CHAPTER 20
Marla ran to a pay phone. Someone from a nearby gas station set out flares on the road. Within minutes, Boyd and his team had arrived. I sat in the Jaguar in a state of shock. I couldn’t look out at the activity, although I occasionally glanced up at the conference center, perched as it was on that cliff overlooking both the road and the church. Then I gazed briefly at St. Luke’s, on the other side of Main Street. I couldn’t look at the sprawled corpse of Mitchell Hartley. Marla came back to the car. We sat silently in the front seat.
After more police and the EMT had arrived, Boyd approached us.
I slid down the window. “Is he—?” I choked.
Boyd didn’t need to reply. His expression said it all.
“You don’t think he’s the one who killed Olson, do you? Do you think he knew wher
