“I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for,” Upton said, “but nothing stands out.”
“Me neither. Anything with Pendrith’s name on it, any kind of diary, or ramblingly insane manifesto.” He saw Upton’s raised eyebrow. “Hey, it could happen. Just ask the Unabomber.”
“Here.” Upton pulled a slender laptop computer from the desk’s bottom drawer. “This might tell us something.”
“Great, have a look through it, if you can.”
Upton pulled a chair to the desk and sat, opening the little computer. Hugo went back to the file cabinet. Walton had kept meticulous records of his freelance work, photocopies of checks, a ledger with dates and payments, and copies of everything of his that had been published, each article carefully pasted to a sheet of paper and inserted into a scrap book.
At the back of the drawer, Hugo found what looked like a manuscript, a ream of paper covered in type, held together with a red ribbon tied around the middle. Like an old-fashioned legal brief, Hugo thought. He pulled it out and ran his fingers over the front page. Typed, not printed from a computer.
“Anything else in that desk drawer?” Hugo asked Upton.
“No, not that I saw, except an old typewriter.”
Hugo stood by the desk, the manuscript in his hands, and undid the ribbon. He began reading, laying the pages face down on the desk as he finished each one. Upton stopped what he was doing and looked up.
“The manifesto you’d hoped for?”
“Not exactly,” Hugo said. “I’m not sure whether it’s a biography, an autobiography, or fiction. But either way, it’s about his father.”
Upton picked up a page from the desk. “He typed it? On that typewriter?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he do that when he has a computer?”
“I think it was very intentional. And I’m seeing a pattern.”
“What pattern?”
“Our man Walton is a throwback. An anachronism.” Hugo read another page. “It seems like … I think he’s turning into his father.”
“How’s that possible?”
“Anything’s possible if you have the right state of mind. Or the wrong one.”
“Hugo, what the hell are you talking about?”
Before Hugo could answer, Upton’s phone rang. He listened for a moment, then closed it. “The men are in place.”
“Men?”
“Yeah, Edinburgh, remember?”
Hugo stroked his chin. “Call them off. They’re wasting their time.”
“Why?”
“Walton’s not going to Edinburgh. Merlyn maybe, but she’s by herself and he’s not going to hurt her. He never planned to hurt her.”
“Hugo, for heaven’s sake, what are you talking about?”
“She was a distraction. A red herring. He wanted us to go charging up to Scotland to save the damsel in distress.”
“Even though he was never planning to hurt her, according to you.”
“Right. Precisely.”
“OK, so he wanted us out of the way. Why?”
Hugo set the manuscript down on the desk. He looked up and met Upton’s steel-gray eyes. “The book starts with a story about Walton’s christening. About the role of the church in the lives of him and his father after his mother’s death. It’s not literature, but he’s going somewhere with it, you can feel the anguish, anger even, bursting out from the page.”
“Don’t tell me he wrote the ending and is now carrying it out,” Upton said. “That would be a little too much.”
“No,” said Hugo. “Not that, this diatribe looks unfinished. And I’d guess he knows enough to realize that he can’t control the ending anyway, the way things turn out. Remember, too, this isn’t about him, it’s about his father.”
“Then we should study the book, get some shrinks to look at it. And pronto.”
“No time. If he’s wanting us up in Scotland hunting Merlyn, then he’s planning something.” Hugo flipped through the manuscript with his thumb. “The church,” he murmured. “The church … And it’s Sunday.” He grabbed Upton’s arm, startling him. “We have to go, now.”
“Where?”
“Weston Church.” Hugo ran out of the room, down the hallway, and outside, where the sun had made no effort to shift the night. He stopped and turned to Upton, who was close behind. “Have your men keep an eye on this place, no one goes in or out. We can come back later.” If we need to.
A surprised Agarwal trotted over to the car when he saw his charges making for it. “Sirs?”
“Weston Church,” said Hugo. “Lights, sirens, the works.”
When they’d settled into the car, Upton spoke. “What’s going on? What’s at the church?”
“Walton is acting out some kind of vendetta. It doesn’t make complete sense yet, but the church is at the center of it. It was the start of his manuscript, it was central to his life growing up. And he moved from Weston to Walkern when Reverend Kinnison took up residence.”
“He doesn’t like women priests?”
“He doesn’t like something about her, and every time he doesn’t like someone, they die.”
“That’s insane. He’d kill her because she’s a woman?”
“No, that doesn’t fit for me.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not sure.” Hugo thought back to the typed manuscript. “If this is about his father, it could be about his father’s work.”
“As a soldier?”
“No. As an executioner.”
“Jesus, what are you saying?”
“I’m not sure, but it makes sense. Several things happened at once, right? Walton won the lottery, had a mental breakdown, and Kristi Kinnison took over at Weston Church.”
“OK, that’s all true.”
“When someone with psychotic tendencies starts acting on them, there is usually a trigger. Something that sets him off.”
“And here we have several triggers. But none of them relate to his father.”
“Actually, I think they all do, as does his obsession with going back in time, recreating history, so to speak.”
“Explain.”
“His father executed killers, murderers. But he was laid off when the death penalty was repealed. The war hero and public servant, the only parent Harry Walton had, was destroyed by that law. If the manuscript means anything, not long after that, the old man basically drank himself to death.”
“So?”
“I would bet that when Harry Walton won the lottery, it was on or close to a significant date. Let’s check.” He took out Agarwal’s phone and dialed Bart Denum. “You in the office, Bart?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve a few bits and pieces to do, plus I figured you might want some help. And the wife’s spending the morning at church, this way I don’t have to go.”
Hugo smiled. “Good man. What do you have on Walton?”
“A timeline of his life, as well as—”
“The timeline’s perfect,” Hugo interrupted. “I’m looking for a connection between the date he won the lottery and his father.”
“Let me look.” Bart hummed gently as he looked. The car dipped and rose, Agarwal leaning forward as he concentrated hard on the road. “Well,” said Bart, “here’s something. But it’s not just his father.”
“What do you mean?”
“His winning lottery numbers were published soon after the fiftieth anniversary of his mother’s death, which now that I look was the same date as his father’s, just a couple of decades difference. Jeez, how did I not notice that before?”