LITMIR.BIZ

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of his problems. Initially, he’d foolishly been relieved and happy when his drifting sister had connected with someone from a solid family. He’d felt hopeful, like she might actually pull it back together. Have a normal life. A good life. Naivete at its worst. He knew better. He’d seen enough through his years on the force to know better, but when it came to Melody he just wanted to believe in good things so badly.

      She never made it to his house. He tried calling the cell phone number he had for her, but it was not hers any longer. He went to an old apartment address, but it was empty and the neighbor lady said she thought the woman who’d lived there had been evicted for nonpayment.

      Kicking himself for not just leaving work with her when she stopped by, Lang tried getting in touch with the Marsdons and was coolly ignored. No, they didn’t know where Heyward was. No, they had no phone number for him. No, they had no idea who his friends were. And they would appreciate not being bothered again.

      And then…merely an hour later…the emergency call from Halo Valley Security Hospital was logged into 911. He’d heard the tapes enough times. A guard, Wade De-Bussy, was holding down Heyward Marsdon, and one Dr. Claire Norris was saying that a woman named Melody Stone was dead.

      Paranoid schizophrenia, they told Lang. Hallucinations and delusions. Unpredictable behavior. But no one, no one, believed Heyward Marsdon would kill anyone. Certainly not Heyward Senior or Junior, who were chock full of disbelief. Why, Heyward III had just been at the governor’s ball with his loving family. Yes, he’d had bouts of depression in the past, but this was entirely unprecedented. Unbelievable. There were undoubtedly mitigating factors to explain the psychological break. Drugs, maybe? He was never that sick.

      Well, at least that was the beginning spate of excuses until Heyward Senior, who was the old man pulling the strings, saw that he’d better go for the insanity plea or his grandson would be heading straight for serious prison time. Lang suspected Heyward Marsdon Sr. was practically choking on the diagnosis for his only grandson. Heyward III’s father was like a pale shadow following the old man around and didn’t seem to have any say, one way or the other. A disappointment to his old man? Maybe the reason Heyward Senior was pinning his hopes on his schizophrenic grandson, no matter the evidence to the Third’s sickness?

      It didn’t matter. None of it.

      The upshot was that Lang hadn’t been there for Melody. A couple of hours on the job when he should have been with his sister. A couple of hours…that’s all.

      So he quit. Just up and quit. Couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t go to his old desk and remember how he’d turned Melody away when she’d needed him. Since then he’d had six months of idle time and one job offer from the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, the law enforcement agency that held Halo Valley Security Hospital within its jurisdiction. Strange how the world worked. Ironic. He’d met with Tillamook County’s sheriff and had hit it off sometime the spring before, and the job offer came in just about the time he quit the Portland P.D. He’d turned them down, but like Drano, the job had yet to be filled. At this point he didn’t even know if he wanted to go back to law enforcement anywhere. Yet here he was, stepping forward through the rain to the Winslow County Sheriff’s Department, working a case he had no business being involved with.

      Now, stepping inside the department’s front doors, he glanced through bulletproof glass at the receptionist whose name tag read Dot Edwards. She smiled at him and said, “That’s one wet coat ya got there.”

      Lang glanced at his jacket. It was soaked. “It was dry when I was at the ME’s.”

      “You came from there?”

      He nodded. “Sheriff still not in? I’m Langdon Stone. Ex-homicide with Portland P.D.”

      “Ex,” she said.

      “Long, ugly story.”

      Dot hesitated, then gave Lang a slow, negative wag of her bleached blond head.

      “Thought I’d check,” Lang said, turning to leave.

      “Wait a sec. Detective Tanninger might be able to help you. He’s, like…the man everyone wants to see?” She reached for the phone.

      “Is he in?” Lang asked, pausing.

      She smiled and said into the receiver, “Could you check with Detective Tanninger? There’s someone here to see him. Ex-detective…?”

      “Langdon Stone, formerly homicide Portland P.D.”

      She repeated the information, then hung up a moment later. “Go on through,” she said, touching a buzzer.

      Lang pushed through the door, feeling a little like Alice falling down the rabbit hole. He didn’t know what he was doing and what he would find, and it was an adventure he maybe should have reconsidered before embarking upon.

      He walked down a short hallway and then was in the squad room. Several sets of eyes turned to him, but most of the desks were empty. “Tanninger?” he asked, and was pointed toward a corner. He turned it just as a tall man in the tan uniform of the sheriff’s department appeared from an office.

      He stopped upon seeing Lang, and the two men sized each other up. Detective Will Tanninger—per his name tag—was one of those strong, silent types who observed more than talked. Lang thought about trying to bamboozle the man for about half a second, figured it wouldn’t work, said instead, “Detective Trey Curtis, my ex-partner at Portland P.D., wanted me to jump-start my stalled investigative engine by interesting me in one of your cases. The rest stop one. So, here I am, insinuating myself into your world. Feel free to kick my ass out of here.”

      Tanninger half-smiled. “The truth. Interesting approach.”

      “I came here to talk to the sheriff, but he’s not here. Dot at the desk suggested I meet with you.”

      “Sheriff Nunce planned to retire but no one wanted him to. He was reelected, but when he’s not around I’m the next man.”

      “Maybe that happens a lot?” Lang suggested.

      “Maybe it does.”

      “So, do you want some help, or am I wasting my time and yours?”

      “I know Trey Curtis. Of him, anyway. And Drano.”

      “You know Drano?”

      “We got a call from him, too. Wanted us to encourage you. Said you were a hell of an investigator. Sang your praises. Twisted our arms as hard as he could.”

      Lang said wryly, “I’m a charity case.”

      “According to them, you’re the man for the job, and if this case just so happens to kick you back into gear, everybody wins.”

      “Well…” He wasn’t sure what to think of that.

      Tanninger said, “If you’re as good as they say you are, jump in. Even if you’re not. We’re short-staffed right now. This damn flu has decimated us and Nunce is out sick.”

      Funny. Lang’s lie to the ME was turning out to be the truth. “How long’s he been out sick?”

      “A while. Maybe a while more.”

      “Vacation. Sick. And still one foot in retirement?”

      Tanninger shrugged and said instead, “One of our best took a bullet last year, and though she’s recovered, she’s about all we’ve got for this case. And she went home early with a cough.”

      “You’re not bullshitting me?”

      “What do you care if I am?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “There’s a lot of crime out there. We don’t have enough investigators on a good day for the type of attack that took place at the rest stop. No manpower. You want in, I’ll meet you all the way.”

      “What’s Drano got on you?” Lang asked.

      Tanninger laughed.

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