"Are you feeling well enough to do this?" she asked reluctantly.
"Let's get it over with."
Tolliver helped me out of the car and we walked toward the cluster of men standing at the entrance to a barn that had formerly been red. It wasn't in as bad shape as the garage of the house in the foothills, but there were gaps between the boards, the paint was only clinging to the boards in streaks, and the tin roof seemed to be all that was holding the structure together. I looked around: there was a house a distance away at the front of the property, a house that seemed in much better condition than the barn. So, someone hadn't wanted to farm or keep livestock; they'd just wanted the house and maybe some space around them.
The little knot of men unraveled to show two people standing huddled at its center. One was a man about forty, wearing a heavy coat that he hadn't buttoned. He was a small man, no larger than Doak Garland. The coat engulfed him. I could see a dress shirt and tie underneath. He had his arm around a boy who was possibly twelve. The boy was short, thickset, with long blond hair, and he had a huskier build than his father. At the moment he looked overwhelmed with shock and a kind of anticipatory excitement.
Whatever was in the barn, the boy knew about it.
The sheriff didn't pause as we passed the two, and I let my eyes linger on the boy. I know you, I thought, and I knew he could see my recognition. He looked a little frightened.
My connection is with the dead, but every now and then I come in contact with someone who has his or her own preoccupation with the departed. Sometimes these people are quite harmless. Sometimes such a person will decide to work in the funeral industry, or become a morgue worker. This boy was one of those people. I'm sure a lot of times I don't pick up on it—but since the boy didn't have all the mental guards and trip wires of the average adult, I could see it in him. I just didn't know what form this preoccupation had taken.
The barn had an overhead bulb that left more in darkness than it illuminated. It was a fairly large structure, quite open except for three stalls in the back full of moldy hay. They looked like they hadn't been touched in years. There were old tools hanging on the walls, and there was the detritus of a household: an old wheelbarrow, a lawn mower, a few bags of lawn fertilizer, old paint cans stacked in a corner.
The air was very cold, very thick, very unpleasant. Tolliver seemed to be trying to hold his breath. That wasn't going to work.
This was more a job for Xylda Bernardo than me, I could tell already.
I told the sheriff so.
"What, that crazy old woman with the dyed red hair?"
"She looks crazy," I agreed. "But she's a true psychic. And what we've got here isn't dead people."
"Not corpses?" It was hard to say if Rockwell was disappointed or relieved.
"Oh, I think we've got corpses. They're just not human. There's death, but I can't find it. If you don't mind, I'll call her. If she can tell you what's here, you can give her my fee."
Rockwell stared at me. The cold had bleached the color out of her face. Even her eyes looked paler. "Done," she said. "And if she makes a fool out of you, it's your own fault."
Xylda and Manfred got there pretty quickly, all things considered. Xylda came into the barn wearing her ratty plaid coat, her long dyed bright red hair wild and tangled around her head. She was a big woman in all ways, and her round face was lavishly decorated with powder and lipstick. She was wearing heavy support hose and loafers. Manfred was a loving grandson; most young men his age would run screaming before they'd appear in public with someone as crazy-looking as Xylda.
Xylda, who was carrying a cane, didn't greet us, or even acknowledge we were there. I couldn't remember if she'd needed one a couple of months ago or not. It gave her a rakish air. I noticed that Manfred kept his hands lightly on her waist, as if she might topple over all of a sudden.
She pointed with the cane to one of the slightly mounded areas in the dirt floor. Then she stood absolutely still. The men who'd come in with her—everyone who'd been outside, with the addition of the boy and the man I was sure was his father—had been eyeing her with derision, and a few of them had made comments not quite softly enough. But now they were silent, and when Xylda closed her eyes and appeared to be listening to something no one else could hear, the level of tension rose almost palpably.
"Tortured animals," she said crisply. She spun with as much agility as you can expect from a rather old and hefty woman. She pointed the cane at the boy. "You're torturing animals, you little son of a bitch."
You couldn't accuse Xylda of mincing words.
"They cry out against you," she said, her voice falling to an eerie monotone. "Your future is written in blood."
The boy looked as if he wanted to break and run when those old eyes fixed on him. I didn't blame him.
"Son," said the little man with the big coat. He looked at the boy with a heartbreaking doubt in his face. "Is what she says true? Could you have done something like that?"
"Dad," the boy said pleadingly, as if his father could stop what would happen next. "Don't make me go through this."
Tolliver's arm tightened around my waist.
The man gave the boy a little shake. "You have to tell them," he said.
"It was already hurt," the boy said, his voice exhausted and dead. "I just watched it till it died."
"Liar," Xylda said, her voice dripping with disgust.
After that, things really went downhill.
THE deputies did their digging and found the aforementioned cat, a dog, some rabbits—baby rabbits—and a bird or two. They kicked around the stalls, making dust from the stale hay rise up in thick clouds. All they discovered was the stalls had bare-board flooring, so there couldn't be any animal corpses underneath. The father, Tom Almand, seemed absolutely stunned. Since he was a counselor at the mental health center, he would know as well as anyone there that one of the early signs of a developing serial killer was the torture of animals. I wondered how many kids who tortured animals didn't grow up to be murderers, but I assumed that would be impossible to document. Was it possible to do something so vile and yet become a well-adjusted adult with healthy relationships? Maybe. I hadn't studied the phenomenon, and I sure didn't plan to do any research on it. I saw enough in my day-to-day work life to convince me that people were capable of dreadful things…and wonderful things, too. Somehow as I looked at the tear-wet face of Chuck Almand, age thirteen, budding sadist, I couldn't feel optimistic.
I was sure that Sheriff Rockwell would be pleased. We'd kept the locals from making a foolish mistake, we'd uncovered a genuinely disturbed source of future trouble, and I wasn't going to charge a penny on my own behalf for the distress I'd been put through. They did owe Xylda some cash, though, and I wanted to be sure they'd pay it.
The sheriff was not looking sunny, though. In fact, she looked tired, discouraged, and disheartened.
"Why so glum?" I asked her. Tolliver was making conversation with Manfred; he'd forced himself to do the polite thing. Xylda had hold of the arm of one of the officers, and she was giving him an earful of talk. He looked dazed.
"I hoped we'd wrap it up," she said. She seemed too down to disguise her thoughts and emotions. "I hoped this would be it. We'd find more bodies here. We'd find evidence—maybe trophies—tying someone, maybe Tom, to all the murders. It would all be over. We would have solved the case ourselves, instead of having to turn it over to the state boys or the FBI."
Sandra Rockwell was not the clear pool she'd seemed at first.