The Atheist's Daughter Read online

  She probably swallowed it, he thought. Unless the coroner orders an autopsy, nobody’s gonna see that piece of enamel again.

  Unwilling to abandon his quest so quickly, he approached the dumpster. His nose wrinkled as the smell of decayed food greeted him. Holding his breath, he inspected the empty produce boxes and browned lettuce leaves filling the container.

  “What’d you think you’d find in there, anyway?” he asked himself, letting the lid drop. “Susannah’s gold filling?”

  A tall man appeared at the rear service door, watching him. Framed in the doorway, he said, “This is private property.”

  “I’m Sheriff Archer.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?” Hefting a large garbage bag, the man drew closer. “What’s it take to be elected sheriff in this county, anyway? How many asses you gotta kiss?”

  Oh, I definitely don’t like this one. “What’s your name, friend?”

  The tall man threw open the dumpster’s lid. “None of your business, friend. Not that your kind knows when to mind its own business.”

  “My kind?” The Sheriff felt his shoulders stiffen. “What ‘kind’ is that? The black kind?”

  “The kind who go digging through other people’s rot. Rutting through their trash.”

  Archer’s hand dropped to the butt of the baton at his waist. He looped his fingers through its leather thong. “Maybe we should have a private talk.”

  “Downtown? Or right here, right now, just you and me?”

  “Mr. Locke!” It was a girl’s voice, thin but sharp. The speaker, every bit as thin as her voice, hurried out of the restaurant.

  Irritably, the man asked, “What do you want, Alice Poe?”

  “We need you in the kitchen.” The girl glanced at the Sheriff, anxiety filling her face. “We need you to be... inside. Not here.”

  On closer inspection, Archer realized this person, this Alice Poe, was no longer a girl. She was probably in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, and, he thought uncharitably, nobody’s idea of a beauty. She was skin and bones, had nothing in the way of breasts, and barely carried enough in her hips to escape being mistaken for a boy.

  To Mr. Locke, Alice Poe said, “Please.”

  “Yeah.” Mr. Locke dropped the bag of trash at Archer’s feet. “I can always take care of the garbage later.”

  “Later can be arranged.” He relaxed his grip on his baton.

  Mr. Locke sauntered into the building, his shoulders wide and his arms swinging. He wasn’t just talking. He was ready for a fight.

  Doesn’t take much to provoke this one, the Sheriff thought. Might be fun to watch him dance at the end of a Taser’s wire.

  Alice Poe remained with the Sheriff. “Is everything okay?”

  “Afraid not.” She acted pained by this response. “Tell me where I can find Mr. Brass.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “I didn’t ask where he wasn’t.” Archer reached into his pants pocket. He withdrew a pen and notepad.

  “He’s in Ashfork,” she said. “He had to drive Mrs. Norton to the import shop.”

  “Mrs. Norton?”

  “She owns the café.”

  He scribbled the name down. “Mr. Brass have a first name?”

  “Stephen.” Alice Poe’s face twitched in mild panic. Her fingers played over her lips, almost as if she was touching something.

  Be interesting to see how this one does with a drug test. A strange little bird, that’s for sure. “When will Stephen Brass return?”

  “Return? To the café?”

  “No, to my house.” On her bewildered expression, he said, “Yes, here. At the restaurant. This is where he lives, right? Where all of you live?”

  “He’ll be home soon. Tonight, I think.”

  “Then why don’t I come back tonight?” Closing the notepad, he returned it to his pocket. “Would this be okay with you, Alice?”

  At his question, her eyes flared with anger. She puffed up her tiny chest, so mad she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – speak.

  Alice Poe and Mr. Locke were quite the curious pair. He wondered if Mr. Brass and Mrs. Norton could possibly prove half as interesting.

  He wondered, too, what was really going on at Piotrowski’s Café.

  Touching the brow of his hat, he nodded at the woman. “See you later, then.”

  * * *

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, Kristin hit redial on her cell phone. From the other end, she heard a ring.

