Paying The Piper - 1. Chapter 1

Moonlight filtered down through the trees, illuminating portions of the body. Fortunately, the full dramatic effect – especially for those with weak stomachs – was lost in the deep predawn shadows. Blood coated the ground around the twisted corpse of the woman – mostly in large splatters, but some in small pools. Her strawberry hair lay in a tangle around her neck, and her too-tight sweater dress was bunched in a knot high on her sticky, stained thighs. Cale wrinkled his nose in distaste at the coppery smell.

"Why do I have to be here?" he grumbled under his breath to his most trusted friend. Lucky for Cale, since the body of the girl was cooling on his front lawn, his best friend happened to be the Chief of Police.

"That's an asinine question." Quent said. He curled his lip and turned back to the body. With a flick of his wrist, a half-dozen people sprang into action, photographing, cataloging, and gathering. Not a single one fussed at being ordered about like a puppy, Cale noticed with a snort, but then again, not a single one wanted to bear Quent's wrath. He was, indisputably, the law in Farther's Run. If it was a matter of upholding the peace, he had his large, hooked nose in it. It didn’t matter if your husband was beating you, or your neighbor’s kid stole your lawn ornaments, or even if your cat was stuck up in a tree. Quent had the responsibility to fix it, and as a result, the final word on how it was handled. This situation, albeit messier than a stranded pet, was no different. He'd wanted Cale at the scene, so Cale was there.

"This woman has been brutally murdered on your property, Cale. Surely you see how that would affect you," Quent drawled as he stared at the body.

Cale pursed his lips and remained silent. It could affect him in any number of ways, actually. Admittedly, none of them pleasant. "Yes, I see that."

"Do you know her?"

Cale turned angry eyes on Quent. "Now, that’s a stupid question."

Quent remained impassive. He merely stared at Cale with his fathomless brown eyes. Cale huffed and lowered his gaze. Things were normally much more relaxed between them. But this was Quent; he had a job to do, and his friendship with Cale wouldn't interfere.

"Yes, of course I know her. And so do you, unless you’re flirting with senility. It’s Cynthia Mullen. We went to school together. She’s a hooker."

Quent curled his lip. "How eloquent. I take it from your tone you didn’t much care for Ms. Mullen."

Cale shifted his feet uncomfortably. "I…I did. We…used to be friends. In school. It’s been a long time since school," he finished weakly.

"Not so long," Quent replied. "It only seems that way to you."

Cale nodded, but didn’t reply.

"So, officially, you have no idea of how she came to be here. On your property. Your lawn. In direct sight of your bedroom window."

"Fuck you, Quent." Cale turned away from the grisly scene and began to walk toward the house. He felt, rather than saw, Quent fall into step beside him.

"I had to ask. You understand that."

Cale ran his hands through his tousled blond hair and kept walking. His clothes, despite being hastily thrown on, were expensive and well tailored, though at the moment, they ill-suited his drawn and haggard appearance.

Quent cut his eyes toward his friend. "I heard the rumpled look was in. Leave it to you to look the part, even at three in the morning."

Cale ignored him, but slowed his pace at they approached the massive front doors of his home. "What’s Elizabeth going to say?" he wondered aloud. He didn’t expect an answer and was surprised when he got one.

"I expect she will stand by you like she always does. Just like a dutiful little wife should."

Cale gave his companion a withering look before shifting his gaze back to the house. As a result, he missed the wry smile that flashed over Quent’s face.

"What a fucking mess," Cale mumbled. "What kind of person does…that to another person?" he asked.

Quent steeled his features, though flecks of anger still glittered in his eyes. "A monster."

***********

"Cale, honey, what happened? Quent?"

Elizabeth’s whiny voice was the first thing Cale heard when he stepped through the huge double doors of his house and into the richly appointed foyer. He didn’t answer, hoping to prolong the inevitable. The inevitable, however, didn’t appreciate being ignored.

"Cale! Damn it! What’s going on?" Elizabeth McCoy floated into the foyer from the front living room. She was a vision of silk and lace, complete with high-heeled slippers.

Elizabeth wasn’t a bad person, unless one counted spoiled and self-centered among the more ruinous traits. Bright, but not overly intelligent, she had a middle of the road attractiveness, which was often ruined by a pinched whiny expression. She and Cale had been betrothed since they were very young and had married at the tender age of eighteen as instructed by their parents. To everyone who'd scoffed that such dark-age thinking still existed in this day and age, Cale had simply smiled serenely and pointed to his father. Most took one look at Angus McCoy, gave an audible gulp, and slunk away.

Luckily, in Cale’s opinion at least, Angus was dead. He and Quent had gotten remarkably drunk the night of his father’s funeral. They had not, however, shed a single tear.

"It’s…there was a murder, Elizabeth," Cale said as he threw his coat over one of the chairs by the door. Elizabeth paled and her hands flew to her throat, where they fluttered wildly.

"Oh, my. Was it anyone we know?" she trilled.

