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“Remember me? We’re supposed to be working together.” As Kennedy’s eyes narrowed, Jason continued, “Was anyone besides Pink’s brother identified as a potential accomplice?”
“No. Dwayne Pink primarily came under suspicion because his brother used his van in the commission of his crimes. And because it was hard for anyone to believe that he never had any indication of what Martin was up to.”
Maybe. Unless you were a psychopath yourself it would be almost unimaginable that someone you knew, let alone someone you were related to, was a homicidal maniac.
“What did you think?” Jason asked.
Kennedy drawled, “I thought Dwayne did a lot of dope. Which might have been one reason he didn’t have an inkling. Or maybe he did a lot of dope because he did have an inkling. It’s immaterial because he died two years ago. He’s not involved in this case.”
“Pink didn’t have any other friends or associates who might have taken part in the murders?”
Kennedy had gone back to studying the photos in the file he held. He raised his head, and with an obvious effort at quashing his irritation with yet another interruption, said, “Do you remember Martin Pink at all?”
“A little. He used to fish at Holyoke Pond. Even as a kid I thought there was something not right about him.”
Not right. But not that wrong. Because that wrong was simply inconceivable. Or had been once upon a time.
“Right,” said Kennedy. “Not a popular guy. Not a busy social life. Not a wide circle of friends.”
Jason had to swallow his own annoyance. “Fair enough. Here’s my point. The people of Kingsfield already know that Martin Pink’s brother is dead. And yet the rumor that Pink had an accomplice—and that this accomplice is still out there—continues to circulate. How do you explain that?”
Kennedy stared at him, and Jason felt a jab of satisfaction.
“Charlotte Simpson was just a kid when you solved the original case. Yet she said to me ‘The Huntsman is back’ and ‘Everyone knows there was more than one Huntsman.’ She wasn’t quoting ancient history. She was telling me what she and others currently believe to be true.”
“All right,” Kennedy said. “Go on.”
“You don’t have that kind of rumor without suspicion falling on a specific person. There’s always going to be a particular suspect.”
“That’s debatable.” Even so Kennedy seemed to be mulling over Jason’s words. “This could easily be some kind of urban legend. It wouldn’t be at all surprising under the circumstances.”
“Something else,” Jason said. “When Charlotte was talking to me, her father came out of the back office and shut her up before she could say anything else. It wasn’t subtle.”
“Now that’s not at all surprising.” Kennedy’s tone was dry. “The only other person who came even briefly under suspicion as Pink’s possible accomplice was George Simpson.”
“George Simpson?” Jason repeated. “The George Simpson who went out to Rexford with us today?”
“The same.”
“The George Simpson who, according to Chief Gervase, knows these woods like the back of his hand?”
“That’s right.” Meeting Jason’s look, Kennedy smiled faintly. “No. Simpson was cleared of all suspicion.”
“Why was he under suspicion in the first place?”
“Because Simpson sold the mermaids to Pink.”
It was plain English, but the words didn’t make sense. Jason said, “You lost me. Sold what mermaids to Pink?”
“Ah. You wouldn’t know about that. We kept it out of the press.” Kennedy slid the photo he had been scrutinizing across the desktop.
Jason picked it up. It took a second or two to make sense of what he was seeing. A small talisman or charm carved out of what was probably wood and enlarged many times over so the details of the carving were clear. Tiny scales and fins on a small female form that was half human and half fish.
A mermaid.
“What is this?” His throat felt tight. He already knew what it was. Honey had carried one like it that summer. A small mermaid charm on her key ring.
“Nearly every one of Pink’s victims was found with one of those,” Kennedy said. “A carved mermaid charm. Each one distinct but similar.”
