Winter's Mourn Read online

  The chief evidently had the same thought. He glanced up at her, sympathy and maybe embarrassment in his eyes. He couldn’t hold her gaze, though, and quickly looked back down at the site.

  “Looks like a calf,” Marilyn muttered, still absorbed in the removal.

  “Hold on,” Noah said, bending over at the waist for a closer look. “Is that a hole?”

  “Hold your horses, cowboy.” Marilyn painstakingly finished releasing the skull from the dirt and held it up in her gloved hands. At the back of the skull was a ragged-looking opening. “Yeah, that’s probably a gunshot. Cause of death, if it matters.”

  “Keep digging,” Noah said firmly. “The body had a similar-sized gunshot wound in the back of the skull.” He looked at Chief Miller. “The killer could have used the same gun. Could be a bullet casing in the ground. We should keep going and check the other sites too. Just because we’ve got a baby cow here doesn’t mean there couldn’t be human bones anywhere else.”

  Winter wanted to agree with him. Back him up. He was obviously trying to lend her some legitimacy after this…misstep, and she was grateful to him. But she couldn’t say anything. The words were stuck in her throat. She felt like a complete and total idiot.

  Her great and wonderful talent had led her to animal bones. She knew the killer was responsible for the gunshot that had ended the life of the calf, the same as the six-year-old boy just a few feet away. But what would be in the next spot? A raccoon? How long would Noah be able to get them to humor her?

  After a long moment, Chief Miller nodded. “You okay with keeping this up?” he asked Marilyn.

  “Hell, it’s fine,” she shrugged, not looking up from her work. “I’m getting paid no matter what I uncover. Bones are bones.”

  CSI, though, was already packing up. One of the men grinned a little maliciously. “You don’t need us anymore, right, Miller? You got this murder investigation under control?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Robert. We’re good here.” The chief’s color was high, his mouth pulled into a frown.

  Winter felt worse. This felt like failure, and it wasn’t just reflecting on her.

  “You guys might as well head out too,” Chief Miller said pointedly. “If your hunch turns up anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “We’ll do that,” Noah replied calmly. “You’ve got my number. We’ve got a few more leads to chase down.”

  Noah waited until they were out of earshot to elbow Winter. Hard.

  “Stop it. Quit beating yourself up.”

  She threw an elbow right back, and he grunted. She shook her head, still unable to believe it. “They were fucking cow bones.”

  “That site had a dead animal in it. Doesn’t mean all of the other ones do too.”

  Conversation stopped as they struggled down the trail, made even more treacherous by all the trips made up and down to carry equipment. Someone, probably one of the interns, had strung up a rope, so at least there was a handhold.

  Back at the car, Noah offered her the keys, but Winter shook her head. She climbed in and stared out the fogged glass at the blurred shapes outside as Noah drove them back to the hotel to change clothes and regroup.

  7

  It was just before four when they pulled up in the hotel lot. Noah had tried a couple of times to lift the oppressive mood that had fallen over Winter, with no luck.

  As they got out of the car, he tried again. “Do me a favor. Head to the front desk and see if they’ve got a list of food places around here that’ll deliver. I’ll call Max and give him our check-in for the day. Come on over when you’re done and bring your laptop. We’ll do some more missing person searching.”

  “You and your stomach,” Winter muttered, shaking her head. But she headed for the hotel office, pathetically grateful to not have to face calling their boss. She needed to shake this off and keep moving forward.

  She pushed open the door, and a bell dinged overhead. The lobby was just as dingy as the rest of the place was, with worn flowered carpeting and chairs covered in cracked Naugahyde. If you sat down in one with shorts on, you’d likely regret it. She went to the deserted counter and rang the old-fashioned bell.

  A short, older lady in a brightly flowered blouse came around the corner. Her eyes brightened with what looked like avaricious glee when she saw Winter standing at the counter. She patted at her gray, lacquered curls, setting her dangly parrot earrings swinging. “What can I do for you, sweetie? Or I should say, Agent,” she added in a stage whisper.

