“Whose was it then?” Houghton articulated each word in careful, measured tones. The woman was trying too hard not to sound judgmental.
The tears started despite Cassie’s best efforts. “I don't know.”
Chapter 2
“Another book about the Templars. Big surprise.” Grant tossed the volume into a box that already contained the works of Dan Brown plus a variety of fiction and non-fiction titles along the same theme. He'd sorted through roughly half of his dad's library. At first, he inspected each book carefully, even flipping through the pages in search of hidden cash or important documents, but an hour's futile efforts convinced him to give it up as a bad job.
The next book was a thick, heavy tome, cracked with age and the stamped gold letters on the spine faded. He held it up to the light and read the words aloud. “Demonology and The Bible.”
Frowning, he flipped through the pages, trying to get a feel for the content. The title made it sound like a Christian book of some sort, but the contents put him to mind of a horror novel. He stopped at a black and white print showing a demon hunched over the supine body of a naked young woman who lay bound to an altar. He didn't know what unsettled him more: its rapacious expression or hers of terror. A shiver ran up his spine and he had the sudden urge to toss the book into the fireplace and burn it. The momentary irrationality passed and he put it in the box with the other religious books.
He'd hoped that, in the process of settling his father's affairs, he'd learn a little something about the man who had been an enigma to him for so long. So far, all he'd determined was his father loved his home in the mountains, his conspiracy thrillers, and apparently liked to read about religions, no matter how obscure. Or how sinister.
Grant stared into space as his thoughts drifted back to Suzanne. His stomach iced slightly at the thought of her packing up all her stuff and leaving. They had been together a long time. It was hard to imagine that she had just up and left like that. Then again, they’d been high school kids when they first started dating, and they’d had problems from the start. Everything he did stressed her out: his decision to drop out of college, his string of part-time jobs, his musical pursuits, his band practices, his seedy gigs. Meanwhile, she pursued corporate greatness, going to school year-round, earning her business degree after only three years, and recently accepting a boring, entry-level job at some faceless corporation in an equally faceless glass building. Come to think of it, he didn’t know where she worked or what she did, aside from the fact that it involved a lot of bitching at the dinner table. He hadn’t thought they were as doomed as she had suggested. Clearly he had been quite naïve there. Now he was all alone. You never finish anything! Her words haunted him.
Two razor sharp knocks on the door jolted him out of his emo moment and he grimaced as he stumbled to answer, awkwardly navigating the clutter he'd created in the spacious living area. Who could it be? He didn't know anyone and who, aside from the cop who'd stopped him, even knew he was here? He reached for the knob and hesitated, visions of Deliverance-style hillbilly perverts flashing through his mind. He dismissed them with a rueful laugh and opened the door.
No one was there.
He cocked his head to the side like a confused dog and stepped out into the cool mountain air. There was no car in the driveway, save his own. He strode out onto the front porch and peered out into the woods. Nothing.
“Hello?” His voice sounded weak and tentative, so he summoned his inner thug and tried again. “Somebody fucking around out here?” That was better, though not by much. It suddenly occurred to him that anyone who was messing with him wouldn’t answer back. In fact, whoever had knocked might be sneaking around back at this very instant. He stepped back inside, shut the door harder than necessary, locked it, and looked around for a weapon. His dad's Civil War era musket, complete with bayonet, hung above the fireplace. Nice. Now all he needed were cartridges, lead balls, and an inkling of how to load and fire the thing. He hurried into the kitchen area and, in a drawer full of tarnished silverware, found a carving knife with a long, triangular blade. It would have to do.
He moved to the back door and peered out the dirty window. If trees were out to get him, he was screwed, because that was all he saw in any direction. Clutching the knife, he opened the back door and moved out beneath the canopy of the forest that grew right up to the back edge of the house. He strained his eyes and ears, but neither saw nor heard anything. He was alone. It must have been a tree limb knocking against the side of the cabin. That or his imagination running wild.
There it was again. This time there was no question about the knock. He heard it clear as day. In a flash he was off, sprinting around the corner of the cabin. In the time it took to think, At least I'm not running with scissors, he was there.
And he was alone.
“No freaking way.” He kicked at a loose rock and sent it bounding across the clearing in front of the cabin. The forest floor was carpeted in a thick layer of dry leaves. There was no way anyone could have run away that fast without him at least hearing them. He made a circuit of the cabin, looking for footprints but found exactly what he had expected-nothing. More unnerved than he cared to admit, he returned to the cabin and began gathering his things. He'd head to town, grab a cup of coffee and a bite to eat and clear his head. At the last second he grabbed the old demonology book that had caught his attention earlier. He didn't know why, but he suddenly wanted it out of the house, or maybe it wanted out, or something equally irrational. In any case, he shoved the book into his backpack.
He kept the knife too.
The interior of Cup-of-Joe was as grimy as its plate glass front window where chipped paint advertised the “Best Cup of Coffee in Town!” Faces turned toward Grant as he entered and all stared with mingled curiosity and disdain as he ordered and took a seat. Their conversations slowly started up again when he refused to meet any of those inquisitive eyes. Fucking hick town, he thought to himself. If they were dogs, they'd all be sniffing my ass right now. He'd be glad when the funeral was over and he could clear up and get out. Maybe he should just pile everything up in the woods and set it on fire, leave the cabin an empty shell, and get a real estate agent to sell it.
The thought had occurred to him that having a cabin in the country might be nice. He wasn't really the rural type, but he appreciated peace and quiet, nature, clear skies and fresh air. But this certainly didn't seem like the place for it. Maybe he'd sell out, take the proceeds and buy a little place somewhere else. Somewhere less… inbred.
The waitress put his coffee and eggs on the table and gave him a friendly, if distant, smile. “Anything else?”
He returned the smile, shook his head. “No, thanks.” A thought occurred to him. “Say, did you know Andrew Shipman?”
The waitress's friendly face turned sad. “Sort of. Not really. My daddy knew him, from when they were in the lodge together. Terrible that he died. So young for a heart attack.”
Grant nodded, now wondering why he'd asked. “Was he a… I dunno, was he a nice guy?”
“I guess so.” She pursed her lips and cocked her head. It was a cute look for her. “Like I said, I didn't really know him, but he was always friendly, always had a grin on his face when he stopped in.”