Dressed in an ankle-length black cassock with red piping and white miter headwear, the archbishop stood on the wooden dock and spoke into the microphone, his voice loud and clear.
“Dear Merciful God,” he began. “The sea surprises, delights, and sometimes terrifies us. It is the source of your wondrous bounty—fish, shrimp, oysters, and mullets—and its beauty and mystery delights us while we respect its power and the secrets which lie beneath its surface.”
Mayor Rembert and several other politicians were seated at a place of honor where the priest spoke on the wooden pier. Nothing about the mayor’s demeanor suggested he was nervous about the nearby ship with its illegal cargo. I scanned the silently respectful crowd, watching for any unusual activity.
“Lord be with those who sail your waters and brave its precarious moods . . .”
Jori stood near the shore, head bowed, still clutching her ever-present clipboard she’d used all weekend to check off the agenda timeline with vendors and volunteers. Even from this distance, I detected subtle signs she was tired. Her weight shifted from foot to foot, and her shoulders slumped. Compassion washed over me. I knew that despite the long hours at work, she’d returned home to take care of her family.
“Protect our brave men and women from the perils of wind, rain, and the deep. Grace them with an abundant harvest as they . . .”
What if Jori really could help with the Cormier case? What would be the harm in allowing her to listen to the recording? I played with the idea. Lieutenant Oliver would be angry if he knew I’d shared the recording, but the potential reward of Jori actually identifying the killer outweighed any possible censure by my boss.
“And may they return home safe to be reunited with loved ones who have waited . . .”
On my cell phone, I located Jori’s name in my contacts, hit the attachment icon, and scrolled to find the MP3 recording Ginger had provided. My index finger hovered. Was this a fireable offense? Recklessly, I hit send.
Moments later I observed Jori pull out her phone. Her mouth dropped open an inch as she read, and then her head snapped up, eyes scanning the crowd. Our gazes met. I nodded with a slight smile, and she waved before returning her attention to the phone. Hastily, I sent another text.
Don’t listen in public.
As low key as Oliver was trying to keep this drug sting, several undercover officers roamed about.
Jori faced me and gave the okay sign before wandering off on her own.
The booming, mournful peal of a bell suddenly tolled, once, then twice, for the two sailors who’d perished at sea over the past year. My attention returned to the job at hand. The archbishop lit a bronze censer and blessed the lead boat in line. Even from here, the sweet scent of copal, myrrh, and frankincense was notable as the smoky incense drifted on the bayou breeze.
Slowly, the boats inched forward for their blessing. At last the Zephyr received its blessing. I carefully watched the mayor, but his expression of bland geniality did not falter. It was as though this particular boat was of no particular significance to him. Was it possible Carter Holt had been wrong about a drug shipment?
I strolled to my unmarked vehicle and entered, trying to appear casual. Cruising along below the speed limit, I turned off the main road in minutes and onto a deserted, dusty road.
The two-way radio crackled. “Proceed to location.”
“Ten-four.”
A mile farther, I pulled over to the side of the road to await further instructions. No one appeared anywhere near, but I picked my cell phone up from the passenger seat and scrolled through it. Should any car come by, the passengers would hopefully believe I’d stopped to read an important message. Only seconds after I shut off the engine, humidity blanketed my skin. Screw that. No telling how long I’d be sitting here. I turned the key in the ignition, and air-conditioning pumped out cool air. Much better.
The absolute quiet was eerie. Oliver had elected to include as few law enforcement personnel in the sting as possible, handpicking several officers from the Mobile PD who he knew personally. He’d requested, and been granted, assistance from Homeland Security. A US Coast Guard cutter had been arranged. The beauty of involving the Coast Guard was that it had sweeping authority to board any vessel at any time or any place without need of a warrant or even probable cause. For over two hundred years, US courts consistently had upheld their right to do so.
So where were all these people awaiting delivery? If the drug smugglers already had their workers and a vehicle in place for the shipment, I wouldn’t be notified. Oliver had wisely ordered that radio silence be maintained as long as possible.