  Winter gave her a tight smile. “I was hoping you might have a list of restaurants around here that deliver.”

  “Oh, sure! I mean, I don’t have them written out, but I can jot down a few for you.” She grabbed a yellow notepad and a stub of pencil, but her attention was still on Winter. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you wearing a gun?”

  Winter just kept her smile plastered on. A dull headache pounded behind her eyes. She didn’t want to be rude, but she also didn’t want to get drawn into a discussion with this nosy old lady.

  “I’m sorry.” The woman tittered. “You probably can’t tell me that, can you? Top secret.”

  Did she think Winter was CIA? Winter just nodded soberly. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. How about those restaurants? Any good Italian places nearby?”

  She didn’t take the hint. “You must think I’m so rude,” the woman gushed. “I’m Alma. Alma Krueger. I know y’all are here looking into those bones up in Linville.”

  Winter raised one eyebrow. She wasn’t aware that the investigation was common knowledge. “Nice to meet you, Alma.”

  “I just can’t believe we have our very own FBI agents staying here. I watch Law and Order and Criminal Minds and CSI all the time, and it’s just so exciting. My sister, Elva, she’s just as jealous as can be. Have you caught the killer yet?”

  Winter cleared her throat, her gaze dropping to the still empty notepad. “Well, we need to eat, you know. Keep up our strength for the investigation.”

  “Oh, sure, sure.” Alma started to write and then stopped. She looked at Winter, her watery brown eyes wide. “Have you looked into the cult yet?”

  Winter’s breath stilled. Did Alma know about Brian Snyder’s story? If so, how was she getting her information?

  “Cult?” Winter probed.

  “Well, the old Moon Disciple place is right up on the other side of where they found those bones, after all. I heard they had a burial ground up in those woods. That just gives me the heebie-jeebies, let me tell you.” She shuddered delicately. “I could just imagine them killing people and hiding them in the woods. Maybe that’s how they made all their money. Who knows.”

  Winter felt almost an internal click. The lady was a little bit of a flake, but the mention of the cult had her intuition clamoring.

  “You know, Alma,” Winter said, lowering her voice and stepping closer to the counter. “If you’ve got any ideas, I’d like to hear them. You seem like you’ve probably got a good knack for investigative thinking.”

  Alma dropped her pencil and leaned forward too, her face avid and her voice hushed. “That’s what I’m always telling Elva.”

  “Tell me about this cult.”

  “Well…” Alma’s face fell a little. “That’s all I ever heard, so I don’t actually know much. I moved here in the early nineties, and they were all gone by then. People just said they were creepy, keeping to themselves and living in sin on that big old farm. But,” she added, her expression brightening, “I can tell you who does know about that cult.”

  Winter made her eyes go conspiratorially wide. “Who’s that?”

  Alma picked up the pencil again and jotted down a name in a shaky scrawl. “You call him,” Alma said decisively. “He can tell you everything.”

  “Thanks, Alma,” Winter said, taking the piece of paper and backing toward the door.

  “Wait! I almost forgot! Antonio’s has the best lasagna around. And if you pay an extra five bucks
, he’ll have one of his dishwashers drive your food over for you.”

  “Italian food it is. Thanks for all of your help.” Winter gave her a quick wave and retreated.

  “Tell me you have more for me than fucking cows and some cult theory from an anti-government crackpot. Do you need me to send someone down? Violent Crimes is still strapped, but I can pull from another department.”

  Noah winced, but kept his voice brisk and professional. “No, sir. We’re checking in to some things and will have more for you tomorrow.” He quickly got off the phone and wiped his hands on the jeans he’d changed into. His palms were sweating. They were going to have to come up with something else, and soon.

  Winter burst into his hotel room, still wearing her wet clothes. Her laptop was tucked under one arm, and she waved a piece of paper in the other hand. “Jeez,” he joked, covering his chest with crossed arms. “Knock, why don’t you? I’m not decent.”

  “Oh, shut up. First, we’re ordering Italian. Antonio’s. Second, I might have something.”

