Paying The Piper - 38. Chapter 38

Sarah sniffed and wiped away another tear. She closed the first box and opened the second. Mrs. Mullen had come by earlier in the day and given them to her.

"These are some of Cynthia’s things," she'd said through stifled sobs. "I knew they should go to you. It’s old school girl stuff."

Sarah had nodded and embraced Cynthia’s mother awkwardly with one arm. A minute later, Mrs. Mullen was gone. The boxes sat unopened most of the day, mocking Sarah from the foyer hall. That evening before dinner, she carried them into the living room. They were brown, making them invisible against the décor. She busied herself by preparing a complicated new recipe and managed to avoid opening them for another two hours. By eight o’clock, however, she succumbed to her morbid curiosity.

The first box held what Molly had claimed. Old schoolgirl mementos. Pictures of the two of them, notes passed in class and other frivolous things. The second, on the other hand, was different. There were some old scrapbooks and newspapers from years ago, true, but those were underneath a pile of fresh, crisp envelopes. All unopened.

Sarah took the stack from the box and placed it in her lap. She stared at the topmost letter for a long while. Cynthia’s name was printed in an elegant hand on the front, but there was no return address listed.

For Cynthia to not open the letters meant that she knew who sent them, despite the fact that the sender had left his address off each and every envelope. A chill crawled up Sarah’s back, and she shivered. Before she lost her nerve, she ripped open the first letter.

***********

Quent growled. He snapped his cell phone shut and barely resisted the urge to fling it against the wall. Rob wasn’t answering. Cale wasn’t answering. Out of the two, Cale at least should know better.

Something was happening. He could feel it. Goddamn it, he could smell it. He growled again in frustration and smacked his hand against his bandaged thigh. Pain blossomed, spreading out like ripples in a pond and Quent swore through the agony. "I'm going to fucking kill the two of you," he snarled at the ceiling. He leaned back against the cushion and hissed through his teeth. "And Marcus, too," he added as an afterthought. Why be selective, after all?

Quent had hobbled out from the bathroom ten minutes ago only to be met by the blinking light on his answering machine. How dare Marcus call and leave that inane message. New evidence, indeed. Check something out, my ass. When he got his hands around Marcus’s neck, he wasn't letting go. He didn’t care how much Cale cried.

He closed his eyes and imagined a Marcus-free world. Soon, a smile worked at the corners of his mouth, but before it could form, the phone rang.

He snatched it before the first ring died. "Marcus," he snapped into the phone. He was interrupted before he could continue.

"It’s not Drew."

"Elizabeth."

"No, it’s not Elizabeth, and I don’t have all fucking night to play guessing games with you."

"Watch your language. You’re speaking to an officer of the law." Quent grinned as he barked the order into the phone. His mood was improving by leaps and bounds. This was exactly what he needed. Someone to play with.

The caller snorted. "I didn’t realize you knew how to make a joke, Quent."

Quent frowned. "Who is this?" He struggled into an upright position on the couch.

"It’s Sarah Cross and before you hang up or say anything, you will listen."

"Is this an emergency?"

"Well...."

Quent hung up. He chuckled at the phone. All of a sudden, he felt good enough to make dinner. He'd pushed and pulled himself halfway into a standing position when the phone rang again.

Quent grabbed for it, but lost his balance in the process. The spike of pain in his leg when he fell back onto the couch made him yell into the receiver.

"Please listen," Sarah pleaded, ignoring his outburst. "I’m sure I know who killed Cynthia, and it wasn’t Jim Stahl."

Despite the pain in his thigh, Quent went very still. "I’m listening."

"I have these letters. They’re….they’re awful. The things he says, what he’s going to do."

"Do you have anything coherent to say?" Quent asked.

"Oh, you bastard," Sarah cried. Quent listened to her sob and sniff on the phone. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Don’t you understand?" Sarah continued. "If she had opened them – even one – she'd be alive today."

Quent began to rub his injured leg. "Cynthia?" he asked.

"Yes," Sarah confirmed through her tears. "It’s all right here, Quent. Everything he was going to do to her, everything he did to her. Only, he wrote the letter days before he killed her."

"Who?" Quent demanded.

"Stuart," Sarah sobbed into the phone. "It was Stuart."

A cold ball of horror formed in Quent’s stomach. "The boys," he whispered to himself. In a heartbeat, the nebulous feeling of dread had ballooned into horrifying certainty. Trouble was brewing, Sarah’s call was proof of that. Where there was trouble, there was Marcus. And where there was Marcus, there was Cale.

"What did you say?" Sarah asked through her tears.

Quent hoisted himself from the couch and limped toward the kitchen. "How fast can you get here?"

Sarah was taken aback. "I guess, maybe, fifteen minutes."

"Make it five," Quent said. His tone brokered no argument. "There’s no time for you to primp. No one cares what you look like anyway."

To his surprise, Sarah didn’t balk. "I’ll be there in five."