Churning water sounded, and I quickly rolled down my windows again to hear better. Was it the Zephyr after all? Had it broken rank from the steady procession of shrimper boats headed out for deeper waters?
The still of the bayou suddenly shattered as shouts emerged from across the woods. My radio crackled again with the same message as before.
“Proceed to location.”
Adrenaline flooded my body in waves. I stomped on the accelerator and emerged onto the dirt road, dust flying and tires squealing. No need for stealth anymore.
Another right turn, and I was upon the mayhem. The Zephyr swarmed with US Coast Guardsmen in their navy-blue uniforms. Alongside the Zephyr, their white cutter was moored with its red-and-blue bands, their official emblem, and the letters USCG. The Coast Guard standard flag whipped in the breeze, white with yellow fringe and a dark-blue US coat of arms.
Mobile cops escorted two handcuffed men from the boat. Another cop had a third man handcuffed against a nearby rusty truck and was reading him his rights. Everywhere, men and women barked orders.
Guardsmen began carrying out crates to waiting personnel. Oliver motioned to me, and we hurried over. One of the men cracked open a crate, revealing tightly wrapped bundles.
“What do we have here?” He smiled grimly. With a box cutter he carefully ripped off the paper on one of them. A solid brick of white powder appeared.
“Heroin?” one of the guardsmen asked.
“Definitely.”
A total of four crates were unloaded. In the last one, instead of white bricks, there was a large clear bag of bluish-gray pills.
“Pretty sure the lab will find this is fentanyl,” the guardsmen said. “Perfect for cutting with heroin.”
Oliver and I smiled at one another with grim satisfaction. Carter Holt had not been mistaken. Mayor Rembert’s political career was dead in the water. The men apprehended today would no doubt soon be spilling the names of everyone involved in their operation. It was a shame Holt couldn’t be here in person to witness the takedown. His bosses had insisted that he remain undercover and far from the action. That way, they could still use him to bust other drug operations.
I continued to watch the guardsmen unload the drugs, mesmerized at the large number of packages, each a bundle of misery and heartache for addicts and their families. It was much later before I finally noticed that I’d received a text from Jori.
Chapter 31
JORI
I rushed toward the shade provided by a copse of live oaks as I hurried to open the recording Tegan had sent. At long last, would I be able to recognize the voice and discover who’d killed Deacon? I paused at the edge of the woods and glanced around.
I was alone.
My fingers trembled as I turned up the phone volume all the way and hit play.
The past rushed up to greet me in an explosion of sound and color as the recording began.
Clotille spoke—pale lavender spiked on flowering lily pads.
A second ticked by, and then Deacon spoke.
Deacon. Dark-violet waves, crested with foaming whitecaps, flooded over me. I swayed, gasping as though doused, and my arm reached out automatically, finding solid grounding against rough tree bark.
A distant sound of gunshot was followed by Clotille’s scream. Lavender gushed and spiked with Clotille’s high-pitched cry. I’d never heard such a d
esperate edge to a sound. The closest I could compare it to was when I’d heard the pain and panicked screams of a feral cat in the death throes of a coyote attack. There was a rawness to it that could never be faked in a movie.
The camera fell to the floor with an abrupt crash.
A door squeaked open. My breath caught in my throat. Who had done this? Did Deacon and Clotille recognize whoever had appeared on the threshold? Or was this a hired gun paid to carry out brutal executions?
Clotille’s voice sounded again before a new voice murmured, garbled and indistinct. Umber swirled like a tornado spiraling toward a random target. It was a remembered musical note, but my brain couldn’t quite put the correct shape and shade to what the tornado tried to form.
A gunshot exploded, this time from close range.
“Mom!” Violet-and-white foam swirled with Deacon’s anguished voice.
Again, the new male voice muttered something.
