Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,92

his losses. Consequently he’d amassed an impressive portfolio of properties, all of which were occupied with long-lease renters, providing him a substantial cash flow on top of his regular income.

The Volvo’s headlights fell upon a rain-whipped police cruiser parked in the roundabout driveway in front of his home. Lights burned behind the Levolor blinds in several of the first floor windows.

Spencer was so surprised he almost slammed the brakes. His immediate impulse was to turn around and get the hell out of there. He didn’t do this. His headlights might have already been spotted. Moreover, whatever business had brought the police to his home at this late hour couldn’t be related to Mother of Sorrows church. He had set the fire all of ten minutes before. This had to be an unrelated visit—but concerning what?

Had something happened to Lynette?

Yes, that had to be it. She’d had a stroke, or a heart attack.

Spencer wanted to believe this was the case. He wished fervently it were so. Yet he couldn’t convince himself of it. The timing was too coincidental.

Spencer parked behind the black and white—“Sheriff” stenciled next to the police department shield—and cut the engine. He retrieved his briefcase from the passenger seat, climbed out, and hurried through the downpour to the front stoop. He took a moment to collect himself at the door, then swung it open and stepped into the marble foyer. The house was silent. “Hello?” he called.

Alan Humperdinck, the Summit County sheriff, and a young deputy, both wearing gray rain slickers over their uniforms, stepped from a doorway a little ways down the hall. They had been in the living room.

Humperdinck was in his sixties, on the cusp of retirement. He had a sun-weathered face and hard gray eyes, cop’s eyes, suspicious, wary. Spencer had been introduced to him a half dozen times over the years at community gatherings and festivals. However, they’d never exchanged more than passing pleasantries. The deputy couldn’t have been more than twenty. Beneath his wide-brimmed Stetson, his face was gaunt, white, anemic.

“Sheriff Humperdinck,” Spencer said, allowing his genuine confusion to inform his tone. He took a step forward and extended his hand in greeting.

Humperdinck merely looked at it with an expression equal parts surprise and loathing, and right then Spencer knew Lynette was fine. They were here for him. Somehow they knew about the church. It was impossible, but there was no other explanation for the frosty—no, the downright rude—reception.

Spencer lowered his hand and adopted a concerned expression. “What’s happened, Sheriff? Is it Lynette? Is my wife all right?”

“She’s okay,” Humperdinck said tightly. “She called us.”

Spencer frowned. “She called you? Why? What’s happened?”

“Where were you just now, Mr. Pratt?”

“I was at the hospital.”

“At this hour?”

“I often stay late, to catch up on work. Now, Sheriff, I must demand to know what’s happened.”

Humperdinck reached a gnarled, liver-spotted hand into the back pocket of his trousers and withdrew a card. He began to read from it. It took Spencer a moment to realize he was citing a variation of the Miranda warning: “You are a suspect in several capital crimes. You will accompany us to the Boston Mills police barracks. You have the right to remain silent—”

“Now hold on a minute, Sheriff—”

“You have the right to legal counsel. If you cannot afford legal counsel, such will be provided for you—”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Spencer interrupted more forcefully. “Not until you tell me what in God’s name is going on.”

“You’re coming with us one way or the other, Mr. Pratt,” Humperdinck said. “If you refuse to come willingly, Deputy Dawson will wake Judge Pardy and get a warrant for your arrest. Given what your wife has shown us, that would be very easy.”

“Lynette? Where is she?” Spencer stepped forward.

The two officers blocked his path.

“Get out of my damn way,” he snapped. “This is my bloody house, isn’t it?”

For a moment Spencer didn’t think Humperdinck was going to concede. His old body seemed to tremble with a barely constrained hostility. But then, reluctantly, he stepped aside. The deputy did so as well, his eyes downcast.

Spencer turned his bullish body sideways to slip between them in the narrow hallway. He stopped at the entrance to the living room, from where they had emerged. Lynette sat on the buffalo-hide chesterfield, staring up at him with wet eyes.

Dozens of Polaroid photographs were spread out on the coffee table before her. Spencer stiffened in surprise. This morphed into panic, then rage. The dumb whore had gone snooping when he