  Almost immediately, the Reverend Howard Hawkins’ voice came on the line: “We’re not home right now. At the tone, leave a message and may God be with you.”

  His voice was followed by a sharp, short beep.

  She ended the transmission. Having left three messages without a response, she didn’t see any reason to leave another.

  “I’m in serious distress here, Hawk.”

  The night before, she’d driven past Hawkins’ house. The outside porch light was on but the house was dark. She’d even driven to the Galilee Church which, without front lights, appeared gloomier still.

  This morning, neither Hawkins was answering the telephone. She couldn’t even call Hawk’s cell phone. The last she’d seen of it, it was squirting out of his hand and plunging to the bottom of Vulture’s Gorge.

  Liz, too, was ignoring her. Liz, who counted food, air, make-up and cell phones among the necessities of modern life, suddenly couldn’t be bothered to respond to a text message. From all appearances, the ever-available Liz Wheeler had gone incommunicado.

  What do I do now?

  There were bad, evil creatures in Winterhaven and no one knew it but her. The ghost people had already claimed Susannah Guitierrez’s life. Now Mrs. Norton was making arrangements to come into her home, twice a week, for who knew how long.

  Maybe if she stayed quiet, they’d go away. If she pretended not to notice them, maybe they’d pretend to ignore her.

  Unless it was already too late.

  Mrs. Norton had made it clear she wasn’t happy with Kristin. Nor were any of the others. From her observations, she thought Mr. Locke was the most aggressive and Mr. Brass appeared the strongest. But their middle-aged master scared her the most.

  Did she plan to drain her like Mr. Brass drained Susannah? Or did they have a different victim in mind? Like, maybe, her mother?

  I’ve got to do something about them, she thought. But what? There’s nothing I can do by myself.

  I have to get help.

  Not Sheriff Archer, no. She couldn’t stand the sight of another body bag, thank you. Her mother? No chance. She’d want to believe her but she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

  No one could, probably.

  With her history, anyone in authority would want to surround her with psychologists and counselors. They’d try to fix her by giving her another year’s vacation in the rubber room. While she was locked up, Mrs. Norton and her family would be free to feast upon the people she loved.

  Liz and Hawkins wouldn’t believe her story, either, but at least they’d listen to her. Liz was always reading books about telekinesis and spontaneous combustion and other pseudoscientific nonsense so she might be open to her story.

  Or she might punch the speed-dial for the guys in the white coats. With Liz, it was hard to say.

  Hawkins was different. Of her two best friends, he was her best, best friend. Indoctrinated in the Good Book, he’d grown up believing in supernatural forces and miracles. Why should one more fantastical tale bother him? Were ghostly killers any less believable than a burning bush that talked or someone turning into a pillar of salt?

  Okay, maybe so. But he had to believe her, anyway. Someone had to believe her. Or she really would go crazy.

  There was one more number she could dial. It wouldn’t get her any closer to Hawkins but it was a direct link to Liz.

  Suck it up, she told herself. After all, maybe Liz is sick. Maybe she’s had her cell phone cut off. Only one way to find out.

  Quit being a coward.
Dial the number.

  On the other end of the airwaves, the phone rang once before a frail, reedy voice responded. “Hello?”

  “Nana Beggio?” she asked. “This is Kristin. Kristin Faraday. I’m trying to find Liz.”

  Thirty minutes later, she disconnected the call. Liz wasn’t answering because she was in summer school. Each calculus class was a four hour math marathon followed by a short lunch break and another two hour study session. Dr. Silva prohibited cell phones in his classroom. If he heard the first chirp of a ring tone, the unfortunate student involved could count on his or her latest homework score dropping by ten percentage points.

  She’d learned this gush of information within the first five minutes of her call. Nana Beggio used the rest of the time to share the long and involved history of her arthritis pain, her dry skin, and a few of the challenges involved in owning a free-spirited cat and a half-deaf bulldog named Winston. In the end, solely to get off of the telephone, Kristin promised to visit the Beggio house within the next two weeks.