Bam. Another shot rang out. The noise reached across time, squeezing my heart in a vise with the burst. My knees gave way beneath me, and I sank onto the ground, my back scraping against the oak for support. Footsteps thudded on the recording, their vibrations treading on my chest. A door opened and shut.
And then there was only the whirring of the recording, more menacing than the screams and the footsteps and the gunshots. It was the sound of death. Had Deacon and his mother bled out on the living room floor as the tape continued? I never, ever wanted to see the actual video footage; the audio alone was traumatic enough.
I closed my eyes and continued to sit as the mechanical noise tunelessly droned on. Ordinary sounds of life carried on all around me—the gentle backdrop of ocean swells breaking on the gulf, talk and laughter by the dock as the ships left for open sea, birds singing and squirrels scurrying in their busy business of survival.
I imagined Deacon’s heart still beating, growing slower and more erratic, his breath more shallow. Or had he died instantly? I hoped to hell he had, that other than the few seconds when the killer entered his house, aimed, and fired the shots, the end had been quick and merciful. Much as I didn’t want to, I had to rewind and listen to this tape again and again, as many times as necessary, until the colors and shape of the unidentified voice revealed itself.
“Jori?” Green arrows—Dana’s voice. “Are you okay? Someone thought they heard a scream this way.”
I jumped to my feet with a startled gasp. My phone dropped to the ground. “I-I’m fine.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She cocked her head to one side. “What’s that noise?”
I scooped up my phone, but not before the endless whirring of the recorder gave way to the sound of garbled voices again and the squeak of a door opening.
“What are you listening to?”
“An audiobook.” I switched off my phone and wiped at the tears gathering in my eyes. “Go away, Dana. I told you I’m fine. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
Dana shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, okay? Can’t you let it go? We’ve been friends since grade school.”
“No. I just thought we were friends.” I leaned over, this time to pick up the clipboard with my event agenda.
“We were friends. Still can be if you’ll let bygones be bygones.”
“Leave me alone, Dana.”
“But I—”
“Here.” I held the clipboard out in front of me. “You want to help me, give this to Ashley Rogers. You know her, don’t you?”
“Yeah. She works with the mayor’s office.”
“Give it to her and say I had to leave unexpectedly. All that’s left to do is make sure the city maintenance crew starts cleanup and answer any questions that might pop up from vendors or guests.”
I turned my back on Dana and stepped into the woods. Obviously, I needed to find a better place if I wanted to be left alone. The path was narrow but well traveled. Kids still rode their bikes through here to get to Choctaw Beach, a small strip of sand in a secluded area. The place was only a fifteen-minute hike by foot. While there I could sit on a patch of sandy soil. With any luck, I’d catch sight of several kayakers as they rowed their way to the final lap of the event course.
Minutes later twigs snapped behind me, and I whirled around to face Dana. “Why are you following me?”
“I can tell something’s wrong. Come back with me, and we’ll get a drink at the Pavilion.”
“Go. Away.”
Without waiting for a response, I spun around and marched forward. Minutes later, after hearing no sounds of being followed, I glanced back over my shoulder. Dana was gone.
I’d worked up a sweat by the time I arrived at Choctaw Beach. I plopped down on the warm sand and scooped a handful of hair up from the back of my neck. The forested banks offered seclusion from open ocean views. Tall willows, sycamores, and other tree species reflected green in the slow-moving stream. Here in the primitive, mysterious heart of the bayou, the humidity was tempered by shade and cooling breezes over water. Here my heartbeat slowed under the spell of ancient tree roots that veined on the bank sides and reached deep into the earth. Here I sunk into the peaceful rhythms of nature, the unceasing wail of cicadas, the splash of turtles sunning on rocks and then returning to their murky underwater domain, and the eternal backdrop of breaking ocean waves in the distance. A gentle breeze passed over my bare nape, and I drew several full breaths, growing calm for the task ahead.
At last I was ready. I turned on my phone and started the recording over from the beginning. The gunshots still shook me to the core, but not with the intensity of the first listen. I still couldn’t make out the tornado of sound that refused to settle into a specific color and shape.
