Hunter rolls over and goes to sleep, and oily darkness rolls over the room. Darcy thrashes inside the sleeping bag, the floor murder on her back. Sleep comes unexpectedly.
CHAPTER TWO
The county sheriff’s office sits on the east end of Millport, fifteen miles north of Scarlet River, in a long modular building with brown siding. Five windows display a sparsity of activity inside. Darcy’s car is the sole vehicle in the lot besides two black and red cruisers.
Six feet tall, Sheriff Harley Tipton sports a gray handlebar mustache above his upper lip. The dull yellowish brown of his buttoned khaki is the color of fescue in winter, and the brown hat atop his head tilts forward like it has something to hide. The office is too small to swing your arms without toppling the coat rack or putting a fist through the window. Multiple stacks of paper droop over on the sheriff’s desk. The scowl on his face suggests he’s ready to sweep the mess into the garbage.
Tipton rests his booted legs on the desk and assesses Darcy and Hensel.
“I read about you,” Tipton says, tapping a finger on his desk when his eyes rest on Darcy. “You caught that serial killer in the Carolinas a few years back, and then you shot another one last month.”
Darcy fidgets in her chair.
“How long ago did you leave the FBI?” Tipton asks, squinting.
“Three years.”
“And this gun you used to kill the last killer. Did you bring it to my county?”
He knows she did. The deputy out front required Darcy to check her firearm.
“I did. And I brought my permit, if you need to see.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Tipton drops his boots to the floor and leans forward on his elbows. “But you’ll take care not to cause problems in my county, and I better not hear you’re running around Scarlet River like a half-assed vigilante. Tell me again about your cousin’s stalker.”
Tipton’s face remains unreadable while Darcy repeats the story, drawing parallels with the North Carolina murders. She wants to tell him about the moon phases, how Richard Chaney copied Michael Rivers’ insane calendar, murdering during the ten days surrounding the full moon. Darcy feels certain the sheriff’s eyes will glaze over if she recites the lunar calendar or theorizes the first murder will occur in the next few days.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Ms. Gellar, but two sightings of a man who never harmed or harassed your cousin doesn’t convince me she’s in danger.” The next argument is on Darcy’s lips when Tipton raises his hand to stop her. “But my sister had a stalker while she was at the University of Georgia, and I empathize with any woman who believes she’s in danger. And that’s the rub. Laurie Seagers says she’s not in danger, that she hasn’t seen the guy since he followed her in the park, and she doesn’t think the face painted on the wall is related. Now, I’m willing to have a deputy check on her over the coming week, but there isn’t much more I can do until Ms. Seagers tells me someone is stalking her.”
Learning Laurie already spoke to the sheriff irritates Darcy.
“How much evidence do you need? You know what happened in Genoa Cove.”
“The spray paint could be a sick prank. People read the Internet and get bad ideas stuck in their heads.” Tipton swivels his chair toward Hensel. “You’ve been mighty quiet, Agent Hensel. What are your thoughts?”
Hensel chews on his words for a heartbeat.
“I’m concerned enough that I accompanied Darcy and her family to Scarlet River. As you state, this could all be a coincidence, but I’d rather exercise caution after what happened in North Carolina.”
“But you’re here unofficially, and the FBI isn’t involved. I reckon you think that’s a mistake.”
Hensel gives a noncommittal shrug.
“All the FBI has to go on is one painting. In Genoa Cove, we had multiple murders and rapes.”
“You’ve seen pictures of the painting on Ms. Seager’s house. In your expert opinion, is it the same art the Full Moon Killer branded his victims with?”
“Not a perfect rendition, but it’s similar, yes.”
“And you believe Michael Rivers financed Richard Chaney because he wanted Ms. Gellar murdered.”
“Either Chaney was the Full Moon Killer’s hired hand, or he was a crazed fan who wanted to please Rivers. Either way, Rivers threatened to murder Darcy’s family as a way of striking back at her.”
Tipton rubs the day-old stubble on his cheeks.
“We haven’t had any murders in this area, not for a long time.”
“If another killer is loose in Scarlet River, you’ll find the bodies soon.”
Sheriff Tipton isn’t burying his head in the sand, yet he resists the possibility that the devil is at his doorstep. Satisfied a deputy will check on Laurie, Darcy accepts the small victory, though she’d hoped for more.
She asks Tipton to recommend a good place to grab a sandwich, and he directs them to a bar and grill called Nicky’s a quarter-mile from the interstate. The inside of Nicky’s is dark. A dozen stools gird a polished bar where a blonde man with a tired face serves drinks and burgers to the patrons. A leggy waitress with an overbite invites Darcy and Hensel to sit at any of the tables along the wall. From the back, a jukebox pumps out a Kenny Chesney song about rum and tropical islands.
The waitress takes their orders—Hensel gets a medium-rare hamburger with a side of fries, while Darcy opts for the grouper sandwich. Despite the gloomy interior, the drone of the crowd’s chatter and music make Darcy feel safe for the first time since before the Darkwater Cove murders.
“What did you think of Tipton?” Hensel asks as he wipes ketchup off the corner of his mouth.
Darcy gives Hensel a reserved tilt of the head and sips her Pepsi.
“He didn’t dismiss our concerns outright. That’s a plus. But he isn’t taking the danger seriously.”
Darcy’s words trail off when a skinny woman with her hair tied back in a blue kerchief scurries from one stool to the next. Her shirt is red flannel, blue jeans three sizes too large and drooping off the woman’s hips. She shoves a photocopy in front of each customer at the bar and glares at them imploringly. Most shake their heads. One man rocks back as if he’s afraid he’ll catch something contagious. With a groan, the barkeep sets his cleaning rag down and rounds the bar to cut her off. Too late. She’s scurrying between two women in business attire toward Darcy and Hensel.
“Please, ma’am. Have you seen my daughter?”
The woman slaps a picture of a preteen girl with sandy hair, close-set eyes, and braces in front of Darcy and stabs her finger at the photo. Her hip brushes the table and spills soda.
“That’s enough, Cherise,” the barkeep says with an apologetic roll of his eyes as he prods the woman away from their table. “Go home before I call the sheriff.”
“You look at that picture, ma’am. My baby’s back. Nina’s alive. You call me if you see her.”
The door opens to a cool breeze and the scrape of dead leaves crawling down the sidewalk. When it swings shut, Darcy hears Cherise begging sidewalk shoppers to look at the photo.