Sins of the Father (Book 2, The Erin Solomon Mysteries) Read online

  My new psychic friend lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, took a long drag, and let it out in a slow, shaky exhale. She turned the water off in the sink.

  “I should go back to work,” she said.

  “Just a second,” I said quickly. “This man you see—this G. Can you tell me what he looks like? Is he someone you know?”

  She took another pull from her cigarette. I’d quit just a couple of months ago; it was a testament to how wrapped up I was in the conversation that I didn’t even notice the smell.

  “I don’t see him,” she said. She rolled her eyes, like she knew exactly how nuts she sounded. “Not his face—jamais. Il est un fantome. A ghost, oui? A shadow I feel sometimes. I don’t know what he looks like—only what he feels. What he wants.”

  My fingers curled around the edge of the table in front of me. “And what does he want?”

  She opened the kitchen door and started out, leaving the water in the sink and the dishes on the counter. When she turned again, there was something cold and resigned about the way she looked at me.

  “Il vous veut. He wants you,” she said. She hesitated a split second, like she was trying to decide whether or not she dared say whatever it was she’d been holding back. “For the game. He already had you one time,” she said finally. “That’s why he needs you again. Il ne se reposera pas—he won’t rest after seeing you, oui? A la pleine lune…” She stopped, thinking about her words. “When the moon is full,” she started again. “Then, the game begins. He won’t stop. Not until he est mort.”

  She walked out. The kitchen door swung shut behind her, and I was left with a knot in my stomach and the unshakeable feeling that her warning was one I should heed. Clearly she was a crackpot—she had a pack of dogs at her heels and a lawyer in her attic, all living in a filthy house about five degrees hotter than the sun. If I was looking for crazy, there was no shortage of it here. It was still hard to shake the look in her eyes, though.

  I left the kitchen and headed back up to Max’s office, thinking about what Bonnie had started to tell me before the whole channeling business began: something about whatever Hank had seen the day his daughter was killed. I made a mental note to reexamine the statement he’d made just after being taken into custody. And maybe figure out when the next full moon was.

  Chapter Four

  I left Max & Sons at a little after eight that night. Max never came back and Bonnie vanished with the dogs, leaving me with a notebook filled with questions and the rare opportunity to snag whatever files I wanted. Somehow, I didn’t think Max would mind. Or notice, for that matter. I took a box of transcripts and some press clippings, and made sure not to let the bird or the one-eyed cat out as I left.

  I was about forty-five minutes from Littlehope, where my dog and all my worldly goods—or at least my backpack and my favorite pj’s—were being held hostage. I glanced at the clock, then at my phone. Tapped on the steering wheel a few times, getting progressively more irritated.

  Finally, I gave up and picked up the damn phone.

  “Are you coming back, or can I get rid of your bed and tell the boys at the paper we’ve got that scrapbooking room we’ve always wanted?” Diggs asked.

  “I was just making sure I wouldn’t be interrupting anything.”

  “Nope,” he said breezily. “I’m running solo tonight. I’ve got portabella burgers for dinner and Swiss chocolate for dessert.”

  “You didn’t invite my mother, did you?” I paused. “Or anyone else?”

  “It’s just you, me, and the hound tonight.” He was quiet for a second. When he resumed, there was something weird in his voice—something weighted that hadn’t been there before. “I found out a few things about the bodies up in Quebec you might be interested in, too.”

  “What?” I asked immediately.

  “The usual—torture and an agonizing death, in graphic detail.” He was trying to be light, but he fell considerably short on that count. “We can talk about it when you get here.”

  The portabella burgers weren’t much of a draw, and I was rapidly reaching my limit when it came to speculation about the grisly murders of young girls. The thought of spending an evening with Diggs, Einstein, and Swiss chocolate, however, was more than enough to sway me. I told him I’d be there in an hour, put the car in gear, and headed back to Littlehope.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  Burgers were on the grill and Diggs had U2’s The Unforgettable Fire on vinyl playing loud enough to make a lesser man’s ears bleed when I arrived. My mother had dropped Einstein off earlier, sparing me the agony of trying to find common ground since Maya’s revelation about the status of Kat’s surgical career. My mutt thumped his tail and his ears perked up when I stepped onto the deck, but otherwise he remained focused on any table scraps that might fall his way.