Again, the file reached the long whirring period. According to my phone, there was a little over twenty minutes remaining. I waited it out as though it were a lifeline spanning across the past thirteen years and I was lying in blood on the floor with Deacon, together for one last time. I stared at the phone screen. Only another eighteen seconds left. Seconds before I expected the whirring to end, a large thud sounded, as though the camcorder had been dropped again.
Someone—Deacon? The killer?—was still in the room. Perhaps they’d tossed the camcorder to hide it, or the killer had thrown it, thinking to break the machine.
Distant voices sounded. Footsteps grew closer. The door opened.
“Let’s get this over with,” uttered a deep voice—or words to that effect. The recording was so muffled it was hard to tell exactly what was said. It sounded as though the camcorder might have been stuffed under a pillow or blanket.
Yet—I knew that voice. The umber whirlwind settled and transformed into burnt-orange cubes. My lungs seized with shock. More faint words came, undecipherable, yet my colored hearing picked up on the tone, and I recognized the patterns as clearly as a thumbprint.
Burnt-orange cubes flared again as the voice issued some command that I didn’t quite catch. So this was the killer.
“Jori? What are you doing here? Everything all right?”
I turned. And stared into the face of the devil himself.
Uncle Buddy.
The man I’d always believed to be our family’s benefactor, the reliable uncle who could be counted on in a financial pinch, the respectable businessman and community leader in the bayou. He was a fraud. A murderous fraud. All this time—I’d never really known the man at all.
Chapter 32
BUDDY MUNFORD
One look into Jori’s eyes told me all I needed to know. Panic and shock radiated from every tense muscle in her body. She was a gazelle, set to run at the least provocation.
I walked toward her slowly, as though I didn’t recognize her fear. As though I were still her dear old kindly uncle—the one who’d lent them money for so many years. Actually, I had been a damn good uncle. I’d helped out my sister and her ill daughter for years, paying their bills, making sure Zach received excellent care for his special needs, and making sure Jori’s m
om had the best medical care when she was struck with cancer. Wasn’t my fault that it had to end. I’d done my best to scare Jori off from sniffing around that damn adoption.
How was it possible that she’d discovered the truth? And after all these years too. It wasn’t fair.
“Dana told me you were acting strange. That something was wrong.”
“I-I’m fine,” she lied.
Deception had never been her strong suit.
“Well, now, that’s debatable,” I said, smile in place, easing forward. “When Dana told me what direction you’d headed, I figured this was where you’d end up.”
Jori glanced left and right, then over a shoulder at the blue expanse behind her. “Kayakers should be here soon,” she said quickly. “They have to pass by here to get to the finish line at the dock.”
I stopped walking. She was right. I’d forgotten all about that damn kayak race. Jori hurriedly punched something into her phone, and I frowned. Was she texting for help? My fingers curled into my palms, my hands tightening into fists. I had to get the phone from her.
I marched to Jori and grabbed her arm. “I’ll take that.”
She cried out as I pried the phone from her hand.
“Give me my phone back,” Jori demanded with false bravado.
Keeping a firm grasp on her arm, I scrolled up the screen with my opposite hand and read the message Jori had just sent.
It’s Buddy. Help.
Above that line was a link to an MP3 recording. The recipient of Jori’s text was Deputy Tegan Blackwell. I clicked on the link.
It wasn’t until I heard the gunshot and the screams that I realized what it was. Shock gave way to panic, then anger. Someone had recorded the shooting? How had we missed finding it when we cleaned up the house?
A sharp kick on my shin sent pain radiating up my right leg. My grip loosened at the surprise attack, and Jori took off running into the woods. Twenty feet inside the confines of the wooded area, I caught up to Jori and tackled her to the ground from behind.
She didn’t even have time to let out a scream before her body hit the dirt with a loud thud. I fell on top of Jori and grabbed a handful of her hair.
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