  He pulled on a t-shirt and went to the table where she’d opened her laptop. She told him about Alma Krueger at the front desk and how she’d mentioned the cult. “I was ready to brush it off, but something made me want to take her seriously. I went back to my room and looked up the name she gave me. Elbert Wilkins. He was a newspaperman in Harrisonburg back in the eighties. He was here at the right time, and I think we should talk to him. More importantly, though, look at this.”

  She turned the laptop to face him. She’d pulled up a Google map view of Linville. “Here’s the farm where the cult operated from. And here’s where the bones were discovered.”

  The farm was literally just down the road from the trail they took through the woods to reach the burial site. He sat down at the table and opened another tab to pull up a real estate site. He pasted the address of the farm in. The site listed properties, even if they weren’t on the market, and as he’d hoped, they showed a satellite view marking the approximate property lines. The parcel butted up to the federal lands that Brian and his son had used for hunting.

  “It looks to me like the western boundary of the farm almost lines up exactly where that clearing sits. It could even be on the property.”

  “It feels right,” Winter said, her voice tight.

  He looked over at her. She was shaking a little, probably from being in wet, cold clothes. He tried not to notice how the white shirt she wore under her blazer had gone nearly transparent from the rain, but hell, he was a guy. And his partner was an incredibly attractive female.

  Female friend and co-worker, he reminded himself. Resolutely, he pulled his eyes up to her face where they belonged.

  “It feels right,” Noah agreed. “We’ll call Elbert. Now go put something warm on before you catch your death of cold, like my momma always says.”

  Thankfully, Winter came back in a baggy sweatshirt over a pair of leggings with thick socks pulled up to her shins. They ordered lasagna and fettuccini and cannoli and tiramisu. Antonio promised to send one of his boys right over with it, and they didn’t wait for dinner but got to work.

  Noah started looking into property records while Winter called Elbert Wilkins.

  The man, like his name indicated, sounded elderly. He also talked loudly enough that it sounded like he was on speakerphone.

  “Mr. Wilkins,” Winter almost shouted into the phone, holding it slightly away from her ear, “I was given your name by Alma Krueger.”

  “Aw, hell, I thought I got rid of that woman,” Elbert roared, the words as clear to Noah as if he’d been standing in the room. “She’s been trying to jump these old bones for years.”

  Winter almost laughed, shocked, but got herself under control. “Ah, that’s actually not what I’m calling about.”

  “Nonsense. She’s still trying to get in my pants, isn’t she? Don’t sugarcoat it, little girl. Tell me the truth. She and that sister of hers have been fighting over me for years.”

  “No, I promise. That’s not what this is about.” She hurried on before he could interrupt. “I’m with the FBI. I’m hoping my partner and I can speak with you about a cult that was located near Linville several years ago. Alma said you might have some information.”

  There was silence on the line. Winter looked at him, and Noah shrugged.

  “Sir?” she yelled into the phone.

  Finally, there was a heavy sigh. “Don’t yell, little girl. I can hear you just fine,” Elbert’s voice boomed out. “I’ve been expecting this call for a long time.” He rattled off an address, and Noah punched it into his phone. “Come see me in the morning,” Elbert ordered. “Bring me coffee, a big Starbucks mocha will be just fine. Toss in a pastry, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

  There was a heavy clunk, like the sound of an old-fashioned phone receiver being thrown into its cradle. Elbert Wilkins had hung up.

  “This,” Winter said, staring at her phone, “has been an extremely weird day.”

  Noah couldn’t disagree.

  8

  Elbert Wilkins lived in a tidy little bungalow at the edge of Harrisonburg. The green siding was a little bit faded, but the house looked well cared for. There was no car in the drive, and Winter parked in the dappled shade provided by a huge maple tree that took up a good part of the postage stamp-sized front yard. They got out and headed to the front steps, where Noah rang the doorbell.

  It was opened almost immediately by a short man in khakis and a button-down plaid short-sleeved shirt. His wispy white hair was combed carefully over an almost-bald head.