  Diggs wore jeans and a burgundy pullover that did ungodly things for his shoulders, his hair still wet from a recent shower. No shoes. We’d been friends long enough that it was easy to forget just how good looking he actually was—Until moments like this, when it was almost impossible to ignore.

  “You mind setting the table?” he asked over his shoulder.

  I cleared my throat and focused on staying focused. “Yeah, sure.”

  The bugs were staging a revolt, so we opted to eat inside rather than on the deck. I gathered plates and glasses and we did the polite small talk thing until dinner was ready, all the while carefully avoiding any mention of Diggs’ perky new reporter at the Trib. Once the burgers were up, I grabbed a beer for myself and the requisite bottled water for Diggs, chomping at the bit to get started.

  “So, what’d you find out about the case?” I asked the second he was seated.

  “You’re getting a little over-eager in your old age, Sol. How about a little foreplay before we dive into the heavy stuff, huh?”

  “I thought this was the foreplay. Come on—I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” His casual façade slipped, and I felt a sudden push of adrenaline. “You found something, didn’t you?”

  “I haven’t eaten all day—let’s have dinner first, then we can dig into it.”

  “Are you kidding me? Diggs—”

  “Please,” he said quietly. “Just have dinner with me. Then I’ll tell you everything.”

  If it was anyone but Diggs, I would have told them to go to hell. But he didn’t ask for much from me these days… The least I could do was have dinner. I took a bite of my portabella burger—which, it turned out, was a thousand times tastier than I’d ever imagined fungi could be. When that single bite didn’t prompt Diggs to spill his guts, I took another.

  “So, why don’t you tell me what you found while you were at the lawyer’s place?” he asked.

  The man was impossible.

  For the next half hour, I told him everything I’d learned about the Gendreau case: about the alternate suspect and the endless transcripts and Max and his balding bird and Psychic Bonnie and her pack of dogs. I left out her grim prediction about my fate, since it seemed to me we’d had enough of that sort of thing in the past few months.

  Diggs switched U2 out for Dusty Springfield for dinner, her voice sad and silky and the perfect compliment to our quiet night. When we were done eating, we took the dishes into the kitchen and he washed while I dried.

  “You’re stalling,” I finally said. He was scrubbing the last pan, and my patience had worn thin about an hour earlier.

  “Maybe.”

  “Is it about my father?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. There was only one reason Diggs would have his knickers this twisted.

  “Finish up and meet me in the living room.”

  His good humor had vanished about halfway through the dishes. Now, he looked conflicted and concerned and a little bit sad, and he wouldn’t look me in the eye. He left me in the kitchen, where I focused on drying the last beads of water from his cast iron skillet. Whatever he knew, it wasn’t good—that much was clear. The thought that the delicate cocoon I’d
woven around my sanity in recent months was about to unravel was unsettling, but it still couldn’t compete with the thought that Diggs might actually have a lead that could bring me closer to learning the truth about my father.

  Diggs was on the couch with Einstein beside him and a manila folder in his lap when I came in. He nudged the dog to the floor and nodded to the spot Stein had grudgingly vacated.

  “Have a seat.”

  “Are you trying to freak me out with this act, or is that just a side benefit?”

  He grinned—a wide, rakish smile that never came close to touching his eyes. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little off my game tonight.”

  I sat down yogi-style, facing him on the couch. When I reached for the manila folder in his hands, he held it just out of my reach.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I finally demanded. “Just give me the friggin’ thing, Diggs.”

  “Just relax for a second. There’s a preamble to this file.” Arguing was pointless. I shut up and let him have the floor. “I talked to my guys in Quebec today. They told me the police up there have a suspect they’re looking at.”

