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CHAPTER TWO

Grace tugged on the door to the police station, relieved when it opened this time. A quick glance to her right reassured her that the suspect was sitting in the holding cell that she’d seen earlier when peeking through the window. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away.

“May I help you, ma’am?” The smiling young officer who’d been carrying the bow and arrows earlier had been sitting at one of the desks when she’d stepped inside. Now he was walking toward her, stopping a few feet away. “You were on the hill when we brought out Mr. O’Brien, right?”

“O’Brien? That’s the man who was handcuffed?”

His smile dimmed, as if he realized he’d shared information that he probably shouldn’t have. “I’m Officer Danny Ortiz. You don’t appear to be from around here. I know pretty much everyone in town by sight, if not by name. And the tourists haven’t invaded quite yet this fall.”

“You’re right. I’m not from around here.” She hesitated, preferring to introduce herself to his boss first. “I was hoping to speak to the chief. On the front door it says his name is Beau Dawson.”

He nodded, his dark eyes showing curiosity. “He’s busy at the moment. Is there something I can help you with?” He motioned to the two other empty desks near his. “There are only three police officers, aside from the chief. We pretty much all do whatever’s needed, from investigations to throwing drunks in the tank. I’m sure I can help.”

She tightened her hand around the handle of the leather satchel she’d just retrieved from her car in the parking lot at the end of the street before returning to the station. “I really need to speak to your boss first.” When he continued to hesitate, she added, “It’s really important. My name is Grace Malone, but he won’t recognize that name.”

He motioned toward a folding chair beside his desk. “Have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here, Ms. Malone.”

“Thank you.”

He headed to the right door of two closed ones on the other side of the room. Gold lettering similar to outside listed the chief’s name. A second door bore the traditional male/female restroom symbols. And past that were snack and drink machines and a little table with a coffee maker and supplies. This was definitely a no-frills police station.

After Ortiz headed into the chief’s office, another officer came in through the front door carrying a large brown paper bag. The haft of an arrow stuck out from the top with a familiar-looking white feather with a red streak down the middle. He smiled at Grace and glanced around, noting the prisoner in the holding cell who was sitting on a cot watching them. Then he set the bag on top of one of the desks and offered his hand and a friendly smile to Grace.

“Hey, stranger. I’m Officer Chris Collier. May I help you?”

Grace shook his hand. “Grace Malone. Officer Ortiz is letting the chief know that I need to speak to him.” She motioned toward the bag. “Is that the arrow that was embedded in the boat at the festival?”

“Sure is. I had to cut a hole in the boat to get it out intact. Bobby was cursing a blue streak the whole time.”

“Bobby? The boat owner I presume?”

“Bobby Thompson, owner of the boat and the marina outside of town. He didn’t care that it’s evidence. Can’t say as I blame him for being angry, but there was already a hole from the arrow. He’d have had to make a repair either way. He’ll get over his mad once he figures that out. You want something to drink or a snack? We have vending machines, nothing fancy. Everything’s free, no charge.”

“No, thanks. I’m good for now. I don’t mean to take up your time. Go ahead and do whatever you need to do while I wait.”

“Not a lot to do around here right now aside from a few petty theft investigations we’re working. The festival is prematurely over and everyone’s either gone home or to the main restaurant and bar to drown their disappointment.” He frowned toward the holding cell. “Thanks to you, O’Brien. What were you thinking letting loose with that arrow so close to people? You could have hurt someone.”

In answer, the prisoner crossed his arms. He might not be talking, but he was clearly paying attention to their conversation.

Collier shook his head. “Dang hermit. No telling what was going through his head.”

“Hermit?” The word evoked an image of an old man with a long beard and torn, dirty clothes in Grace’s mind. The gorgeous well-groomed man behind bars was nothing like that. His neatly trimmed barely-there beard and mustache were complemented by the slightly shaggy hair. If she were to describe him she’d label him a sexy rebel. Not that it mattered. If he was the one responsible for the shooting today, or turned out to be a serial killer, she’d do everything in her power to bring him to justice.

Collier continued. “He keeps to himself up on the mountain and—”

“Officer Collier, don’t you have a report to type and evidence to log?” The police chief stepped out of his office with Ortiz following behind him.

Collier seemed unfazed by his boss’s criticism. “Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it right away.” He picked up the brown bag and carried it toward a line of metal cabinets along the back wall, to the left of the glass-enclosed conference room.

The chief stopped in front of Grace as Ortiz took a seat at his desk. “Ms. Malone, I’m Police Chief Beau Dawson. How can I help you?”

She stood and shook his hand. “Special Agent Grace Malone.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “FBI? Homeland Security? ATF?”

“FBI.” She showed him her badge, then hefted her satchel. “I need to speak to you. In private.”

“We can use my office.”

“Actually, unless your office is really large, the table in that conference room might work better. I have a lot of papers and photographs to spread out.”

“All right. Ortiz, Mr. O’Brien’s parole officer is on her way. When Mrs. Whang arrives, let her speak to her client about what happened at the festival before I interview him.”

“Will do, Chief.”

As soon as the conference room door closed behind them, Grace set the satchel on the table and faced Dawson. “Your prisoner is on parole? What did he do that landed him in prison?”

