Now she remembers his truck driving past her the day before. He really does drive through there on a regular basis. Perhaps he even knows her parents . . .
“Yeah it’s not far,” she says, deciding. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I’m pretty soaked. I don’t want to ruin the inside of your car.”
The man laughs. “Thif old thing?”
Gertie walks around to the passenger side and gets in. The man waits for her to buckle herself up, then takes off. The wipers just push sheets of water around the windshield; the rain is falling so heavy.
“Thanks for doing this,” Gertie tells him. “It’s not often someone does something for someone else around here.”
“I know what you mean,” the man says. “There are fome rude people out there.”
“Do you live far?”
“Outfide of town. Got my own place.”
“Married? Kids?”
The man guffaws like a simpleton next to her. “Gofh no!”
Gertie laughs along with him, the ice broken between them. “Ah, this is my place coming up on the left. My daddy owns most of this.”
“One of them big-time farmerf, huh?”
“You could say that,” Gertie says, frowning as the man drives straight past her front gate. “Hey, uh, that was it back there.”
“Oh fhit! Here, let me turn thif old girl around,” he tells her, slowing the car and bumping it up on the mud. He turns the steering wheel, as if he’s getting ready to do a U-turn and head back the way they’ve come. Gertie looks back through the rain-smeared window at her front gate.
So close to it.
“I can get out and run along, it’s no—”
Gertie feels a sudden sharp pain in the side of her neck. She turns to look at the man. He holds a syringe in his hand, face studying her.
She tries to open the car door, manages it, but only halfway. Gertie swings one leg out, and that’s as far as she gets. Going any farther is impossible, as if her limbs are filled with lead. She struggles to keep her eyes open and can hear her own heartbeat in her ears as she watches the man get out, run around the front of the truck, and tuck her right leg back inside. He closes the door, then runs back to his own side. Now they’re moving.
She can’t keep her eyes open any longer. It’s creeping up on her, like a warm hand on the back of her head. She looks at the man. It is a hand. He is stroking her hair.
“Fleep.”
The Gator’s Snap has a distinctive eau de broken toilet—a combo of sweaty work shirts, tired feet in old shoes, bad aftershave, smoke, more smoke, and spilled beer. But despite the questionable hygiene of such a darkened, musty establishment, it is a cop hangout. Only lawmakers and retired lawmakers frequent The Gator’s Snap, which means it’s free of drug dealers in the toilets, old hookers working the tables looking to score for the night, and dubious under-the-counter transactions. Midweek it can get quiet in there, so Harper isn’t surprised to find it fairly empty when Harper walks in, shaking off her umbrella. She spots Stu right away, his back to her at the bar, nursing his drink. She plops herself down next to him.
The bartender, Lenny, works every night, without fail. He wears a T-shirt cut off at the arms, showing off his large biceps. The one on the left carries an inscription: “Ma.” The one on the right bears the likeness of The Boss, accompanied by stars and stripes.
“Still rainin’ out there?” Stu asks her.
“Cats and dogs.”
“Hey Jane,” Lenny says. “What’re you having?”
She runs her fingers through her hair—it’s been a trying day, and she feels unhinged. “Something strong, Len.”
“Like that, huh?” he asks, fixing her drink.
“Could say that,” Harper says. Stu glances sideways at her. He’s finishing up his usual, pouring the last of the whiskey down his throat. “And another of whatever he’s drinking.”
“Got it.”
Stu watches Lenny refill his glass. As usual, he’s overgenerous with the measure—no doubt one of the main reasons cops keep coming back. Lenny sets their drinks down.
“Thanks,” Harper says as Lenny moves off, busying himself wiping down the tables, collecting errant glasses.
When he’s sure that the bartender is out of earshot, Stu produces a notebook and turns to the last written page. He speaks in a low voice. “I’ve been busy. I’ve made a list of everyone who fabricated a report.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. One of the names on there you will recognize right away,” Stu says. “Hal Crenna.”
Harper’s eyebrows rise to peaks. “The mayor?”
“Well, mayor hopeful. He’s runnin’ for it, and from what I’ve heard through the grapevine, there’s a strong chance he’ll make it, too,” Stu says. “What we got would sink him before he’s even afloat.”
He pushes the notebook toward her.
“All these names,” Harper says. The cover-up includes not only the actual investigating officers, but the captains and chiefs at the time. “When we reveal this, the PD is going to come under some intense scrutiny, I can tell you.”
“About time, maybe?”
Harper sighs. “The reasoning behind it, that it was to protect the town . . . it just doesn’t wash. Sure, a murder here would impact tourism. Maybe for a little while. But eventually Hope’s Peak would recover. Things pass. I have to believe there was something more to it.”
“When we’ve caught this guy, I think we should pay Hal Crenna a visit.”
“Amen to that.”
Stu says, “So I take it you went to see Ida Lane . . .”
“I did,” Harper says.
“How’d it go?”
She can’t shake her last words to Ida: You ever wondered about him coming after you?
And Ida’s reply: All my life.
“She’s a woman who’s spent her whole life in fear. Lived away from town, kept to herself, has a television and a phone, and little else. Ida’s off the grid, Stu. About as off the grid as you can get, bar moving out to the woods and living in a shack.”
“Jesus.”
Harper takes a hearty swallow of her drink. For her nerves, to settle them after her experience at Ida’s. She’s aware of the tremor in her right hand and hopes Stu hasn’t noticed. It’ll pass. Might take another couple of drinks . . . but it’ll pass.
She hopes.
“There’s something else, Stu, and I need you to be open-minded about it.”
He frowns. “Go on.”
“Remember what Claymore said? About her touching her mother’s hand and passing out?”
“Yeah.”
“Well it wasn’t just shock. She claims she had some kind of . . . vision, I guess you could call it. She told me how she witnessed her mother’s murder. The killer coming for her, forcing her down on the ground. The whole thing. She’s relived it all these years, in her dreams. Over, and over, and over.”
Stu smiles. “Jane, you don’t believe this, do you? I’m sure it’s just some kind of trauma. I mean, that’s quite a thing to go through as a kid.”
“There’s more.”
He looks at her. “What’s gotten into you? You’re not usually like this . . .”
Harper leans in close, her eyes locked with his, voice lowered. “She told me the killer wore a white sack on his head, holes cut out for eyes. Belt around his neck.”