An Ice Cold Grave by Charlaine Harris Page A

more, somewhat over the age range of the boys in the Davey homesite.”
    â€œThe what?”
    â€œThat house and garage and yard used to belong to Don Davey and his family. Don was a widower in his eighties. I barely remember him. He died about twelve years ago, and the house has been empty since. The relative who inherited lives in Oregon. She’s never come back over here to look at the property. She hasn’t made any move at all to dispose of it. She’s about eighty herself and very indifferent to the idea of doing anything at all with the land.”
    â€œDid anyone offer to buy it before?”
    Rockwell looked surprised. “No, she didn’t mention anything like that.”
    â€œSo where is this other place?”
    â€œInside an old barn. Dirt floor. Hasn’t been used in ten years or more, but the owners just left it to fall down.”
    â€œWhy do you think there might be more bodies there, specifically?”
    â€œIt’s actually on the property of a mental health counselor named Tom Almand, who never comes this far back on the property. With all the to-do at the Davey place, the next-door neighbor, a deputy named Rob Tidmarsh, thought he’d check it out because it meets the same criteria as the Davey place: secluded, not in use, easy to dig. The barn floor’s mostly dirt. Lo and behold, Rob found some disturbed spots on the floor.”
    â€œHave you checked it out yourself?”
    â€œNot yet. We thought you could point us in the right direction.”
    â€œI don’t think so. If the spots are that easy to make out, just sink a rod in and see if smell comes up. Or go for broke and dig a little. The bones won’t be that deep, if the surface disturbance is so easy to see. It’ll be a lot cheaper, and I can get out of Doraville.”
    â€œThey want you. Twyla Cotton said they had money left, since you found the boys in one day.” Sheriff Rockwell gave me a look I couldn’t read. “You don’t want the publicity? The press is all over this, as you found last night.”
    â€œI don’t want any more to do with this.”
    â€œThat’s not my call,” she said, with some apparently genuine regret.
    I looked down at my lap. I was so sleepy, I was worried I’d drift off while I sat there in the sheriff’s office. “No,” I said. “I won’t do it.”
    Tolliver rose right along with me, his face expressionless. The sheriff was staring at us as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You have to,” she said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause we’re telling you to. It’s what you can do.”
    â€œI’ve given you alternatives. I want to leave.”
    â€œThen I’ll arrest you.”
    â€œOn what grounds?”
    â€œObstructing an investigation. Something. It won’t be hard.”
    â€œSo you’re trying to blackmail me into staying? What kind of law enforcement officer are you?”
    â€œOne who wants these murders solved.”
    â€œThen arrest me,” I said recklessly. “I won’t do it.”
    â€œYou’re not strong enough to go into jail,” Tolliver said, his voice quiet. I leaned against him, fighting a feeling of terrible weariness. His arms went around me, and I rested my head against his chest. I had a few seconds’ peace before I made my brain begin working again.
    He was right. With a cracked arm and a head that hadn’t healed, I wouldn’t have a good time even in a small-town jail like the one in Doraville. And if the town shared a jail with other nearby towns, as was probably the case, I might fare even worse. So I’d have to do what “they” wanted me to, and I might as well bite the bullet and get it done. But who were “they”? Did Sheriff Rockwell mean the state police?
    I had to pull myself away from Tolliver. I was accepting his support under false pretenses, and sooner or later