  Nana Beggio couldn’t have been more pleased. “Why, we can talk for hours.”

  Bottom line, Liz isn’t available. Hawkins has disappeared. If you’re going to do something, you’ll have to figure it out on your own.

  “Damn it!” Kristin threw her cell phone.

  It smacked into the opposite wall, its red cover plate snapping off on impact. It fell onto the carpet, a dent visible in the upper corner of its aluminum body.

  The cell phone rang.

  She looked at it blankly. Is this what happens when a cell phone breaks? Is this a last jingle of protest?

  It rang again. Scrambling from her bed, she grabbed it. “Hello?”

  “Hey dere, hi dere, ho dere.”

  “Hawkins!”

  “Got my new phone,” he said. “It even has quasi-decent reception from Oklahoma City.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the seminary,” Hawkins said. “Shaking hands, filling out forms, signing papers.” He sounded proud of himself. “By mid-September, I’ll officially be a second-generation Oklahoma Trinity college student.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Red of eye and full of caffeine, I’m teaching Dad’s Bible class at church.”

  “Bible class?” Kristin said. “It’s Saturday.”

  “Dad always teaches a class on Saturday. About fifty weeks of the year, anyway. Tomorrow, I’m at the podium.”

  “Can you skip it?”

  “My first class? No way.” In the background, she heard his father say, “Roaming charges, Gideon, roaming charges! Hang up!”

  “I really need to talk.”

  “Roaming charges, Kristin, roaming charges,” Hawkins said. “Gotta go.”

  “Wait,” she told him. “When will you get back to the church?”

  “My church? You’d meet me at my church?”

  “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock, give or take.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  Hawkins flipped his cell phone closed. “Well, well,” he said. “Hallelujah, indeed.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sheriff Archer wondered if he should have changed into street clothes before returning to the café. If this were a social visit, he decided, that’s just what he’d have done. For now, though, it was better to stay in his blues. It was a way to remind the jittery Alice Poe that he represented truth, justice, and the American way. At least, to the extent that the good people of Winterhaven still believed in such things.

  Somewhere inside the first story of the building, a light glowed. Upstairs, a smear of yellow flame flickered back and forth. He didn’t need to see the Sorry, We’re Closed sign in the window to tell him the restaurant was shut down for the day.

  Rubbing his badge with his sleeve, he climbed the porch and knocked at the front door. It was his polite knock, three taps and done.

  If his call went without answer, he’d use his Sheriff’s knock. Then he’d drum on the door with such power that it shook the wood beneath his fist. It almost always elicited an urgent, usually frightened, response.

  The door opened in front of him. The reed-like Alice Poe said, “Evening, Sheriff.”

  He brought an index finger and thumb to the brow of his hat. “Good evening, Alice” – and saw her face tighten almost instinctively. “May I come in?”

  She continued to block the doorway. “Mr. Brass isn’t back yet. He probably won’t return until morning.”

  “Him and his boss, right?” Archer shifted, trying to peer past this shadow of a woman. “I haven’t been in Piotrowski’s since it changed ownership.”

  “There haven’t been many changes. Hardly any.”

  From the dining area, he saw the pretty boy, Mr. Locke, coming their way. “I’d appreciate a look around if you don’t mind.”

  Mr. Locke filled the space behind Alice Poe. When he rested his hand on her shoulder, she softened, melting with pleasure from the contact.

  “Got a warrant?” Mr. Locke asked.

  “A warrant? Now, why would I need a warrant?” Archer was surprised to feel the cold base of his metal baton touch his palm. He didn’t remember reaching for it.

  “Typical.”

  “This isn’t an official visit, is it?” Alice Poe asked. “There’s nothing to see. Really, there isn’t. Mr. Locke and I are the only ones here.”

  “Don’t forget Miss Sweet.” When Locke mentioned her name, some strange mischief filled his head. Archer could practically see the gears grinding. “Although she’s easily forgettable, our Miss Sweet.”

