Page 34 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The afternoon sky had turned the color of old pewter by the time we climbed back into the Tahoe, the threatening clouds from earlier finally making good on their promise.
The first fat drops of rain splattered against the windshield as Jack started the engine, the temperature dropping enough that the air-conditioning felt suddenly unnecessary.
“We should check on Judith Hughes,” I said, settling back into the leather seat. “See if the hospital will let us talk to her. She might be able to tell us more about what happened at her house, or about that dinner with Thomas.”
“Agreed,” Jack said, pulling out of the diner’s gravel parking lot. “And I want another look at those crime-scene photos from the cemetery. Something’s been bothering me about the way those symbols were carved.”
The rain picked up as we drove, turning the world beyond our windows into an impressionist painting of blurred colors and shifting shapes. Jack had the radio turned low to the local news station, the announcer’s voice mixing with the rhythmic sweep of the wipers.
“…storms expected to continue through the evening with possible flooding in low-lying areas…”
Jack was adjusting his rearview mirror when his phone rang—not the sharp electronic buzz of his official line, but the softer chime of his personal cell.
He glanced at the unknown number and answered with his usual efficiency. “Lawson.”
The voice that emerged from the speaker was neither male nor female, distorted by electronic modulation that stripped away humanity and left only cold purpose. But the words themselves carried the cadence of another century, formal and archaic as a judge’s pronouncement from the Colonial bench.
“Listen well, Sheriff—justice delayed shall not be denied. Where ancient wheels once ground the grain, you’ll find one who bore false witness against the innocent.
The serpent’s tongue has been silenced. The sun sets soon, and with it falls another who spoke lies.
Do not delay, or you’ll find only silence where false testimony once rang. ”
The line went dead, leaving us staring at the phone as if it might explain the chill that had settled between us like fog off the river.
“What was that?” I whispered, though even as I spoke, my mind was already parsing the archaic phrases, searching for meaning in the ritualistic language.
Jack’s expression had sharpened to the focused calm I’d seen when he faced armed suspects. “A riddle. Or a threat. Maybe both.” He was already pulling up maps on his phone. “Ancient wheels that grind grain—has to be talking about a mill.”
“Hawthorne Mill,” I said, the pieces clicking together with sickening clarity. “It’s the only Colonial-era gristmill still standing in the county. Built in the 1720s, right in the heart of all this Bridget Ashworth business.”
The mill had been one of the county’s earliest industrial sites, powered by the Rappahannock when it ran swift and deep enough to turn massive stone wheels.
Local legend claimed it had been built on land confiscated from accused witches, though historians debated whether that was fact or folklore designed to add Gothic atmosphere to tourist brochures.
Jack was already making a sharp U-turn, the engine roaring with urgency that matched the dread building in my chest. “Serpent’s tongue, false witness, false testimony—someone’s been targeted for speaking against our killer.”
“Margaret,” I said, the name falling between us like a stone into still water. “She warned Thomas away from his research. She knew how dangerous it was getting, tried to make him see reason. If our killer sees that as betrayal…”
We accelerated through the rain with controlled urgency, Jack’s training keeping us just within the bounds of safety while still pushing toward whatever fresh horror awaited us.
The wipers struggled against the downpour, and I found myself gripping the door handle as we took a curve faster than comfortable.
“How long would it take to set up something like this?” I asked, trying to focus on the investigation rather than the dread building in my chest. “The staging at the cemetery took hours. If Margaret’s already dead?—”
“Then our killer’s been planning this for a while,” Jack finished. “The call was just to make sure we’d be the ones to find her.” His jaw tightened. “They want us to see their work. Want us to understand what happens to people who interfere.”
“The language,” I said, replaying the electronic voice in my mind. “It wasn’t just archaic—it was specific. Biblical cadences mixed with Colonial court proceedings. Whoever called us knows their history.”
Jack’s hands remained steady on the wheel, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes that meant he was thinking three steps ahead.
“Question is whether they’re showing off their education or whether there’s something deeper.
Some families in this county have been nursing grudges since before the Revolution. ”
Hawthorne Mill appeared through the trees like something from a Gothic nightmare, its stone walls rising from earth that had drunk three centuries of Virginia rain.
The mill wheel stood frozen with rust, wooden sluices rotted away to skeletal remains, but the building itself endured—a testament to the men who’d built it and the secrets they’d taken to their graves.
Jack parked behind a dark sedan that sat empty in the gravel clearing, its engine ticking as it cooled. No other vehicles were visible, but fresh tire tracks in the soft earth told a story of recent arrivals and departures.
“Someone’s here,” Jack said, his hand moving instinctively to his service weapon.
We approached the mill with the careful deliberation of professionals who’d learned that death rarely announced itself with fanfare.
The afternoon air was thick with humidity and the competing scents of honeysuckle, river mud, and something else—something metallic and wrong that made my stomach clench with recognition.
The mill’s entrance gaped before. Inside, shafts of sunlight slanted through gaps in the stone walls, illuminating motes of dust that danced like spirits reluctant to depart.
Ancient machinery cast twisted shadows, and the grinding platform where generations of grain had been processed into flour now served a more sinister purpose.
The body lay twenty feet ahead, positioned on the old grinding platform like an offering to forgotten gods.
My steps slowed as details emerged from the gloom.
Margaret Randolph had been arranged with the careful precision of a museum display—arms crossed over her chest in the manner of medieval tomb effigies, each finger deliberately positioned.
Her dark hair had been brushed and arranged in a perfect halo around her pale face, every strand placed with obsessive attention.
The killer had taken time here. Hours, maybe.
Leather-bound books formed a ritual circle around her body, their spines turned outward so the gold-embossed titles caught what little light filtered through the gaps in the stone.
I recognized some of them even from this distance—her own published works on Colonial Virginia, her groundbreaking research on the witch trials, the academic achievements that had defined her career.
Now they served as props in her death tableau, scholarship transformed into accusation.
Jack moved beside me, his hand hovering near his weapon, both of us approaching with the careful steps of people who knew death could still hold surprises.
That’s when I saw her face.
My stomach clenched, bile rising in my throat despite all my years of examining the dead.
Margaret’s mouth gaped open in an eternal scream, the cavity dark with congealed blood that had pooled and dried in rusty brown streaks down her chin and neck.
The killer hadn’t just removed her tongue—they’d displayed its absence, propping her jaw open with something to ensure the mutilation would be the first thing anyone saw.
The precision of it made my skin crawl. Where the tongue should have been was only a ragged cavity, but the muscle had been severed cleanly at its base with surgical skill. No tearing, no hesitation marks. Someone had known exactly what they were doing.
“A tongue for her testimony,” I murmured, my professional training overriding the visceral horror even as my hands trembled slightly. “She spoke against them, so they silenced her permanently.”
The mill seemed to breathe around us, old wood creaking in the silence. Dust motes danced in the shafts of light, and somewhere water dripped with metronomic persistence. Every shadow could hide evidence. Every corner could conceal?—
A sound from the shadows near the far wall—the scrape of shoe on stone.
Jack’s hand snapped to his weapon with the speed of pure instinct, the Glock clearing leather before my eyes could track the movement. My own hand found the Beretta at my back, though I kept it holstered, watching Jack’s reaction to gauge the threat level.
A figure emerged from behind a massive gear assembly, moving with the unsteady gait of exhaustion or shock.
Richard Blackwood stepped into a shaft of light, and I barely recognized the usually polished businessman.
His expensive suit was torn at the shoulder, the fabric stained with dirt and something darker that could have been blood.
His silver hair stood at odd angles, and his pale eyes held the wild look of a trapped animal.
“It’s not what it looks like.”