Beverly Barton: Silent Killer

Religion was just a word to her, and up until the past few years, it had been an ugly word. She had blamed her youthful rebellion and her gradual descent into degradation and shame on religion. But her friendship with Reverend Patsy Floyd had shown her that it was not religion but religious fanaticism that should be feared and avoided at all costs. Patsy was one of a handful of female Methodist ministers in Alabama. She taught love, understanding and forgiveness. The interfaith socials that brought young people of different religions together so that they could better understand one another had been Patsy’s brainchild. And although Lorie was still unable to bring herself to attend church services, she had agreed to help Patsy with the monthly socials held at various churches in North Alabama every month.

If she could help just one kid not to make the kind of mistakes she had made…

Originally, her motives for taking part in these socials had been completely selfless, but she had to admit that for the past six months she’d had a selfish motive. It gave her a chance to get to know Mike Birkett’s two kids, his eight-year-old daughter, Hannah, and his ten-year-old son, M.J. Being with Mike’s children was always a bittersweet experience. She knew that if she had never left Dunmore for the bright lights of Hollywood, California, seventeen years ago, Hannah and M.J. would probably be her children, hers and Mike’s.

Of all her many mistakes, leaving Mike was her biggest regret.

Jack tossed the last toolbox on the stack of garbage that he had thrown into a heap in the alley and then returned to the carriage house, which he had stripped to the bare walls. After removing a switchblade from his pants pocket, he cut down the corded leather straps from the ceiling. The whips were the last items to go. Clutching the straps in his hands as he fought the bad memories, Jack made his way across the backyard and flung them into the fire. They needed to be destroyed so that no one could ever use them again. Every damn thing that had belonged to Nolan Reaves was now either awaiting the garbage truck or smoldering in the large metal barrel that his stepfather had used to burn leaves and trash. He had thought about tearing the carriage house down to the ground, but if he did that he would erase the good memories along with the bad. Next week he’d get a carpenter in here to give him an estimate on what it would cost to restore the building.

It would take time and money to bring the old painted lady, the carriage house and the grounds back to the way they’d once been, but Jack had plenty of time and enough money so that he wouldn’t have to cut corners on the restoration. Odd how one night in the old homestead had convinced him to stay here in Dunmore, in his ancestral home, and somehow, someway, build a new life for himself.

He’d been so immersed in his thoughts that although he’d heard the car, he hadn’t noticed that it had stopped in his driveway. But he heard the crunch of gravel beneath the man’s feet as he approached. Just as Jack turned to face the intruder, the man spoke.

“Have you got a burn permit for that?” Mike Birkett asked, a wide grin on his deeply tanned face.

“Nope. Do I need one?” Jack swiped his palms down the front of his dirty jeans.

“I’ll let it pass this time,” Mike said. “But next time, get one. It won’t look right if my new deputy keeps breaking the law.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, okay.” He ran his gaze over his old friend, who wore gray dress slacks and a white dress shirt with a charcoal gray collar. “Been to church?”

“Yeah, earlier today. Then the kids and I had lunch over at City Restaurant before I saw them off with Reverend Floyd for their monthly interfaith social.”

Jack chuckled. “You’ve done all right for yourself, haven’t you? A solid citizen. A real family man. The sheriff of the county, church every Sunday, a couple of kids.”

“I can’t complain. I’ve been damn lucky, and I know it, except…” Mike’s voice trailed off into thoughtful silence as he stared into the flames inside the barrel. Mike was one of the few people on earth who knew about the times when Nolan had beaten Jack with those leather straps. “I’m surprised you didn’t burn the place down.” He glanced at the carriage house.

“I thought about it.” Jack reached over and placed a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about your wife. I should have come back for her funeral.”

Mike shrugged. “You called.”

“Yeah, five months later.”

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I haven’t been much of a friend, have I?”

“Good enough.”

Jack took a deep breath. Mike cleared his throat.

“I thought I’d run an idea by you,” Mike said. “That’s the reason I came over uninvited.”

“You never need an invitation.”

“Don’t happen to have a couple of beers in the house, do you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Jack hitched his thumb toward the back porch. “Want to come inside, or would you rather sit out here?” He glanced at the rusty metal lawn chairs on the porch.

“Let’s sit out here and enjoy this weather while it lasts. You know what it’ll be like in another month. Hot as hell and humid as a steam bath.”

“Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

Jack returned with the last two beers he had in the refrigerator. Note to self: buy more beer. He handed his old buddy one of the cans, then sat down beside him in the faded green metal chair and popped the tab on his can. They stayed there, sipping the cold brews as they stared out at the large backyard, the pile of junk awaiting the garbage truck and the smoke spiraling up and away from the old trash barrel.

“So what’s this idea you want to run by me?”

Mike took another swig from his beer, then held the can between his spread knees. “I sheriff a small, mostly rural county, and our funds are limited.”

“Is this where you tell me you’ve realized you can’t afford another deputy?”

“I can afford you, but just barely,” Mike admitted. “I’m aware of the fact that you have some physical limitations, but I can’t see where that would keep you from becoming a good deputy.” Mike paused, obviously weighing his next words carefully. “I thought it might be best if we broke you into the job gradually.”

“Meaning?” Jack wasn’t sure he liked the sound of this.

“The sheriff’s department doesn’t actually have anyone working our cold cases, but we’ve got several unsolved murders that family members have asked us to look into again. I thought it could be a good place for you to start.”

“Working the county’s cold cases?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

“I think you’ve created a job for me, one that sounds a lot like charity.”

Mike finished off his beer, then crushed the can between his huge hands. “Damn it, man, that’s exactly what I didn’t want you to think. And it isn’t true. I need another deputy. Ernie Poole is retiring in a few months, and I need a man to fill his shoes. In the meantime, I want you to work these unsolved murder cases and get the county commissioners and the good citizens off my back.”

Okay, there was enough truth to Mike’s words for Jack to accept that he hadn’t been hired as an act of charity by his old high school buddy.

“How many cold-case murders?” Jack asked.

“Several.”

“Several as in three, six, ten…”

“Two,” Mike said.

“Two?”

Mike nodded. “I’ll have the files on both murders on your desk first thing in the morning. Look them over, study them, dig around to see if you can come up with anything that will shed a new light on either of them.”

“How old are the cases?”