Second Honeymoon Page 0,41

It wasn’t really Insley leading the way. It was the killer. If he hadn’t outright orchestrated this little conga line along the lake, he at least knew it would happen. A sure thing. Like…well, clockwork.

“There!” said Insley, first through the brush.

Sarah didn’t have to look hard to see what he was pointing at. It was all right in front of her, everything that had been missing, smack in the middle of this next teardrop: a fishing rod lying on the ground next to a tackle box and bucket. Sort of creepy.

No, she thought. Definitely creepy.

“Okay, so we found the gear. Now what?” asked Knoll.

Boy, does this guy ask a lot of questions. And not the right ones, either.

Sarah simply ignored him. There was nothing to search for in the rod and bucket, but the dark green tackle box with its closed lid was just calling out to her. Beckoning. No doubt about it.

She walked straight to it, dropping to her knees. With the latex gloves still on, she flipped up the latch. It opened easily. Of course it did.

“Christ, that’s a lot of lures,” said Vicks, looking down over Sarah’s shoulder.

That was an understatement. The box was not one of those neatly organized jobs with separate compartments and multiple layers of sliding hinged drawers. It was simply one big catchall for seemingly every lure this John O’Hara had ever owned.

“Not that any of them were doing him much good,” said Knoll, looking into the empty fish bucket. “Talk about having no luck at the lake.”

Insley snickered while Sarah began sifting through the box, the endless hooks repeatedly grabbing at her latex gloves. Frustrated, she finally just flipped the box over, the lures spilling everywhere.

Staring at them all was like reading a Dr. Seuss book. There were long ones, short ones, fat ones, and skinny ones. Some were shiny silver, others were bright colors. There was even one with—

Wait: red light…Hold it right there.

Sarah’s eyes locked on something in the middle of the pile, a piece of folded white paper.

The lures were mostly old and rusty; some were even encrusted with the dried remains of worms. But this paper was new. Clean. White.

“What is it?” asked Insley. “Don’t hold us in suspense.”

Sarah unfolded the paper, her mind wishing for the impossible—like the killer’s name, address, and telephone number. Maybe even his Twitter handle and the best times to find him unarmed. Gee, wouldn’t that be a great ending for this case?

“It’s a receipt,” said Sarah, turning it right side up to read it. “From the Movie Hut?”

“That’s that vending machine,” said Vicks. “You know, the one they have at Brewer’s supermarket? You rent DVDs from it for, like, a buck a night.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Insley. “I’ve seen it. Never used it. Looks too complicated.”

“Hell, I’ve even kicked it,” said Knoll. “The thing ate my dollar one night.”

“What were you trying to rent?” asked Vicks.

“Speed Racer, I think.”

“Trust me, the machine was doing you a favor.”

The two chuckled. Even Insley cracked a slight smile. That is, he smiled until he noticed Sarah still staring at the receipt. “So what is it?” he asked her again. “What are you thinking?”

“Today’s the twenty-fourth, right?” she asked.

Insley nodded. “Yep. My daughter’s birthday, actually. Why?”

“Because this receipt is from today.”

He bent down to take a look. “That’s a little weird, isn’t it? If that’s the right word.”

“Yeah, I think that’s the right word,” she said. “Now look again. There’s something even weirder.”

Chapter 54

DEFINITELY WEIRDER.

Sarah had polished off her southwest-style burger and sweet-potato shoestring fries and was below the label on her second bottle of Bud. She was thinking about this killer she was closing in on.

To her left and right, the rest of the packed bar at Canteena’s was living up to its reputation as Candle Lake’s epicenter of nightlife. This according to Sheriff Insley, who had recommended the joint. And make no mistake: with its low ceiling, fifteen-watt lighting, and sawdust-covered floor, Canteena’s was definitely a “joint.”

Had Sarah been eavesdropping, she would’ve heard the shocked chatter from the locals around her about the murder of John O’Hara. What was Sheriff Insley saying? Are there any suspects? Do we have a murderer among us?

But Sarah wasn’t eavesdropping. The only thing she could hear was her own thoughts, loud and echoing in her head, and all centered around one single question: What was the killer trying to tell her with this latest clue?

Printed on the receipt from the Movie Hut was the title of the movie. It