Down the Darkest Road

by Kylie Brant

  “No, I don’t think so,” she finally said, and handed the pictures back to Cady. “What’d they do, get themselves lost?”

  “We are trying to locate them,” Cady said diplomatically. “Do you live here alone?”

  “No, my husband’s in the garage. Spends half his life in there and never has a blessed thing to show for it. Just bang on the door. I’ll tell him you’re coming.” The door shut abruptly in their faces.

  Miguel said, “I think I can guess what takes her husband out of the house frequently.”

  Cady smirked. The garage had an entry in addition to the double garage door, and she pounded on it, hunching further into her coat.

  The man who answered the door was stooped and looked older than his wife. “Go on inside, Doris; I got this,” he called over his shoulder before he turned to look at them through thick bifocals. “You’re cops, Doris said.”

  Cady didn’t correct him. “We’re wondering if you could take a look at these pictures and tell us if you’ve seen either of these men before.”

  The man took his time studying the photos. Finally, he said, “This one I’m sure I’ve seen.” He held up the image of Eric Loomer. “More than once too. He’s come into the hardware store where I help out sometimes. We’ve got a FedEx station there. That’s where he always goes. He’s a jewelry maker.”

  Taken aback, Cady said, “What makes you think that?”

  “Asked him once.” He reached up to settle his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Just making conversation. He said he takes orders from all across the country. He makes one-of-a-kind keepsakes.”

  Interest flickering, she asked, “Online orders?” If Loomer and Forrester were operating an internet business, she could be certain it had nothing to do with jewelry. Bruce Forrester had gone to prison for selling drugs. And from what Suzanne Fielding and Jeff Benson had said, he’d resumed the practice upon his release and continued a drug operation in Hope Mills. People returned to what they knew. And maybe he’d used Byrd’s information to expand his operation online.

  “I guess they’d have to be, wouldn’t they? Never gave it a thought.” The old man tapped Forrester’s picture. “This one I’m not so sure about. But”—he sent a furtive look behind him—“I might have seen him in a bar I go to once in a while. Retirement was never meant for two people to spend every blessed second together.”

  “Where’s the hardware store and bar, sir?” There was a thrum of excitement in Cady’s veins. The more sightings they accrued, the more quickly they could shrink the parameters until they had Forrester’s location pinned down.

  “In Boone.” The man jerked his chin in the direction of the town below them. “I work a few days a week. Maybe I stop on occasion at the Thirsty Moose on Thursdays. The store’s open late that night.”

  Recognition flickered at the name of the tavern. It was one of the establishments mentioned by Angela, Cady recalled.

  “Do you remember the last time you may have seen either man?” Rebedeau asked.

  The man handed back the photos, then pulled at his lip. “Don’t exactly know. The one in the hardware store . . . maybe last fall. Before Christmas anyway. But like I say, he comes in sometimes. The mean-looking fella, last month or so. If it’s the same guy I’m thinking of. Always chatting up the ladies of the evening, if you get my drift.”

  “Have you ever heard gunfire around this area? Or anything sounding like explosions?” Cady asked.

  “Not this time of year. Hunting season’s over. And I don’t know what kind of explosions you’re talking about, but sound travels ’round here. From a distance, it might be difficult to tell the two apart.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Sure you don’t need me to ride with you?” the elderly man asked hopefully. “I could take you to town. Show you the places I’m talking about.”

  “We’ll be back if we need assistance,” Cady promised. The three turned and made their way back to the Jeep.

  “Almost feel bad for leaving him behind,” Miguel said, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “And it’s making me rethink any wistful thoughts of my eventual retirement.”

  “Since that’s about two decades and at least one wife in the future, I wouldn’t waste time worrying about it.” Reaching the Jeep, Cady got in and turned on the ignition. “I could leave it running the next time,” she said over her shoulder to Officer Turner, the K-9 handler. “It’s getting colder.”

  “It’s okay. Felix has a thick coat, and so do I.”

  Sue Rebedeau slid in next to Turner and pulled out her phone. “I’ll text the other teams and update them.” Cady took a moment to check her own cell. She’d silenced it before beginning the door-to-door. Now she found one missed call from a number identified as SBI. There was also a voice mail.

  She tapped the key to listen to it. Was shocked to hear a familiar voice.

  “Hi. Um. This is Dylan. Dylan Castle.” His tone was hushed. Cady had to strain to hear him. “We had lunch together last week. And I was wondering . . . This might be stupid. But . . . um. We haven’t been updated about how the search for Forrester is going for a while. I know you’ve only been on the team for a week or so. But maybe if you get a minute, you could give me a call. Okay, thanks. Bye.” The last words were spoken in a rush.

  “Did you decide to quit here, Cady, or are we going to continue the search?” At Miguel’s question, she slipped the phone into her pocket and put the Jeep into gear. Consulting the map on the console next to her, she pulled onto the road. But it was the teen’s message that occupied her thoughts. She’d worried after spending an hour with him last week that he was depressed. Now his mood seemed tinged with desperation.

