. Go figure.”
Flynn said, “Kids are all hormones and bravado, and the house can’t fight back.” He grinned, waggled his eyebrows. “Or maybe it can.” He checked his iWatch. “Forensics might already be in Willicott to take the bones and Octavia Ryan’s body to Quantico. They should be out here soon. When will this Hanger start dragging the lake again?”
Ty said, “Not much longer, I don’t think. He’s good, don’t worry. Any more bones, he’ll find them.” She swallowed, cleared her throat. “I’ve been told bones take a very long time to disintegrate. I can’t help but think about all those people who were thrown in out there.” She shook herself. “Okay, through there is the living room—big, beautiful once, you can see traces—the high ceilings and the elaborate moldings. You’ll see some lowlifes ripped out the appliances in the kitchen, tore off the doors to the cabinets. It’s really sad. So I guess we’ll split up. Look for any signs that someone’s been here lately.”
