The Psalmist Read Online Free PDF

investigator; at times she sought counsel from unlikely allies. Pastor Bowers seemed like he might be one of those. It was just a feeling she had. In theory, the county’s new Homicide Task Force, which she headed, was a seasoned team with a broad set of skills and experiences. But in fact it was two teams, the old guard and the new; the sheriff was captain of one side, Hunter of the other. Wendell Stamps, the large, even-­tempered state’s attorney, although always at pains to appear neutral, was clearly on the sheriff’s side. It would make for some interesting problems.
    Robby Fallow was bent over the engine of a huge Oldsmobile 88 at a clearing among the birch trees, wearing an old knit watch cap, layers of flannel, oil-­stained jeans. He’d inherited the motel from his father in the early nineties when it was still frequented by families. The clientele now were mostly drifters or else freelance watermen, working a few weeks during the winter oyster season or the summer blue crab season. Developers had tried for years to buy the property from Fallow, in particular the Nayak family, the largest landowners in Tidewater County. But Robby Fallow wouldn’t even talk with them. The motel—­never an “inn,” despite its name—­was Fallow’s pride, and his source of identity; it was all he had, really.
    Fallow’s son, the only other permanent resident at the Ebb Tide, lived on the wooded end, the last of the motel rooms. He worked there tending the property, and was known to have an affinity for marijuana. In summer, when highway traffic was heavy, Junior Fallow, as he was called, sometimes sat for hours in a lawn chair beside the highway, waving at passing motorists. Some travelers referred to him as the “Waving Man.” Junior’s mother had died years earlier, in an alcohol-­related drowning in the motel pool.
    Hunter had spoken with both Fallows during a cold case investigation she was assigned over the winter, but without much success. The victim was a twenty-­four-­year-­old unemployed woman named Andrea Dressler, who’d stayed at the motel with her boyfriend thirteen days before she was found in a Delaware cornfield, strangled to death. For weeks the Sheriff’s Department had treated Junior Fallow as the primary suspect. Later they named the boyfriend a “person of interest.” But they never collected enough evidence to bring charges. Months after the sheriff had given up on the case, Hunter learned that a Delaware middle school custodian had been stalking the woman off and on for weeks. DNA tests eventually proved that he had raped and killed her.
    Robby walked out to greet her now, as if he didn’t want her getting too close to his business.
    â€œHelp you?”
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Fallow. Amy Hunter. How are you today?”
    â€œWe’re all closed up right now, ma’am,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag that seemed greasier than his hands.
    â€œYes, I’m aware of that.” Hunter held out her ID. He nodded, but didn’t look. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions?”
    â€œNo, ma’am,” he said, cordially. “Not today.”
    â€œNot today.”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    â€œCan I ask why not?”
    â€œWell, that would be a question, ma’am,” he said. An unexpected twinkle came into his small, sunken eyes. “Any questions, you’d have to talk to my attorney.”
    â€œOkay.”
    Hunter looked away. The door to a rusty shed was open in the birch woods behind his car. It was like peeking at another time: a 1960s Evinrude on a block, a ­couple of Johnson Sea Horse outboards, banged-­up water skis, discolored yellow vinyl tow ropes.
    â€œSo you know why I’m here?”
    â€œNo, ma’am.”
    â€œI’m investigating the death of a woman who was found in the Methodist church yesterday morning. Some ­people