Free The Psalmist by James Lilliefors Page B

Creek Crossing, I happened to see someone from my past, driving south. The county’s past, actually. Jackson Pynne. Do you know who he is?”
    Her eyes filled with a sudden interest. “Yes. He was the developer behind a ­couple of big projects that were never built. Tidewater Landing? Jackson’s restaurant?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œAnd why would that be of interest to us?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know exactly. I just remember there was a saying ­people used to have around here: ‘Something strange happens every time Jackson Pynne comes to town.’ And, of course, something strange did happen this week.”
    Hunter held her frown.
    â€œIt just seemed odd. As far as I know, he hasn’t been here for several years. I think he may still have a few enemies in the county, I don’t know.” Luke could see things clicking and whirring behind her eyes. This, for some reason, interested her more than Psalms. More than he’d imagined.
    â€œWhat kind of vehicle was he driving?”
    â€œPickup. A Dodge Ram, I believe.”
    â€œSilver?”
    â€œSilver, yes. How do you know?”
    She reached for a manila folder, and handed him a computer printout image of a pickup parked by a gas pump. “This look like it?”
    â€œYeah, actually,” Luke said. “I think so. Where is this from?”
    She showed him another, of a man wearing a dark overcoat, pumping gas, a baseball cap jammed down over his face.
    â€œIs that Jackson Pynne?”
    â€œActually, I think—­ It’s hard to tell, but, yeah, it looks like him.”
    â€œAny idea why he might’ve been here? Or how we might reach him?”
    â€œNo, not really. To both questions.” Thinking about it some more. “Why? Where did this come from?”
    â€œBetween us? This matches the description of a pickup truck that was seen idling on the church road early Tuesday morning. About an hour before you found Jane Doe.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œYeah.”
    She called up a map on one of her monitors and asked Luke to pinpoint where he’d been driving and which direction in which Jackson Pynne was going when they intersected. Luke felt numb, knowing where this was heading. His instincts told him Pynne couldn’t have been involved in the church killing, although Jackson’s life had a been a mystery for the past several years.
    Afterward, they walked in silence to the lobby, as if traveling in separate dimensions. Standing in the atrium, realizing it was time to say goodbye, Luke said, “Still no lead on who the woman is, I guess.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œI guess sometimes bodies are never ID’d.”
    â€œThousands a year, unfortunately.”
    â€œCould I share one other thought?” Luke asked.
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œI just have a funny feeling,” he said, “that if the carving in her hand was a message of some kind, it might not be the only one. There might be a larger context to this, in other words.” Hearing his own voice say it, though, he realized he was just trying to convince himself that Jackson Pynne couldn’t have done this.
    Watching her watching him, Luke again had the impression that there was someone much older inside the physical shell Amy Hunter inhabited.
    â€œWhy do you say that?” she asked.
    â€œWell, it’s just a feeling.”
    â€œOkay.” Hunter nodded. He felt sure that she was about to say something else, but she just thanked him again.
    A MY H UNTER RAN Jackson Pynne’s name through the motor vehicle data bases. Two minutes later she had a registration ID on the truck. She spent the next thirty minutes running public records and motor vehicle searches on Pynne, finding a Delaware driver’s license, an address listed in Newark, and companies he owned, or co-­owned, in Delaware, Florida, and Maryland. There was another vehicle registered under his name, a