Everything You Want Me to Be(43)

“You’ll find your murderer, Sheriff. You’ll have a weapon and a motive and everything you need for your day in court. The curse is what you won’t be looking for, what you’ll never be able to prove with forensics. It’s the catalyst. It’s what makes things boil over.”

I’d fallen still, my hands lost in the papers. Something about his words brought the memories back. They could be gone for years, healed over and laid to rest, and then out of nowhere the gun smoke stung my eyes, the wet jungle invaded my nose, and I had to bury them all over again. You could leave a war, but it never left you.

“Ordinary men commit extraordinary evil all the time. Trust me.”

He smiled a bit and nodded in deference. “You would know.”

I started working again and shook my head. “You know what that play really is? An insanity defense from heaven.”

Jones laughed just as Jake phoned again and I answered this time.

“What have you got?”

“Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?”

“Good God, Jake. When you get married you better find some girl who likes wearing the pants.”

“We could’ve found the murder weapon. Or there could’ve been an explosion at the plant.”

“Dispatch would’ve called for something like that.”

“You don’t know, that’s all I’m saying. It could be important.”

“Well, is it?”

“Damn right it is. I found out who L.G. is.”

Finally some good news today. And I was in just a mood to haul this pervert through the ringer. “The warrant came through?”

“Yes, so I accessed her account information and found hundreds of messages to a guy named LitGeek.”

“L.G.,” I muttered.

“Exactly. So I accessed his account information and there was an email address. I traced . . .”

I didn’t hear much of the techno talk, because at that moment I flipped a piece of paper and saw a name that clicked everything into place. I dropped the other papers and stared at the black type, thinking back over the last few days.

“. . . so when I got the gmail registration it said the guy’s name is—”

“Peter Lund,” I interrupted.

“How did you know that?” He was pissed as all get-out.

Gerald Jones wasn’t so good an actor that he could pretend he wasn’t eavesdropping, and the last thing I needed was another juicy bit leaked to the press. If Hattie had had an affair with her high school teacher, they’d be on Pine Valley like white on rice.

“Never mind. I’m headed there now. I’ll have him at the station in thirty minutes.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“You’re staying right there and printing out every email you’ve got off of Hattie’s computer. And take that busted fax machine out of the interrogation room. And make sure there’s a fresh pot of coffee.”

“You’re going to try the friendly angle?”

“No, I’m thirsty.” I hung up and tossed the half-full coffee cup Jones had given me into the trash. He grinned.

“Somehow it’s heartwarming to know the crusty-sheriff cliché is alive and well.”

“Happy to oblige.” I got up and shook his hand. “Jones.”

I took the highway back to Pine Valley at a hundred miles an hour, lights flashing. The speed felt good. It got the blood up, helped clear the morning away. I walked into Pine Valley High School less than fifteen minutes later and the principal met me before I’d even crossed the front door.

“Sheriff. This about Hattie?”

“I wouldn’t be pulling one of your teachers out of the classroom otherwise.”

“Which one you need?”

“Lund.”

He made a sort of sucked-in face before hollering to his secretary to call for a sub.

“This way.”

We walked back to the classrooms and he led the way to the end of a hall.

“Anything I should know about Peter?” he asked, just as we got to the right classroom.

I knocked on the window. Lund looked up from his computer and froze a bit. I pointed at him and then at my feet. Get your ass out here.

“A lot of things you should probably know about him.” We both watched him fumble around and say something to the students. “I’m only interested in one.”

Peter came out and glanced between the two of us. “Sheriff. Do you have more information about Hattie?”

“Matter of fact. Need you to come down to the station.”

“Can’t it wait until the end of the day? I’ve got classes.” He waved behind him, looking at the principal, who was eyeing him like he was trying to picture the knife in Lund’s hand.

“We’ll take care of the kids,” the principal said. “Go get your stuff.”

Lund did as he was told and we headed out to the cruiser. I let him ride in front.

“What’s your take on this curse nonsense?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot. I could sense his whole body relaxing as he heard the question.

“Bullshit.”

I laughed once and he eased up a bit more.

“The legend part of it, anyway, is a load of superstitious paranoia. The real curse is dealing with actors—or in my case, kids—who believe in the bullshit and make the director’s life a living hell. You saw how Portia Nguyen got everybody scared on Sunday?”