“Wait. Who’s ‘they’?”
Hallam’s eyes looked like he was still seeing what was in the pool. The body had half rolled back over in the water when he saw it, hiding some of her face—but he’d still seen more than enough. He looked as though he was trying to decide what to do first out of about eight possible choices, all of them well above his pay grade.
“Tony and Marie Thompson.”
His eyes snapped back to life and he laughed outright. “The Thompsons? You’re kidding, right? They murdered some girl, hacked her body to pieces, smashed her face off? I don’t think so.”
“There are others in the group,” Emily said, “who probably—”
“The group? What is this—the Manson family? What the hell is going on around here?”
“A collective of locals,” I said. “The Thompsons, the Wilkinses—back when Phil was alive—plus a couple of others, I think. They’ve been playing some kind of reality game for decades. Messing with people’s lives, using them like pawns, smoothing over the fallout with their cash, and then moving on.”
“What? Why?”
“Because they can. Because when your bank account’s full you need something else to divert you. For the fun of it.”
“And this includes murdering people? Come on.”
“Not usually.”
“But . . . and these people you’ve listed—these pretty elderly people, I should point out—are who killed that girl out there? And did all that to her?”
“Maybe. We don’t know.”
“But . . . why bring the body here?”
“To implicate me. I’m this season’s guest star. I’m the guy who got modified this time around.”
“ ‘Modified’?”
“It’s a computer-game term,” I said, remembering all too well that it had been Cass who’d first flashed on what was going on—too late for her, once I’d accidentally got her involved. I could blame other people as much as I liked, but the bottom line was that it had been me who’d put her in my pool. “Alterations are made. Like putting a rat in a maze and moving the walls when it’s not looking, or putting an electric current under its feet.”
Hallam’s face was frank in its incredulity. “Bullshit.”
“They admitted it, to my face. Jane was there—she heard it. According to Tony, it had just been a kind of fireside puzzle before. It was David Warner who took it to another level. He made his money selling computer games. That’s all this is, but in real life. Augmenting reality with a cattle prod.”
“And they’ve been doing this to you . . . how long?”
“Several weeks in the background. It really got going on Monday, but I only started to work it out last night. My wife’s in the hospital because she drank a bottle of wine I bought. It was poisoned. Tony claimed to me that wasn’t part of the plan, he and Marie were the intended victims, but he has no idea who did it—unless it was Warner screwing over his former friends.”
Even as I said this I realized how lame it sounded, how insufficient a handle I had on what was going on.
Hallam evidently felt the same. “Are you shitting me?”
“Deputy, I’ve got a . . . you’ve seen what’s out in my pool. Nobody’s shitting anybody.”
Hallam turned to Emily. “And how do you fit into all this, exactly?”
“I was one of the people moving the walls,” she admitted. “Not a player. A hired hand, helping run the scenario that had been roughed out ahead of time. I’ve been waitressing in Bo’s this last month. I helped set up some of the stuff in Bill’s life, but I was not involved in anyone getting hurt. The plug was pulled once it starting looking like something had happened to David Warner. Someone clearly hasn’t got the message, though.”
“I talked with the Thompsons an hour ago,” I said, “and they were scared. The guy who shot up Bo’s is called John Hunter. He was a victim of the game twenty years back. Warner framed him for a murder he’d committed, some local woman called Katy, and—”
“Whoa, whoa,” Hallam said, holding up his hand. “You have evidence that Warner killed someone?”
“Not actual evidence, but this is straight from Marie Thompson. Why?”
“We found stuff at Warner’s house today. I’d believe that guy was capable of almost anything right now.”
Hallam’s eyes glazed over, as if he was trying to add, divide, and multiply a long series of numbers in his head. “I have to call this in,” he said, as if suddenly remembering that he was a cop.
“No, you don’t,” said a voice.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
It came from above. There was a man standing on the gallery upstairs. It was Sheriff Barclay.
Hallam gaped. “Sir?”
His boss started down the stairs in a slow, measured fashion, as if weighed down with the gravity of a serious situation. I was aware of Emily backing away, melting into the shadows.
“What in hell’s name are you doing here, Rob?”
“I . . . I received a call from Mr. Moore, sir,” Hallam said, defensively. “He said he had information pertaining to a situation developing in the Circle. Sheriff . . . I’ve been hollering for you on the radio for three hours. We’ve got . . . there are many things going on, not good things, and I have been trying very hard to contact you. Where have you been?”
“It’s been a very busy day.”
“Well, yeah. You know there’s been a shoot-out at Jonny Bo’s?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. There’s four deputies on-site at this time, full medical support. It’s covered.”
“We found some very weird shit at David Warner’s house, too.”
“I know about that as well, Rob. It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s all in hand.”
“In hand? Sir, I don’t . . . understand.”
Barclay glanced into the shadows behind me. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
Emily had retreated to the entrance to the kitchen, gun down by her side. She said nothing. Just watched Barclay carefully. He smiled. “Why don’t you come back in here?”
“Do not trust this man,” Emily told Hallam.
I finally managed to speak. “Sheriff—how did you get into my house?”
“Round the back, of course,” he said, as if this was a dumb question. “Like a lot of folks in these communities, you don’t always remember to lock up. Which is a mistake, I should tell you. Just because you’re all part of the same club doesn’t mean you can trust each other to the bitter end.”
“But what are you doing here?”
“A neighbor called in a report of suspicious activity. Said you arrived here at four this afternoon and carried a bulky object into the building via the garage doors. A couple hours later you left, without said burden. Driving erratically.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said. “I haven’t been back since early yesterday evening.”
“So I thought I’d better check it out,” Barclay continued smoothly, as if I’d not spoken, as if he was telling Hallam a story. His hands were in his pockets. He looked so relaxed it was surreal. “Your name has been cropping up all over town, Mr. Moore. Has been for a couple days now. You’ve always seemed like a normal kind of guy, but I wouldn’t have been doing my job if I didn’t come take a look.”
“Which of my neighbors made this alleged call?”
Could one of them actually have done this? After being paid to by someone in the game? What chance did I have of convincing the sheriff of this, even if they had?