  “Who?”

  “His name’s Jeff Lincoln.” He watched me closely when he said the name. “It turns out he’s originally from Black Falls—where Ashley Gendreau was killed.”

  I flashed on Hank’s picture once again: Jeff, Will & Hank, Summer 1968.

  “Jeff Lincoln,” I said, half to myself. I had a hard time finding my voice. “Why do they suspect him of the murders? Where is he?”

  “They’re looking for him,” Diggs said. “He’s been a fugitive for almost thirty years now.” He’d already figured out there was a connection between Jeff Lincoln and my father—I could see it in his eye. He handed me the file.

  There were photocopied news articles and a couple of stories Diggs had printed off from online sites. I started with the top of the stack: a story from the Bangor Daily News, dated September 28, 1970.

  Fifteen-year-old Jeffrey Lincoln and twelve-year-old Erin Rae Lincoln were both reported missing after their boat was found capsized on Eagle Lake early Saturday morning. A search party has been organized, and area residents are asked to lend their assistance.

  “Erin Rae,” Diggs said when I’d finished reading. “That’s your name, right?”

  I nodded. My reaction was immediate, and a lot stronger than I’d expected—I felt like I’d just been side swiped by a steam engine.

  “This is him,” I said. “He always told me I was named after his sister. This has to be my father.”

  “Keep reading,” he said. He didn’t look happy.

  The next article was dated a week later, also from the Bangor Daily.

  BRUTAL MURDER SHAKES COMMUNITY

  The body of Erin Rae Lincoln was discovered by workers on a logging road fifteen miles from Eagle Lake, where the Lincolns’ boat was found abandoned a week ago. According to sources inside the police department, twelve-year-old Lincoln was tortured and strangled shortly after her disappearance. Fifteen-year-old Jeffrey Lincoln, who also went missing at the time, has still not been located. Authorities will not speculate as to whether or not he is a suspect in his sister’s murder. A service will be held for Miss Lincoln at the Black Falls Baptist Church this Saturday at 1 p.m.

  I closed the file and set it down between us. The remnants of my portabella burger was lodged halfway up my gullet, and my heart was pounding.

  “He didn’t do this,” I said.

  “I had the State M.E. fax me a copy of the coroner’s report. You might want to take a look.”

  I reopened the file and leafed through until I found the report. Autopsies forty years ago weren’t all that different than they are today, and the details of Erin Lincoln’s death were just as disturbing now as they had been then. She’d been raped, stabbed multiple times, and finally strangled to death with a leather belt that had been identified as belonging to her brother, Jeffrey Lincoln. Post mortem, a single letter had been carved into her chest: J.

  I thought of the father I’d known growing up on Payson Isle—of tending the garden with him, playing games, going to church services. The man I’d known had never even raised his voice. He loved animals, and the outdoors, and sunsets over the water. I shook my head, refusing to cave at the threat of tears. I closed the file and pushed it away again. If I looked at it one more time, there was no way I’d keep dinner down.

  “He didn’t do it,” I said again.

  “That’s not all that’s in there,” Diggs said. I fought the urge to put my hands over my ears. “Jeff Lincoln resurfaced in 1972. He spent two weeks in a psych ward in Lansing, Michigan, before he escaped and disappeared. No one ever saw him again—he stayed under everyone’s radar after that.”

  “So how does that have anything to do with the girls they just dug up on the border?”

  He paused. The music had ended, the house now quiet and warm and cast in shadow.

  “While he was in the hospital in Lansing, they got his fingerprints,” he said.

  I couldn’t get the image of Erin Lincoln’s body out of my head. “They found his prints at the grave site in Quebec,” I guessed.

  He nodded.

  “It wasn’t him,” I said. “He was on the island in the ‘80s. He couldn’t have done it.” I didn’t know who I was trying to convince more—Diggs or myself.