***********

Quent was waiting outside when Sarah drove up. He'd dosed up on painkillers, but his leg still hurt like hell. However, the urge to get to Cale, and yes damn it, also Drew, helped keep the worst of the pain at bay.

That is, until Sarah arrived in her orange Volkswagen. "Oh no," Quent snapped when she poked her head out of the window, "I’d rather walk."

Sarah shrugged. "Suit yourself." She pulled away from the curb.

"Wait!" Quent called. "Wait, you daft witch!"

Sarah hit the brakes and reversed, coasting back to where Quent was standing. She glared at him through the open window. Quent raised his eyes to the heavens, praying for deliverance. "All right," he said through clenched teeth.

A sly smile spread over Sarah’s face. "You must be desperate, Quent."

Quent stared through the small window at Sarah. "You have no idea."

Something in his eyes must have shown through because she leaned over and jerked the door open. "Get in."

"Easier said than done," he grumbled as he limped off the curb.

Sarah squinted at Quent in the gloom. "Oh, for God’s sake. What the hell did you do to yourself?"

"That is none of your business. But I’m going to tell you anyway. I risked my life defending the people of this town from a greedy sociopath. Please, don’t rush to thank me. I find the attention embarrassing."

Sarah sighed and reached across the seat. "Drama queen," she mumbled. She jerked the lever for the seat control and it slid back twelve inches. "That’s the best I can do. You should be able to squeeze in now."

Grumbling, Quent folded himself into the front seat. Sarah had pushed it back enough that he was able to ride with his leg straight out. With a sigh of relief, he settled into the worn leather. "All right, let’s go," he demanded. "Head for…oomph!"

"Hold these, would you?" Sarah said as she deposited a pile of multi-colored crocheted bags on Quent’s lap.

"I will not!" Quent demanded as he juggled the dozens of sacks. He rolled down the window and hoisted the lot into his arms.

"Don’t you dare, you snake!" Sarah cried. "That’s my livelihood!"

With an affronted groan, Quent rolled the window back up.

Sarah pulled away from the curb and headed out into the night. "Where are we going?"

Quent craned his neck to see over the bags. "To Cale's. How fast can this tin can move?"

"Fast enough." She stomped on the accelerator and the car shot forward.

Quent grunted in approval, then – hating himself for his curiosity – glanced into the top-most bag in the pile. "What are these?" he demanded.

"Battery-powered self-warming crocheted slippers. The wave of the future. I make them in all sizes. Even the hard-to-fit ones. What’s your favorite color?"

Quent groaned and dropped his head back against the seat.

**********

"Drew," Cale said. "Don’t you think we should go to Quent first?" He shook his head. "Let me rephrase that. We should see Quent first. He needs to know what we’ve found."

Drew nodded. "Yes, he does. But I really think we should check on Elizabeth first."

Cale braced himself on the dashboard as Drew took another sharp turn too fast. "You want to check on my wife," he said in even tones, his expression suspicious. "The woman who thinks improperly chilled champagne is an emergency."

Drew glanced at Cale, and Cale spread his arms, palms up. "She’s fine, Drew. If I were to guess, I’d say there’s a light bulb burned out or something."

Drew nibbled his lip as he took the final curve and started down the long straightaway to the mansion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and increased his speed.

Cale put a hand on his arm. "What?"

Drew shifted in his seat and his speed picked up even further. "Haven’t you ever heard of the little boy who cried wolf?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Nobody came when he actually needed them to. The wolf killed all his sheep." He shot another glance at Cale. "With all that’s happened, do you want to take a chance?"

Cale pursed his lips, but didn’t answer.

**********

"Here," Sarah said. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she reached into the backseat and retrieved a stack of letters. "These are the letters I was talking about."

Quent’s first attempt to grab them failed, thwarted by the bags of slippers. Sarah shook them at him again, agitated. "Well? Are you going to read them?"

Quent managed to free one hand. He snatched the letters, sneering at Sarah as he did so. "All right, I don’t have time to read all of these. Just tell me which one got your panties in a bunch."

Sarah pursed her lips. She shook her head and answered without taking her eyes off the road. "I knew you’d say that. I put the bad one on top."

"The bad one?"

"Yes," she said. "The one where he says he’s going to lay her open for the angels of heaven to see. And leave her on the doorstep of the devil."

"Stuart’s a poet," Quent mumbled as he withdrew the topmost letter from the pile. He opened it and squinted at the precise handwriting. "I will leave you on the Devil’s doorstep, but do not despair, my love, do not despair," Quent read. "For all the sins visited upon you will be forgiven, washed away by your warm blood. You will be free and pure again. Eternally beautiful. Eternally pure."

Beside him, Sarah gave a shaky sigh but didn’t speak. Quent darted his eyes toward her. "Are you all right?"

Sarah jerked her head around, startled, before shifting her gaze back to the dark road. "Careful, Quent," she said. "You almost sounded like you meant that."

"I’m not the monster here."

"No, that’s becoming quite obvious."