Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 108849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108849 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Do you know him very well?” Laurel asked.
“I’ve been his pastor for years, and he’s a faithful member of the church.”
Faithful. How interesting that Pastor John used that word. “Are you aware that he owns a plane?”
“Yes. It’s a smaller one, and he liked to fly over the rivers. Why?”
“He’s gone,” Laurel said flatly. “Do you have any idea where he’d go? If he owns property outside of Washington State?”
Lines dug grooves into the sides of the pastor’s mouth. “No. I have no idea. Teri and I were wrapped up in our own world.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Does Saul Bearing have a temper?”
“Definitely,” Pastor John said. “All of the Bearing men do. Saul and both of his kids. I wouldn’t call them dangerous, though.”
Jealousy and betrayal could make anybody dangerous. “What do you think he would’ve done if he’d discovered his wife was sleeping with his pastor?” Laurel asked quietly.
Pastor John swallowed. “I honestly have no idea.”
Chapter 19
After work, Huck found Laurel sitting on the top of her makeshift conference table facing the three white boards. She was dressed in dark jeans and a white sweater, her auburn hair curling down her back. “You changed your clothes,” he noted.
She looked over her shoulder. “Yeah. I spilled tea down my front. Sometimes I get clumsy when my mind becomes so busy.”
He looked at the boards in front of her. “What’s going on?”
She sighed. “You’re no longer involved with this case.” But she didn’t make a move to turn any of the boards over.
“It doesn’t mean I can’t look.” He crossed around and sat on the table next to her. Then he shifted back, lifted her up, and put her on the table between his legs, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him, and her spicy strawberry scent filled his senses.
He looked over her head at the drowning victims’ case. She had placed pictures of the victims at the crime scenes at the top, with persons of interest at the bottom. That included the mayor, Pastor John, Tim Kohnex, Jason Abbott, Pastor Zeke, and him. “That’s quite the picture you have of me.”
She nodded, the top of her head bumping the bottom of his chin. “I know. I’ve included anyone who might be involved. The problem is, we don’t know enough about your mom to know who would want her dead. I’m hoping Nester will have a more complete picture of her life tomorrow. He’s working remotely from Seattle and is doing a good job so far—even though we haven’t been able to find the mayor or his sons.”
“We’ll find them. To be honest, I’d like to know more about my mother,” Huck admitted. “Everybody on that board has some sort of connection to Teri Bearing. I’m the only one who has a connection to Delta Rivers.”
“That we know of,” Laurel said. “The victims could be randomly chosen as well. For now, take a look at the two crime scenes, more specifically the ice.”
He studied the pictures of the ice.
“In each case, something different was used to chip it away. See how the ice at Delta Rivers’s scene is more . . . I don’t know. What would you call it? Rougher and more chiseled. But the ice that was cut or chipped away at the second scene has smoother edges.”
He nodded. “It’s possible a spud bar was used in the ice by my mother’s body.”
“A spud bar?” Laurel asked. “I don’t know what that is.”
She sounded surprised. The woman was a walking encyclopedia, so he grinned, careful to hide his amusement from her. “A spud bar is a long heavy metal rod that has a chiseled end. It’s used for chipping or breaking through thin ice. We have several around here. Most people do.” He studied the cuts in the ice near Teri Bearing’s body. “That looks more like somebody just smashed the ice, maybe with a hammer or some sort of smooth implement. Possibly a sledgehammer.”
“Would a regular hammer do that?”
“Sure.”
She placed her hand over his against her waist. “So we either have a killer who doesn’t care how the ice is broken or . . .” She let the word hang.
“The thing is,” Huck murmured, “there aren’t a lot of defensive bruises on the victims. He subdued them pretty easily and could have cut or chipped a hole in the ice while also maintaining control. Do you have the toxicology results back?”
“Not yet,” Laurel said. “You think they were drugged?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. The other option is that the killer prepared the sites before taking the victims there.”
Laurel nodded. “In that case, the fact that he used two different implements surprises me. Serial killers like the ritual.”
“Maybe the ice isn’t important.”
She was quiet for several moments. “So he doesn’t care how the ice is broken. It’s the manner of drowning them that matters—in the freezing cold water?”