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“Don’t seem like any way to talk about your father.”
“He wasn’t much of a father, or a man.”
“He still alive?”
“No. He killed himself when I was sixteen. Only time he shot anyone who deserved it.”
She slipped her phone back in her pocket. “I’ll give your daughter a call. Tell her to come check on you—and bring some packing boxes.”
47
Tucker’s body felt tired. His skin and eyes itched. But his mind felt more alert than it had in a while. He had missed this—investigating, being a cop. He had been stagnating. Existing, but not really living. Now, it felt like he was being given a second chance.
He pulled up in a space outside the Grill. The street was quiet. Most people were indoors, sheltering from the weather or at the meeting in the church. He climbed out of the truck, bracing himself against the wind. Barbara had stuck crime-scene tape over the entrance to the Grill, but it had blown loose, or perhaps been pulled off?
Tucker wondered if he should just check everything was okay and no one was taking the opportunity to tamper with evidence. He walked up the steps to the front door. Straight away, he could see scratches around the lock. He tried the handle. Unlocked. He stepped inside and the hairs bristled on the back of his neck. A sense, even before he heard a noise or saw a shadow. Someone was here.
He closed the door quietly behind him and looked around. The light in the bar was dim, the air floating with specks of dust. But he could see the particles swirling, like it had been minutely disturbed. Not long ago. He stood still, listening, breathing in the scents of the room. Beer, sweat, food and another scent—human.
Upstairs, the floorboards faintly creaked. Tucker moved across the bar as quietly as a six-foot-six, two-hundred-pound man could, and advanced up the narrow staircase behind the bar. The stairs groaned beneath his weight. It was pointless trying to be discreet.
He moved faster up the remaining stairs. Only one way out of here. He heard more movement in the bedroom to his left. He shouldered the door open, gun raised. A gust of icy wind made his eyes water. The room had been trashed and a message scrawled in red on the wall behind the bed:
WOE TO THOSE WHO CALL EVIL GOOD AND GOOD EVIL, WHO PUT DARKNESS FOR LIGHT AND LIGHT FOR DARKNESS.
A can of spray paint was discarded on the floor and a thin girl dressed in what looked like a turn-of-the-century frock coat and a long dress was perched at the open window, half inside and half outside the room.
Tucker pulled out his gun. “Stop right there. Don’t do it.”
The girl turned to look at him. Her thin, pale face was defiant. A flat look in her eyes. Tucker had seen that look before. In the eyes of the drugged, but also in the eyes of the converted.
“You won’t shoot me,” she said.
“Maybe not, but where are you going to go? You jump, that snow out there won’t break your fall.”
“The Lord will save me.”
Tucker shook his head. “He might save you, but he sure as hell won’t stop you breaking your ankles or legs.” He lowered the gun. “Your choice.”
She glared at him. He waited, every muscle tense. If she decided to jump, he didn’t think he could reach her in time. She shifted on the windowsill. And then, reluctantly, she swung both legs back inside.
“Thank you,” Tucker said.
She snarled at him. “Fuck you, pig.”
He advanced toward her, unhooking the cuffs from his belt. “Your Lord teach you to use language like that?”
She held out her wrists and he got the distinct impression this was not her first time being handcuffed.
She smiled as he put the cuffs on. “He will smite those who are unbelievers and followers of Satan’s path.”
“Well, until then, I’m placing you under arrest for breaking and entering.” He snapped the handcuffs into place. “Amen.”
48
Barbara’s phone rang just as she pulled out on to the road.
“Hello.”