Cale turned away to walk toward the living room, rolling his eyes as he went. "Is there anyone in this town we don’t know?" he threw over his shoulder.

Quent followed Cale and Elizabeth trailed after Quent. "Well, no, not really. But I thought perhaps it might be a transient or something. You know we get them. Why, a man came into town not three days ago - a stranger - and rented out the rooms above Mr. Stahl’s garage. We don’t know everyone, dear."

Cale clenched his teeth, hearing nothing but the simpering tone. Quent, however, focused on her words.

"A stranger, you say?" he asked.

Elizabeth turned toward Quent, basking in the new attention. "Yes. A young man. Around our age, I think. Well, I mean, my age." She giggled at her faux pas and Cale rolled his eyes again.

"I understood what you meant," Quent said mildly. "One could hardly consider me young anymore."

"You’re not old, Quent," Cale called out from the sofa. Quent’s lip quirked at the pat response. He poured himself a drink, just as Cale had done, and joined his young friend on the couch, cutting in front of Elizabeth to do so. Pointedly ignoring her, Quent slurped his drink and crunched his ice. With a small sound of exasperation, Elizabeth took a chair across from her husband, rather than next to him. When she looked down to straighten her flowing silk robe, Cale shot Quent a look of thanks.

"You didn’t answer me," Elizabeth complained when she looked up again. Her tone was noticeably frostier than before. "Who was it?"

Cale took another long swallow of his drink before crossing his legs and sinking back into the cushion. "Cynthia."

Elizabeth paled. Two pronounced pink splotches formed on her cheeks. Cale groaned inwardly and steeled himself for what was to come. Quent sighed and sat back, and together they waited for Elizabeth's temper tantrum.

"Cynthia," she said and pursed her thin lips together. "Cynthia Mullen? Town slut and call girl?" Her voice dripped false sweetness.

Cale narrowed his eyes at his wife. "Do we know another Cynthia?"

"I don’t know another Cynthia. But I suspect you might know one or two." Cale groaned, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Elizabeth plowed on ahead. "I suspect there are many women you know that I don’t."

"Don’t start. I'm in no mood," Cale growled. Elizabeth’s cheeks got even redder. But when she opened her mouth again, Quent interrupted her.

"What stranger were you talking about?" he cut in.

Elizabeth looked momentarily irritated, but answered anyway. "I don’t know for sure. A man. He drifted into town a few days ago looking for work. He’s educated, I know that. Jim hired him on the spot to revamp his records system and put it on that fancy new computer system he just bought. Imagine that. A homeless computer expert. What is the world coming to?"

Cale barely restrained himself from reminding Elizabeth about the body of Cynthia Mullen less than a quarter mile away. If Elizabeth thought out-of-work Internet geeks were shocking, he doubted a graphic description of the bloody disemboweled body of their old schoolmate would be a good idea. He took another swallow of his scotch and remained silent.

"Jim Stahl hired him? Without so much as one reference?" Quent questioned incredulously. "That doesn’t sound like him."

Elizabeth shrugged. "Well, he did. I guess you can ask him about it."

"I will." Quent finished the remainder of his drink in one swallow and stood from the couch. He ignored a pleading glance from Cale and collected his coat. "I should get back. They’ll be finished working the scene."

Cale sat up. "How much experience do you have with this type of thing, Quent? I wasn’t aware we got many murders in Farther's Run."

Quent slipped gracefully into his overcoat and turned to go. "I'm confident in my abilities. I'll get this monster."

Cale stifled a laugh at his friend’s last pronouncement. He ran his cut crystal tumbler over his forehead, sighing at how the cool condensation eased the pounding in his temples. "I’m sure you will, hubris notwithstanding. Good luck. I'll call you tomorrow." He watched Quent cross the room and cringed when he heard the front door open and then shut. He knew what was coming next.

"Well," Elizabeth began without preamble, "were you fucking her?"

Cale closed his eyes again. "You know I wasn’t."

"And how would I know that?" Elizabeth’s voice rose in pitch. "You haven’t bothered with me in months. Before that, it was once in a blue moon if I was lucky. Am I that unattractive?"

Cale’s stomach twisted at the pain underlying the anger in his wife’s voice. None of this was her fault. He may be a cold bastard – at least some thought so – but he had no desire to cause his wife real pain. "You’re very pretty," he began laboriously.

"But?" she countered. He could hear the hostility in her voice.

"I just don’t…my life is very busy. I’m tired, Elizabeth. I never envisioned my father would pass so soon." Good riddance, he thought silently. "The corporation, the house, the various organizations he was involved in – it’s overwhelming. I just…I’m tired," he finished.

Elizabeth looked unimpressed. "That’s nothing but an excuse."

"It’s the truth." He placed his half-empty glass on the table and stood. "I’ll be in my office. I doubt I could sleep again tonight after seeing what I just did. I’ll see you at breakfast." He left without waiting for an answer.