Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

Ty said, “I’ll fill you in soon, Marla. We’ll be working with Agent Royal on that situation. We’re all heading out to Gatewood in a few minutes.” She herded them into her office, paused a moment. “Marla, is everything going all right at the book festival?”

“A couple of loud arguments with a political author in Tent C, but Willie shut it down fast, said he’d put them all in jail unless they piped down. They did.”

“That’s good,” Ty said. “We’ve only got two cells. That’s the only problem reported? All the deputies are doing what you tell them to?”

“They’d better,” Marla said. She cracked her own knuckles, watching the diamonds in three of the rings glitter and sparkle. “Don’t you worry, Chief, I’ve got it covered. I’ll get you special agents some coffee, all right? Tea for you, Chief?”

“Yes, thank you, Marla.”

“And for me, too, please,” Savich said.

“A tough guy who drinks tea, now isn’t that a kick? You can get yourself a Diet Coke, Charlie.” Marla waved the hand sporting those three big diamond rings toward Savich and Flynn. “You take care of those boys, Chief.”

Ty closed the door of her good-size office, rectangular with two small windows that gave onto the civic parking lot in the back. A battle-scarred wooden desk of ancient lineage stood in the middle, three institutional wooden chairs with cushions in front of it. The cushions looked new. On the desktop sat a telephone, a printer, and a computer about five years old, which made it ancient. Behind the desk was an IKEA credenza with a coffeepot on top and a framed photo showing a younger Ty, her arms around a teenage boy, a man, and a woman—presumably her parents and her brother. An iPad with a banged-up red cover and a new MacBook Air lay beside it, looking like a sleek greyhound next to a grandfatherly bulldog. A beautiful Christmas cactus sat on the windowsill, blooming wildly in July.

When everyone was seated, Ty said, “Okay, Charlie, while we’re waiting for the tea and coffee, tell Agents Savich and Royal about Gatewood.”

Charlie sat forward and clasped his hands between his knees, readying himself to tell a story he’d told many times. “My mom told me all about it. Since she’s the smartest person I know, I believe her. She told me it all started way back in 1965 when an oil tycoon, a Major Samson Gatewood, built this huge house and named it after himself. Word was he wanted it to look like the nineteenth-century houses in Newport built by those New York magnates.

“Gatewood died suddenly in the late eighties, and local folk suspected the wife killed him. But it didn’t go anywhere. The wife lived alone at Gatewood until she died in the early part of thi

s century. Their only son didn’t want the place and sold it to a Methodist minister from Boston, Reverend McCluen, and his wife and three kids. My mom said Reverend McCluen told everybody the General Conference—that’s the governing body of the Methodist Church—was paying to fix up the house, but she didn’t believe him because the contractor let slip over beers at the Timberline Bar that the price to restore the place was several hundred thousand dollars, and what church had that kind of money to give to a single minister to fix up his house? So there was lots of gossip about where the money came from, rumors he had to be stealing from the church, or even the collection plates.

“Anyway, Deacon Pitter went over there one day, found the entryway of the house splattered with blood, and called Chief Dickerson. They found the whole family murdered, dumped in Lake Massey, right off the end of the Gatewood dock, all of them stabbed to death. Come to find out there were two violent escaped prisoners from Springville in the area at the time—that’s an institution for the criminally insane, about fifty miles from here—and everyone believed they’d killed the McCluens. They found the escaped prisoners and locked them back up. Mom didn’t know if the prisoners really did kill the McCluen family, but maybe they were too crazy to even remember if they’d done it.”

Charlie paused for effect, and Savich nudged him along. “What happened at Gatewood after the McCluens were killed?”

7

* * *

Before Charlie could continue, Marla knocked and came into Ty’s office, carrying a tray with tea and coffee and exactly four lovely big chocolate chip cookies.

Once everyone had their drink and their single cookie, Charlie said, “Well, now, Reverend McCluen’s younger brother inherited Gatewood and sold it the next year despite the scary stories about McCluen family ghosts. This was the Pierson family, and they were rich. Mr. Pierson was some sort of venture capitalist, my mom said. They had two kids, teenagers, the older one a boy, a popular jock, good student, and a younger girl, also very smart, pretty, good grades, every bit as popular as her brother. Mrs. Pierson was active in local politics for the short period of time they lived here—before they were killed, too.”

“The Piersons were killed at Gatewood?” Savich asked.

“Yes, maybe six months after they moved in. Mom said the Piersons thought the whole ghost and haunting thing was funny, though. The son, his name was Robert, he liked to tease people about hearing screams when he was alone in the house. But that was it. Everything seemed fine, the family fit into life here in Willicott. Everything was normal.

“Then a UPS man delivered a package and found the front door open. There was blood in the entry hall and in the living room.

“Chief Dickerson found their bodies thrown off the end of the dock like the McCluens, and stabbed like the McCluens, all except for the daughter, Albie Pierson. They couldn’t find her body. They dragged the lake, but there was no sign of her. Then the rumors started, like gossip does, that the father and brother were sexually abusing her and the mom only wrung her hands and did nothing. The idea was that Albie must have snapped and killed them, dragged their bodies to the dock and kicked them into the lake, and ran.

“No one wanted to believe that, I mean, everyone liked the Piersons, thought they were nice. But there weren’t any other leads and no word about Albie Pierson, so Chief Dickerson put out a BOLO on her, sent her photo out everywhere, asking for information about her as a person of interest in the Pierson murder case. But no one ever saw her again. She was only fifteen years old when all this happened. The case is still open.”

Ty said, “Charlie, is this what your mom believes?”

“My mom said she didn’t believe there was any sexual abuse going on. She said the family were nice people, Mr. Pierson sort of standoffish, but he was smart, worked mainly from home. She told me Albie wouldn’t hurt a fly. It was obvious to her Albie was terrified the killer would come back for her, so she took the money out of her dad’s safe and ran. There was some talk that the killer took her—who knows?”

Charlie shook his head. “Imagine, everyone was looking for her, and she was only fifteen years old.” There was admiration in his voice. “She sure had to be smart, like her dad, to stay out of sight like that.”

Ty said, “Gatewood has been empty since the Piersons’ murder, fifteen years ago.”

Charlie swallowed, showing a prominent Adam’s apple. “That’s right. Mr. Pierson had a sister. She and her husband tried to unload Gatewood, but couldn’t. Its reputation had spread far and wide. They even tried to donate it to Willicott, but the city council turned them down. There’ve been some ghost hunters from out of town here over the years, and they reported out what you’d expect—cold spots and odd noises, doors opening and closing on their own, stuff like that. So it’s stayed empty for fifteen years.”

Savich rose. “So now we know what’s out there. Are we ready to take a look at the boat and the house?”

They all piled into Ty’s official police car, a five-year-old mud-brown Crown Vic. Savich called Sherlock, told her where he was headed. “I’m hoping we’ll find something to lead us to Sala. Take care of yourself and the kids.” He paused, then, a smile in his voice, added, “I’ll give you whatever your heart desires tonight.”