Dust to Dust

tacky, but it’s true, and he needs to be outed. If he doesn’t do his job right, justice is not served. Innocent people can go to jail and the guilty are left to kill again. I know I can’t travel across the United States and root out every bad ME. But I can this one.” She took a deep breath.
    “Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.” She took the envelope and handed it to Diane. “I did some research. This is my way of making up to you and Ross Kingsley—and to, well, you’ll see.” She stood up. “I explained everything.” She put her jacket over her arm. “I thought it would be colder out this evening. Can’t count on weather forecasts worth a darn.”
    Frank and Diane saw her out to her car and watched her drive off.
    “What the hell was that?” said Diane on the way back into the house.
    “She certainly can talk when she gets going,” said Frank. “Needs to work on her apologies, however.”
    Inside, Diane sat down on the couch, opened the envelope, and took out several typed pages. It was an analysis of an autopsy. Diane read the pages several times and put them back in the envelope. She felt strangely unsurprised, though she wouldn’t have guessed. She could call Ross in the morning. Right now, she was tired and wanted to go to bed.
    The phone awakened Diane out of a pleasant dream of swimming in an underground lake flanked with giant crystal formations. She looked at the clock. It was just past four in the morning. She reached for the phone but Frank got to it first. She held her breath. Early calls were never good.
    “Hello,” he said, and paused. “It’s for you.” He handed Diane the phone.
    “I know it’s very early,” said the female voice, “and I’m so sorry to call you this early, but I need you to come to my house, please. I’m not sure what else to do.”
    “Who is this?” said Diane.
    “I’m sorry. This is Kathy Nicholson. Could you and Mr. Kingsley come? My son is here. He needs to talk with you. Please come. We’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
    “All right,” said Diane. She replaced the phone, sat up in bed, and swung her feet around.
    “Who was that?” said Frank.
    Diane told him. “You think it’s a trap?” she said.
    “Don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure what would be gained by trapping you at this point. The horse is out of the barn. Are you going?”
    “I’m going to call Ross,” she said. “If he can go, I will. If not, I don’t know. Kathy Nicholson sounded frantic, and desperate.”
    Diane dialed Ross Kingsley’s number. Lydia answered in a sleepy voice.
    “Lydia, this is Diane Fallon. I’m very sorry to wake you up. I just got a call from someone Ross and I have been interviewing—may I speak with him?”
    “Yes, just a moment.”
    Diane assumed they were replaying the same scene that she and Frank just went through. But she heard Lydia mumble.
    “You know, if you and she would have an affair like normal people, I could get some sleep.”
    “Hey, Diane,” Kingsley said. “What’s going on?”
    Diane apologized again for waking him and Lydia. Then she told him about the phone call from Kathy Nicholson.
    “I can meet you there,” he said.
    There was no, “What do you think this is about?” Just, “Let’s go,” as if she had called him and said, “ ‘ Come, Wat son, the game is afoot. Not a word! Into your clothes and come!’ ”
    Diane got into her clothes. Frank came in with an instant breakfast and told her to drink it.
    “Take your gun,” he said.
    Diane looked at him and sighed. He was right; she needed to take a gun. The gun issued to her by Rosewood hadn’t yet been returned to her, but she had her backup gun. She slipped on the shoulder holster. It felt strange. She didn’t think it would ever feel familiar. She put on a dark zip-up jacket and finished her breakfast, drinking the last of it down.
    There wasn’t much traffic in Rosewood that early in the morning, but by the time she got on the interstate, it had picked up considerably. At the turnoff to Gainesville, dawn had begun to crack enough that she could just see a line of light outlining the horizon. Kingsley had timed it just right. He pulled in behind Diane as she parked on the street in front of Kathy Nicholson’s house.
    It was still dark and the streetlights were on. Diane looked across the street at the homes belonging to Marsha Carruthers and Wendy Walters. All the windows were dark. Only the porch lights were lit.
    “What