“Mrs. Bagley,” the sheriff called. “I’m the Covington County sheriff. Sheriff Holt. Just want to talk to you. Nobody’s in trouble.” Then he glanced over his shoulder at O’Dell and shrugged. “I guess she’s not home.”
She did a quick visual search of the pickup that was parked alongside the house on the grass, instead of on the graveled patch in front of the house. She was close enough that she could see through the garage window and the space looked empty. According to the county property records, a Dodge Ram pickup and a Land Rover were registered to the Bagleys.
Sheriff Holt’s cruiser had left tracks where the downpour had washed the gravel thin. But there were no other fresh tire tracks. No one had arrived or left, at least not during or after the thunderstorms.
The two other buildings on the property looked old and worn and unused. O’Dell swept her eyes over both structures, scanning the windows and scrutinizing the rooflines as well as the discarded equipment against the sides, looking for anything out of place or any movement.
She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and yet something didn’t feel right.
Sheriff Holt raised his fist to knock again but stopped in midair when he noticed O’Dell easing her Glock from the small of her back. His eyes went wide and his ruddy face went pale. She put an index finger to her lips as she came up beside him. He fumbled with his own gun, unsnapping the holster and making too much noise. It wouldn’t matter. O’Dell knew if someone was inside waiting for them, he or she was already in position.
She leaned her shoulder against the frame just to the left of the windowless door and nodded for him to do the same on the other side. He squeezed his bulk awkwardly against the porch rail, giving himself plenty of distance away from the door now that he understood what threat might be waiting for them.
O’Dell listened, cocking her head. Still, there were no sounds coming from inside. She held her weapon in her right hand, and with her left, reached across the door and tried the knob. It turned with no resistance, and that’s when her heart started to race. She glanced up at the sheriff, met his eyes, giving him a chance to tell her “no.” After all, they had no warrant. No reason to enter. Nothing except O’Dell’s gut instinct.
Slow and easy didn’t play well if someone was waiting on the other side. It only gave them more time to aim. She took a deep breath and shoved the door open as she rolled back against the outside of the house and out of the line of fire. The door hit the inside wall, sounding like a gunshot and making Sheriff Holt jump. But nothing followed. They were greeted by more silence.
O’Dell eased around the doorjamb, letting her Glock lead the way inside.
More silence.
The large entrance included plenty of hiding places: an open staircase, a long, narrow hallway beside it, and too many archways leading to other rooms. Sheriff Holt raised his chin toward the staircase, then squeezed past her to start his slow climb. O’Dell noticed a set of keys on the desk in the entryway. Sunglasses, a wallet, and what looked like a grocery or errand list were also on the desk.
She moved slowly. Peeked into rooms, carefully opening doors and trying to keep her back to the wall as much as possible. The old house creaked with almost every step, and she could easily hear the sheriff above her. If someone was inside hiding, they should be able to hear any movement.
Even before she entered the kitchen she could smell bacon and burnt toast, but both were a bit stale in the air, not fresh. It looked as if breakfast had been interrupted and abandoned. On the stovetop a skillet was filled with bacon now congealed in grease. A plate with two slices of burnt toast was left on the countertop, alongside a container of melted butter. The table had two place settings: plates, silverware, water glasses filled to the brim. Coffee mugs waited by the coffeemaker, coffee made but not poured. A carton of cream left open beside it.
The coffeemaker was the closest. O’Dell took several steps and leaned over, but before she put her nose to the cream she could smell that it was spoiled. She took another look around the kitchen. How long ago?
She pulled a paper towel from the roll and used it to pick up the carton of cream. She swirled the contents from side to side and could feel the chunks swish inside. She had no idea how long it took for cream to curdle, but she guessed it might be days, not hours.
“What the hell?” Sheriff Holt came into the kitchen and stared at the macabre scene.
“Looks like they left in a hurry. I take it you didn’t find anyone upstairs?”
“Nope, didn’t find anybody, but I sure as hell found something stranger than this. You’re gonna want to take a look for yourself.”
32
The statue in the middle of the makeshift altar stood almost two feet tall. The female skeleton dressed in a black robe held a scythe and looked very much like the Grim Reaper. Had O’Dell not seen the same image on the bloated corpse of Trevor Bagley, she might have been as taken aback as Sheriff Holt was.
“It’s an altar,” she said.
“Damn straight. But what the hell for?”
“Santa Muerte. The saint of death.”
She ignored his dumbfounded stare and walked across the bedroom to get a closer look. The sheriff seemed surprised at her reaction. Maybe he was expecting her to be as alarmed as he apparently was. She calmly slipped her weapon into her waistband at the small of her back and pulled her shirt over it.
“You’ve seen this sort of thing before?”
“Only on the Internet.”
This one was quite elaborate, by the standards she had viewed. A bloodred cloth covered the entire length of the dresser top. A shorter white lace cloth lay on top. About a dozen small red and white votive candles, melted down from use, created a border around the edges. Other items were carefully placed around the statue: incense, a bowl of apples, rosary beads, small containers of oil, prayer cards, several plastic toy skulls and one rubber spider, a full pack of cigarettes, a bottle of Espolòn tequila and another of Patrón, with an empty glass in front. There were other items she didn’t recognize, but she knew each had its own significance and purpose.
“Is it some kind of cult thing?”
O’Dell shook her head and looked around the room, examining the other contents.
“People set up altars and pray to Santa Muerte for a variety of reasons — good health, a new job, a faithful husband or wife, for protection, or for vengeance. Not really much different from Catholics setting up a shrine to the Virgin Mary.”
“Hey, I’m Catholic, and this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. Tequila? Cigarettes?”
She didn’t remind him about the practice of lighting candles, using incense, taking in food for an Easter blessing. Almost every religion had something that outsiders could view as strange. But she did have to admit, praying to the saint of death gave her pause, and she glanced back at the altar.
Something wasn’t right.
The empty glass. The photos she had seen of other altars always included tequila poured and waiting in a glass or in several small shot glasses. She also didn’t remember any spiders. Skulls, yes, but spiders?
“Don’t touch anything.”
“Of course, I’m not gonna touch any of this freak show.”
“No, seriously. This house might be part of a crime scene.”
“Already thought of that.”
He shot her a look that verged on impatience. She had to admit that, outside of his initial panicked fumble to get his weapon out of its holster, Sheriff Holt had been careful and methodical.
“Sorry,” she said. “Is this the master bedroom?”