  “Elbert Wilkins?” Winter asked loudly.

  He pushed open the screen, staring past them with wide blue eyes. “Come on in. And don’t yell at me. I may be old, but I’m not deaf. I can just never figure out how to turn up the speaker volume on my phone. Always sounds like everyone’s whispering. Now give me that mocha. I can smell it.”

  Winter laughed and put the cup into the old man’s outstretched hand.

  As he led them into his house, one gnarled hand trailing along the wall of the foyer, Winter realized he wasn’t deaf. But he was blind.

  They followed him into a living room, where a couple of old couches and an armchair that reminded Winter of her grandparents’ furniture sat in front of an empty fireplace. Noah nudged her and motioned to the walls. They were lined with books. Every available surface.

  “Make yourselves comfortable,” Elbert offered, going to the armchair and sitting down. He smiled, showing gleaming white dentures. “Just set that pastry on the coffee table there. I’ll get to it later. Might want to take separate couches. I’m afraid the big, quiet guy is going to break one if you try to share.” He tipped back the Starbucks cup and slurped the mocha with greedy delight. “I don’t get out much anymore. I miss these things.”

  “I’m Agent Black, and the big guy is Agent Dalton,” Winter said, sitting down on leather cushions that had lost their squeak long ago, placing the green and white bag on the table in front of her. “Thanks for agreeing to speak with us.”

  “Thank you for not bringing Alma along.” He chuckled, the sound raspy. “Call me Elbert.”

  “You can call me Noah, and that’s Winter,” Noah said. “I’ll try not to break your furniture.”

  Winter leaned forward and broke up the small talk. “We were told you used to work for the local newspaper.”

  The smile fell away from Elbert’s face, and he gazed off into the distance, his blue eyes cloudy. “I did. Right up until they downsized back in 2002. Damned internet. Wouldn’t have mattered, though. I couldn’t see real well by then and was totally blind by 2004. Macular degeneration.”

  “Are you a Harrisonburg native?” Winter asked.

  “Born and raised. This is the same house my wife and I had built in 1956, too, God rest her soul. You’re here about the Disciples of the Moon.”

  “Is that what they called themselves?”

  He took another long sip of his coffee, emptying
it already. “The commune up in Linville? Yeah.”

  “You say commune.” Noah leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “We keep hearing it called a cult. What can you tell us about the Disciples?”

  “I’ll tell you, if one of you will go grab me a Coke. It’s a long story. Kitchen’s just down the way.”

  Winter got to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  She headed to the other side of the house. It was neat, just like the outside, but smelled a little musty, and she wondered if Elbert took care of the inside himself or hired someone to come in to help. She passed a bedroom with a double bed, covered in a white chenille spread. The next room made her stop. It was an office, as packed with filing cabinets as the living room was with books. There were corkboards covered with yellowed newspaper clippings, and a wide, dark-wood desk, its polished surface empty.

  What would it be like, she wondered, to lose your sight, and with it, the ability to read and write? Something you had done all of your life, made a career of and defined yourself by?

  She shivered at the implications.

  Forcing her mind from that dark pathway, she continued to the kitchen and got Elbert his Coke. The fridge was sparsely stocked, and she felt a pang. Her grandparents had her, but who did Elbert have?

  “Here she comes,” she heard Elbert say as she headed back toward the other end of the house. There was definitely nothing wrong with his hearing.

  Elbert thanked her and popped the tab on the can, taking a deep drink.

  “Do you mind if I record our interview, sir?” Noah asked, taking out his phone.

  “Sure. I used to record all mine,” the old man replied. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

  Noah pulled up the recording app and set it. “Go ahead when you’re ready.”

  “Starts back during the Vietnam War,” Elbert began, setting his can down on a low side table before settling back in his seat and putting his feet up on an ottoman. “A young man named Wesley Archer went off to that cursed war, figuring on being a hero. You’re military, aren’t you, Tex?” he asked. “I can hear it in your voice.”