“All right, no fresh bruising, no defensive wounds,” Lucy said trying to get this report back on track. “No marks besides the verse on his chest.”
The air still crackled around them, the new social awkwardness of an almost confrontation turning Jackson’s words slow and guarded. “I found some fibers on his clothes but nothing unusual. I’ll have them checked, but I’m not expecting anything.”
Even if Noah had gone to the forest willingly with Eliza, Lucy found it hard to believe she’d been able to surprise him to the extent that there would be no defensive wounds. Had he been half-drugged in that case? Enough to make him pliant, but awake enough for him to be able to walk by himself?
If that were so, where had Eliza gotten the drugs?
Another accomplice? Or the original one Lucy already suspected existed? Who had easy access to sedatives in this town?
“You’ve ordered a toxicology report?” Lucy checked. The question itself would be insulting to any other ME she worked with, but there was something evasive in the way Jackson held his body away from her that had her making sure he’d followed proper procedure.
“Of course,” he said. “But it’s going to take a few days, even a week or two.”
Grudgingly she admitted to herself that the long wait was expected in these parts. It was one of her biggest frustrations whenever she was called out beyond Seattle to help with cases. Even on major investigations, it could take anywhere up to six months. “Keep us posted.”
Jackson pushed the slab back into the cold chamber, and Lucy fought the wild urge to reach out, stop the smooth slide, to keep the slight body from being swallowed by the frigid darkness.
As they left, Jackson saluted them, some of the warmth returning to his face now that Noah was tucked away once more.
Lucy didn’t say anything until she and Hicks were in the parking lot. Then without any warning she turned on him, got into his space, trapped him between herself and his pickup. “What aren’t you telling me?”
It was a risk, it was rushing the gun in hopes that the element of surprise would pay off, and a part of her worried she’d miscalculated so badly he’d shut down completely. His gaze was locked on the mountains in the distance, his shoulders taut in an unforgiving line, a deep frown dragging down the lines of his face.
Then he looked at her, looked at the building they’d just left, and sighed.
“Not here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LUCY THORNE
Friday, just past noon
Despite the fact that it had only been lunchtime when Lucy and Hicks had left the coroner’s, their next stop was a bar.
The man working the taps had more beard than face, the silver nest tangling down to midchest. He nodded at Hicks. “Sheriff.”
“Boone,” Hicks called back, leading Lucy toward one of the more secluded booths. “All right?”
“All right.”
When an older lady with deep brown skin and ink-black hair stopped by their table, Hicks ordered. “Just coffees, Brenda, thanks.”
“Heard about Noah,” Brenda said, leaning on the back of the booth, her eyes on Lucy.
“You know I can’t talk about that.” Hicks’s voice was gentle but left no room for argument.
Brenda poked him in the shoulder. “Don’t you go bothering poor Darcy, now. She’s been through enough.”
“Brenda.”
“I mean it, Wyatt Hicks. You’ve got that damn bee in your bonnet about those folks, I know you do,” Brenda said, but she was backing away. “I mean it.”
“Darcy Dawson,” Hicks said once Brenda had disappeared into the kitchen. “Noah Dawson’s mother.”
The bruises. A bee in your bonnet. “Tell me about her. Them?”
Hicks didn’t say anything, just sat back and scanned the room. It was dark, the windows at the front mostly covered by flyers and stickers and neon lights. An old man sat at the far end of the beat-up bar that looked like it had been there since the gold rush—with the bullet holes to prove it. A glass with a single finger of amber liquor sat ignored at his elbow as he read the newspaper. Other than him, Boone, and Brenda, the place was empty.
Still, Hicks remained silent until Brenda had dropped off their coffee, black, in mismatched mugs, like they were from a personal kitchen instead of a restaurant.
“It might not have anything to do with anything,” Hicks finally said without really saying anything.
“Seems like whatever it is, I should probably at least know about it.”
Hicks ran a hand through his hair, then pushed his coffee out of the way so he could lean forward, dropping his voice as he did. Not quite to a whisper but just above. “Have you heard of the True Believers of Christ Church?”
Despite the Bible verse, the question surprised her. “No.”
He nodded as if that had been expected. “They call themselves a Christian sect, but it’s less of a Church and more of a . . .”
Lucy took a not-so-wild swing. “Cult?”
Hicks held out his hand, tipped it back and forth. Like she’d gotten close to the right idea but hadn’t quite hit it on the head. “At least the community in Knox Hollow . . . well. It bends toward that.”
There was an edge to his tone. A bee in your bonnet. “Tell me about them.”
“There’s only a handful of these so-called Churches across the country,” Hicks said, voice low despite the fact that no one was around to overhear. This was precarious ground, clearly. “They’re extremely religious, very strict. They don’t appreciate regulations or government in their business.”
Well that, at least, sounded familiar to Lucy’s experience of people who chose to live in places like Knox Hollow—places that existed essentially as modern frontiers. Her own parents would probably fit that description, to be fair. Considering the way that verse had poured off Hicks’s tongue, she would guess his family did as well. She jerked her chin down, part in acknowledgment, part in question.
“Right, not that unusual around here,” Hicks agreed, seeming to read her expression with ease. Something fond flickered in his voice. “Usually with people, you know, they stay out of our way, we stay out of theirs. Live and let live.”
An unofficial motto Lucy knew very well.
There was a but riding in the wake of those words, though. She waited for it.
“But Idaho . . . It’s kinda tricky here,” Hicks continued. “There are these things called shield laws. It’s one of the few states left that has them.”
This was new territory. “Shield laws?”
Hicks tapped his fingers against the table, agitated energy narrowed down into a controlled tic. “The Church doesn’t believe in modern medicine or intervention of any kind.”
“So . . . like the Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
“Sort of,” Hicks said. “The Jehovah’s Witnesses aren’t as strict about it. They don’t take blood transfusions, things like that.”
“This group goes further than that?” Lucy asked.
“No medical care whatsoever.” Hicks swept out a hand. “Across the board.”
“What do they do?” The question, once uttered, sounded silly even to her own ears. But that’s all she could come up with.