  “He visited the mainland a lot though, didn’t he?” Diggs pressed. “You said he had buying trips, right? He did the shopping for the church. Went to craft fairs to sell the dolls the Paysons made.” He touched my arm. “As much as you might think you knew your father, maybe you didn’t really know him at all. You’ve painted this rosy picture of who you imagined him to be, the same way you painted this rosy picture of what your childhood in that church was like. How much of that is actually based in reality, though?”

  “I sure as hell knew him well enough to know he didn’t do this,” I said angrily. I stood and walked across the room, putting as much distance as possible between myself and the gruesome photos. “He never would have done that.”

  “Did he ever tell you what happened to his sister?”

  I turned on him. “Why the fuck would he name me after somebody he raped and murdered?” I shouted. “The hooded man—”

  Diggs was on his feet at that. He stayed where he was, but I could feel his frustration all the way across the room. “The hooded man what, Sol? You’re really gonna stand there and tell me that the phantom you say set the Payson Church on fire did this, too? He killed your aunt, then twenty years later tortured and murdered another handful of girls and planted your father’s fingerprints before he buried his victims so far in the middle of nowhere they’d likely never be found? If he was gonna frame your father, why would he go to that much trouble to get rid of the bodies? Think about it!”

  I was thinking about it; that was the problem. I shook my head. I had an overpowering urge to hit something. “So you think Gendreau brought me in on this because he thinks my father killed his daughter? His whole point was to use me to track Dad down when no one else could?”

  “I think you should ask him that.”

  I ran a hand through my hair and tried to get a handle on this latest information. What the hell had I expected I’d find when I finally got some insight into my father’s past? That he’d had an apple-pie-and-board-games childhood with a loving family somewhere, and then on a whim just decided to change his name and hide out for the rest of his life on some island with a bunch of religious nut jobs? I’d known it had to be bad… I’d never imagined something like this, though.

  I went to the window and stared out into the darkness, my reflection superimposed over a canvas of blue-black night and trees cast in shadow. Diggs came over and stood beside me.

  “I assume this means you’ll be headed up north next?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I want to get up there as soon as I can. I won’t be able to figure any of this out until I’m actually able to sit down with some of
the key players to ask a few questions. And if Dad really is from up there…” My voice faded. If he was really up there, what? I’d like a reunion with the old family, if any of them are still alive? I’d like to find out every last detail of the brutal murder that took the sister I’d been named for?

  I still felt sick, my arms crossed over my stomach as I tried to erase the images I’d seen in both girls’ files now—Ashley Gendreau and Erin Lincoln. Unlike the victims in Canada, buried so long that most traces of the crime had been erased by time, the brutality of Ashley’s attack had been captured in half a dozen different mediums. Her mother sat through the trial; went through Technicolor photos that left no doubt about the kind of hell her daughter had endured in the hours before her death.

  And now it seemed my aunt had endured the same hell.

  If she had, what did my father know about both girls’ deaths?

  Diggs leaned against me, staring out into the same black night. “I could come with you.”

  I leaned back for just a second before I remembered the stacked brunette now keeping his office stocked with fresh wildflowers and Post-it notes. I straightened up. Shook my head. “You don’t need to do that—I’ve got it covered. You’ve got too much going on here, anyway.”

  He looked like he was about to argue when his phone rang. The expression on his face was all I needed to confirm that that very same stacked brunette was on the other end of the line.

  “I can call her back later,” he said.

  “Nah, answer it,” I said quickly. I grabbed Jeff Lincoln’s file and the dog. “If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll catch up with you another time. Thanks for this.” I nodded toward the file numbly. Diggs answered the call as I was headed down the hallway, but I made a point not to listen.

  ◊◊◊◊◊

  Two minutes. Growing up, my mother used to say that was all the time anyone needed for even the worst emotional shit-storm before a woman with any true substance could get control and soldier on. Dad was more forgiving of emotional shit-storms—or at least I thought he was, but since I hadn’t had a meaningful conversation with the man since I was nine, it was becoming a lot harder to remember his views on life.