“Why not?”
“Think about it. That suitcase wasn’t in a closet or under a bed, where someone could sit in complete privacy and fondle and fantasize. It was in a car. Plus the underwear was of varying sizes, which suggests they came from more than one source. Whoever hid those items in the trunk was an active predator. I’d put money on it.” He could tell Madeline thought so, too, or she wouldn’t have pulled off the road to tell him this. “Was there anything on them?” he asked.
She looked confused. “You mean a pattern or decoration?”
“I mean blood or se**n.”
“We haven’t heard,” she said, making no effort to hide her distaste. “Toby sent them to the state lab only a few days ago. He said it could take a while, possibly months.”
“Who’s Toby?”
“Pontiff. Stillwater’s chief of police.”
Hunter hated to ask this next question, but he had to. “Is there any chance those things could’ve belonged to your father?”
Her eyes widened in righteous indignation. “Of course not!”
“Then where’d they come from?”
“From the man who killed him! Chief Pontiff and I are speculating that whoever was carrying around that suitcase confessed to my father, and my father was going to turn him in.”
“A hush murder.”
“If that’s what you want to call it.”
Someone had gained control of the pastor’s car. That person might’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to dispose of incriminating evidence. But sacrificing the underwear didn’t seem consistent with the kind of man who’d keep souvenirs like that to begin with.
Unless the perpetrator feared someone else was on to him…
“Maybe,” he said.
“I should tell you the police also found some black hairs caught in the driver’s seat,” she said grudgingly.
“Are they getting a DNA sample from them, as well?”
“No. Maybe they’ll do that later, but there doesn’t seem to be much point right now. They look like Clay’s and probably are. Like the rest of us, he was in and out of that car.”
“Could that suitcase have belonged to Clay?”
“No. My stepbrother would never hurt a child.”
Hunter would form his own opinion on that once he’d met Clay. “What was your father and Irene’s sex life like?” he asked.
The change of subject seemed to take her off guard. She blanched as if her mind had just presented her with a picture she’d rather not see. “They seemed…normal. What was your parents’ sex life like?”
He refused to apologize for her discomfort. “I have to ask difficult questions,” he said. “If you want to find the truth, there’ll be a lot more of them.”
“Does that mean you’re taking the assignment?” She raised her chin. “Or is my father’s case more than you can handle?”
She was challenging him. Obviously, she thought that would make a difference.
He’d played it safe for so long, Hunter felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, about to jump. By accepting this job, he was leaving the relative comfort of his own demons and surrounding himself with hers. But the possibility that there might still be little girls victimized by the owner of that suitcase made it impossible to walk away. Most pedophiles didn’t stop until they were forced to.
“I’ll do it,” he said. “But if we’re going to Stillwater, I’m driving.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“When’s the last time you had a good night’s sleep?”
“I’m okay.”
She started the car, but he covered her hand when she reached for the stick shift. “I’m taking over, or we’re turning around.”
“You don’t know the area.”
“You can give me directions.”
He expected her to continue arguing. After all, they’d only met a couple hours ago and here he was demanding to take the wheel. But she must’ve been even more tired than he’d guessed because she nodded and opened her door.
“In another twenty miles or so, take 70 West. Turn off at 45 South and stay there for about forty miles. Then take 72 East and wake me when you get to 365. I’ll help you through the rest of it.”
“Will do,” he said and they traded seats.
Ten minutes later, she was leaning against the door, fast asleep, and he was trying to convince himself that he didn’t really find her all that attractive.
To Hunter, Mississippi had always conjured up images of pre-Civil War plantations, moss dripping from the branches of magnolia trees, the river meandering lazily through cattails and marshes. But he was in the northeast of the state near Tennessee and Alabama, hill country, and it didn’t look anything like he’d imagined. Here, he saw oaks and maples and a variety of pine trees lining the road.
“Are we there yet?” Madeline murmured, rousing as he came to a crossroad with a single stop sign.
“We just passed a place called Corinth. You might want to make sure I haven’t missed 365.”
She pushed her thick auburn hair away from her face as she sat up and peered out the window. “Keep going, 365 is another few miles.”
As Hunter gave the Corolla more gas, they passed yet another church. How many could one fairly unpopulated area support? Granted, the churches were all small, mostly one-room wooden structures with high-pitched roofs and usually a steeple, but he’d noticed several in the past ten minutes alone—Signs of Life, New Salem, Poplar Springs Free Will, Southwood, Shady Grove, North Crossroads Community and the Pleasant Grove Church of Christ.
“What was the name of your father’s church?” he asked.
She covered a yawn. “Purity Church of Christ.”
“Named after you, huh?”
“I’m going to regret telling you my sexual history,” she muttered. “I can tell.”
“Why? I’m impressed.”
She eyed him warily. “You sound like it.”
“I am!”
“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”
“Younger than thirty-two.”
“By a decade?”
“Younger.”
“Nineteen?”
“Eighteen.”
“That’s not too bad. For a Californian.”
He chuckled. “I’ll bet you’ve had more experience than I have in the last five years.”