Free Murder Season by Robert Ellis Page B

brother. Several thousand titles filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. Skimming through the collection in the dim light, it took a moment to grasp that they were sorted by the director’s name, not the title of the film. Because this information wasn’t printed on the spine, Hight had to possess a certain knowledge of each film’s history. All the same, some of Lena’s favorites were here. Films by Truffaut and Bresson, Buñuel and Bertolucci. Works by Hitchcock, and Huston, Kubrick, Kurosawa, and Herzog.
    It all registered even though she was thinking more about Jacob Gant’s murder and the memories that had surfaced while she examined the gunshot wounds to his head. She was looking for John Ford. When she found Hight’s copy of The Searchers, she pulled it from the shelf.
    The cover was a reproduction of the original poster: John Wayne and Jeffrey Hunter on horseback with their rifles set on their saddles. Across the image the words, He had to find her … were repeated twice. Still, nothing registered.
    “Hey, Fred,” she said. “Are you into movies?”
    “Since I was a kid.”
    “You ever see this one?”
    She turned and held out the cover. When he read the title, he smiled.
    “One of my favorites,” he said. “Along with Stagecoach, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, and My Darling Clementine .”
    “Someone shoots someone in the eyes. This is the movie, right? Without eyes, you can’t enter the spirit world.”
    Wireman thought about it for a moment, started to nod, then stopped as he put it together. “That’s the one,” he said. “Of course, it doesn’t prove anything.”
    “I’m not saying it does. All it means is that he owns the film and probably watched it once or twice.”
    “More than once or twice would be my guess, Lena. Before Hight’s career tanked and he moved to reality TV, he directed Prairie Winds . The poster’s over here on the wall.”
    Wireman swung the closet door shut, revealing the framed poster. Lena crossed the room. She had seen the film more than once and liked it. Once with her brother, and once with Rhodes.
    “You look surprised,” he said.
    “I didn’t realize it was him. What went wrong? Why’d he stop making movies?”
    Wireman shrugged and got back to work. “Shit happens, I guess. Seems like he got more than his share.”

 
    13
    Lena noticed a second door in the hallway. Because it was slightly more narrow than the door leading to the attic, she assumed that it opened to a closet. But when she gave the handle a push, bright sunlight flooded the entire landing and swirled around her feet.
    It turned out to be another bedroom. Lily Hight’s bedroom.
    And there was a feeling inside—something undefined and difficult to absorb.
    The girl’s room was almost the size of her father’s office across the hall. On the left, Lena could see a walk-in closet—a chest of drawers and a bathroom. On the right, a small desk stood beside a pair of bookcases and two sets of windows facing the Gants’ house on the other side of the drive. Curiously, a window was cracked open, a slight breeze filtering warm air into the air-conditioned room.
    Lena walked in, letting the door drift shut behind her. As she stepped into the middle of the room, she looked at the double bed pushed against the far wall, noted an armchair, the computer, and various keepsakes the sixteen-year-old had collected before her death. But what struck her most was the condition of the room itself. That feeling she got when she first opened the door.
    One year ago this bedroom had been a crime scene. After the investigation, the space would have been released and the Hights given the names of several companies specializing in bio waste and crime scene cleanup. It seemed as if their work had been thorough. Even the white carpet looked spotless. But it was more than that. What struck Lena about the room was that the Hights didn’t appear to have sealed it off. Unlike most families who have suffered