Instead of answering her, he asked a question. “Why did the FBI send an agent to Mystic Lake? And why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

The displeasure in his voice was nothing she hadn’t heard dozens of times before from other police or sheriffs. Jurisdiction or just a general distrust of Feds who might try to take over or take the glory for some operation was a real obstacle in her line of work. And as always, she did her best to tamp down her own irritation at once again having to soothe someone’s ruffled feathers.

“I’m from the FBI field office in Knoxville. An anonymous tip sent me here to see whether the man I’m looking for might be in Mystic Lake. I did come to the police station first to introduce myself and bring you up to speed. But the station was locked.”

His mouth tightened. “Sorry about that. Small town, small police force. When there’s a festival, like today, we’re spread pretty thin. This anonymous tip you got, what did they tell you?”

“That the killer I’m investigating might be here, that someone who lives in the mountains above town has a bow and arrow and keeps to themselves.”

“That’s the tip that sent you all the way here from Knoxville?”

“Pretty much. We can’t risk ignoring a tip, however weak. You never know which one will pan out. Or which unexplored lead a defense attorney will use to try to drive holes through a future case.”

He let out a deep sigh. “I wouldn’t put much credence in what they said. You might have noticed the stores up and down the street outside, Main Street, are small boutique shops offering clothes, jewelry, local-made items that are more for the tourists than the town residents. We do have one convenience store of a sort, a locally run place with essentials, perishable goods, medical supplies. But for anything more than that you have to drive at least an hour out of town. That’s why most of the people here own rifles or handguns. And for bow hunting season, a surprising number have bows and arrows. Hunting isn’t just for sport in Mystic Lake, it’s a way to feed our families. Someone telling you to check out a person with a bow and arrow around here is wasting your time.” He cocked his head, studying her. “But you don’t seem surprised by anything I just said. You knew all of that, didn’t you?”

She smiled. “I know what I researched on the internet about this town. I don’t pretend to be an expert and I’m sure what I read is likely half the truth, if that. But, yes, I knew most of the inhabitants hunted and likely quite a lot have bows and arrows. But I’m searching for someone who uses something a bit more sophisticated, the kind of bow not allowed for hunting in many places. A crossbow. I’m searching for the Crossbow Killer.”

He swore and slowly sat in one of the chairs, a look of dread on his face. “The serial killer I’ve heard about on the news. He’s killed, what, six people so far?”

“That we know of. Yes, sir.”

“You think he’s here?”

She sat across from him and pulled her satchel toward her. “That anonymous tip was light on details. There’s no proof he’s operating here or fled here when the heat got bad in Knoxville. But, as I said, we have to follow up on every lead. If it’s accurate, and we don’t perform our due diligence, people could die.”

“And the Feds would be eviscerated in the press, giving the FBI a black eye.”

“True. But we’re people, too. While we don’t want our reputation smeared, it’s more important to us that we save lives.”

He smiled for the first time since she’d met him. “Touché. All right, I’ll answer your original question. The reason that Aidan O’Brien is on parole is because he was convicted of murder. He served ten years in prison and was paroled a little over a year ago. He’s not from around here. He’s from the Nashville area. From what his parole officer has told me, he petitioned the parole board to allow him to move here. He wanted a fresh start, somewhere that the people might not have heard about his case.”

She glanced past him at the man they were discussing. He was still sitting on the cot in his cell. When his dark gaze met hers, he didn’t turn away or try to pretend he wasn’t watching the chief and her. She vaguely wondered whether or not he could read lips.

“Mr. O’Brien seems keenly interested in our discussion.”

Dawson didn’t bother to turn around to look. “No doubt. Strangers make him nervous. When the tourists arrive to see the leaves turning or to enjoy our lake in the summer, O’Brien disappears. He’s not exactly the outgoing type.”

“Understandable. It’s hard for a convicted felon to get past people’s expectations and fears that he might reoffend. I noted he made a point of avoiding you in particular at the festival.”

“Can’t blame him. When he first arrived in town and his parole officer briefed me, I put a notice on our internal town website to alert people that a convicted murderer was now among us. It wasn’t fair to him to do that. But my priority is to keep my citizens safe. Keeping them informed of potential danger is part of that.”

“It’s not my place to judge you.”

He smiled again. “But you are. I can see it in your eyes. You’re young, what, mid-thirties?” He held up a hand to stop her from responding. “Forget I asked. My point is I have a few more years on you and I’m probably a whole lot more jaded. I’ve learned that people don’t typically change. Offenders usually reoffend. Period. So I keep my guard up.”

“You expect him to murder again?”

“If you’re asking whether he’s done anything alarming before today, or showed a propensity toward violence, the answer is no. But I’m open to the possibility and vigilant. I can well imagine you’re interested in looking into him, too, given his past, and this morning’s incident. You think he could be the killer you’re after?”

“I guess I’m like you, open to possibilities. Particularly after I got a quick look at the bow and arrows your people found, and the one that was cut out of the boat. While we don’t have any eyewitnesses about the crossbow that our killer uses and what it looks like, we do have confirmation that the kinds of arrows used are made specifically for a crossbow. And the feather with paint down it attached to each arrow is well documented from our crime scenes.”

She emptied the contents of the satchel onto the table and fanned through them until she found one particular picture, one that showed the feather that was this particular killer’s signature.

He stared down at it a long moment, then turned to glance at his prisoner before meeting her gaze again. “You have my attention, Special Agent Malone. Show me everything you have and tell me exactly what that anonymous tipster told you.”