  Alice Poe shook her head, either in response to the statement or to stop Mr. Locke from saying anything more.

  “Who’s Miss Sweet?”

  “The café’s fortune-teller,” Mr. Locke said.

  Sheriff Archer felt a smile grow on his face.

  Alice Poe said, “Not for money, Sheriff. She does her readings for free.”

  “Free isn’t a crime, is it?” Mr. Locke asked.

  He knows it isn’t, Archer thought.

  “If you’d like to get your fortune told,” Mr. Locke continued, “we’ll invite you in.”

  A twitch of fear crossed Alice Poe’s brow. It was probably this display of anxiety that decided his next step.

  The Sheriff removed his hat. “Might be fun.”

  * * *

  It was ten o’clock and Liz still hadn’t called. Her summer class had ended hours ago and, for whatever reason, she was ignoring her text messages. She was ignoring her voice mail, too.

  Could she be busy, studying?

  Liz? Not a chance. Sighing, Kristin entered Nana Beggio’s phone number.

  After a single ring, the old woman picked up. She said, “Sweetie, I’m sure I told you. All of Doctor Silva’s more challenged students are having a sleep-over.”

  “A sleep-over?”

  “At the professor’s house,” Nana Beggio said. “They’re playing math games all night long. Calculus flip cards, calculus Pictionary. They must be having so much fun.”

  “Liz agreed to this? Our Liz?”

  “She needs the help. The final exam is tomorrow, you know.”

  “Ahhhhh.” Now it made sense. “Goodnight, Nana Beggio.” Before Nana Beggio could start another sentence, Kristin disconnected the call.

  I’ll see her soon enough, she thought with the faintest twinge of guilt. We’ll talk then.

  Or, more accurately, she’ll talk, I’ll listen.

  Pushing her ear buds in place, she turned on her music player. What was it Nana Beggio had said? “Calculus Pictionary”?

  Was Dr. Silva really going to play a game combining Liz’s complete disinterest in math with her serious lack of artistic ability? If so, her friend was in for a surprise.

  For the first time that day, Kristin relaxed. No matter how bad things seemed, it could be worse. She could be at a math sleep-over and about to discover the joy of playing Calculus
Pictionary.

  With music playing in her ears, she fell asleep.

  * * *

  On the second floor, Sheriff Archer went through the first door to his left. It was a small room and dark inside; darker, anyway, than his aging eyes preferred. With Mr. Locke and Alice Poe following him, he coughed to announce his presence.

  An old woman sat on the floor, a small table in front of her. Candlelight flickered from three wavering wicks, throwing unkind shadows on her face.

  Christ almighty, Archer thought. You need a movie witch, I’ve found your girl. This Miss Sweet could have come straight from Central Casting.

  Mr. Locke spoke from over his shoulder. “The Sheriff has come for a reading.”

  Miss Sweet asked, “Does Mrs. Norton approve?”

  “She hasn’t returned. Sheriff says he won’t leave without a reading.”

  The hag nodded, tilting her chinless head toward the table. Whatever her thoughts, she hid them from view.

  “Tarot cards, right?” Archer said. “Or a Ouija board, maybe a crystal ball. Parlor games for the gullible.”

  The insult brought her face up. “I play no games.”

  “Sugar, it’s all you know.”

  “Sit,” she told him.

  Aware of Alice Poe and Mr. Locke behind him, he closed the door in their surprised faces.

  “I like my room open,” Miss Sweet said.

  “See, that’s where I disagree with you. I prefer a little privacy. Since I’m the client with the badge, we’ll do it my way.” Sliding his legs under the table, he laid his hat on the floor beside him.

  Looking like she’d bitten into a lemon, the fortune-teller reached across the table. “Give me your hand.”

  He stretched it out. The old woman held his open palm over the center of the table, directly above a long, black rock. Archer was still in her grip when her other hand flashed forward. Something bit into his finger.

  “Owww!” He tried to pull away as her hand tightened over his. “Let go of me.”