  She should return his call at some point. Offer him some reassurance. But she didn’t want him to get careless. They’d had multiple sightings of Forrester in this area, which was less than two hours from Asheville. That was much too close to the Bandy family for comfort.

  She slowed to a stop in front of the next home, a soaring structure of glass and rough-hewn beams. It’d likely cost hundreds of thousands of dollars more than the simple A-frame they’d just left. Something told her that the owners didn’t spend their spare time in the Thirsty Moose.

  When the handler and dog got out to check the property, Cady exited the Jeep as well. Shutting her door, she leaned against it as she took the phone from her pocket and placed a call to Dylan. Half-relieved when it went to voice mail, she said, “Dylan, this is Marshal Maddix. I can tell you we are progressing in our search for Forrester. But I don’t want you to let down your guard, either. Stay vigilant. I hope we have good news for you and your family soon.”

  Disconnecting, she turned to follow the beam of the flashlight wielded by Turner as they walked the property. She was already second-guessing her call, her wording. Impatiently, she shrugged away the doubts.

  Dylan’s plight had struck a chord in her from the first. There was nothing wrong with giving him a reason to hope that soon his nightmare might be over.

  Chapter 48

  “This is nice, just the two of us.”

  Ryder looked at his mom across the counter bar. “Thanks for bringing dinner over. But I’ve got to say, a steady diet of your meals would have me spending twice as much time at the gym.” The pork chops, mashed potatoes with gravy, and pie she’d brought were all of Ryder’s favorites. His mom liked to cook. He felt a pang thinking of what it was like for her, learning to make dinner for one.

  Remnants of the meal had long since been cleared away, along with the mountain of leftovers. Those she’d insisted he keep. It’d take him and Cady a week to finish them off, and that was if she ever started keeping regular hours again.

  “Where’s Cady this evening?” Laura picked up the cup of her decaf coffee and sipped.

  “She’s working a warrant.”

  His mom shook her head a little as she set the cup down on the granite counter. “I’m not sure what that means.”
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  “Marshals chase federal fugitives.” He’d forgone the coffee for a beer. Toyed with the bottle as he spoke. “She’s on the trail of one now.” Although Ryder hadn’t been updated since the one text earlier that day, he knew that likely meant the task force was still searching. And he respected her enough to at least try to squelch the concern that wanted to rise. It welled from a deeply personal place, not a professional one. One she wouldn’t welcome if he put voice to it.

  Hero let out a soft yelp in his sleep, and the two of them glanced at the dozing dogs. The animal had the clown Cady hated so much trapped in his front paws. With the cone around his neck, he looked like he’d been trapped in a lampshade after a particularly wild canine party. Sadie’s eyes had come open at the sound he made and looked over as if to make sure her friend was all right.

  “I finally recalled why her last name is so familiar.” Laura eyed Ryder over the rim of her cup as she drank. “Maddix, I mean. There was a big case your dad worked in the county a long time ago. I assume she must be the daughter of that bank robber.”

  He gave a slow nod, unwilling to go into details, even with his mom. It was Cady’s story. One she’d had to live with for most of her life. Thoughts of what she’d discovered in the file he’d finally found still had his chest going tight. She’d been dealt a devil’s hand in life. Her cards weren’t getting any better.

  “Was it one of the files you were looking for at my house a while back?”

  “It was. They turned up, though.” And not for the life of him was he going to reveal exactly where he’d found them. He’d been protecting his mom from discovering her husband’s secrets since he was a teenager. The behavior was ingrained. Butch Talbot’s one admirable trait had been the love he’d shown his wife. The choices he’d hidden from her, however, told a completely different story. And those choices would forever color Ryder’s memory of his dad.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it.” Laura lifted the cup to her lips and sipped. “I got to thinking that maybe I’d lost them. I’m certain that was one of the files your dad had at home for—oh, weeks, it seems like. You know how crabby he was about anyone touching his desk. But even after that, I noticed a pile of official folders in the bottom drawer a couple of different times. When I asked about them, he said he was following up a link among all the cases.”

  Everything in Ryder stilled. If a link existed among them, it had nothing to do with the cases per se. After the conversation with Klatt, Ryder was half-convinced that the files all represented some sort of official misbehavior on his dad’s part. He met his mom’s gaze and managed a tight smile. Even five years after Butch Talbot’s death, Ryder was still keeping the man’s secrets.

  Chapter 49

  Dylan got up and made a production of stretching and yawning. It wasn’t totally an act. He could feel a headache coming on. He’d emptied the only Tylenol bottle he could find, but it hadn’t helped much. “I’m going to turn in early.”

  “What the hell?” Teeter glowered at him. “Sit your ass down. You’ve been running to the bathroom all night, and now you’re going to sleep when it’s barely ten o’clock on a Friday night? What’s the matter with you, boy?”

  He’d been in the bathroom sending quick texts to Grace. And calling the marshal. He’d kept his hoodie on, because the pockets allowed him to smuggle both phones in and out of the room. But Dylan had feared the man would grab him and discover them. The SBI cell could be easily explained away. The one Grace had given him couldn’t.

  “I’ve been really cold all day. And my head hurts.” That wasn’t a lie. There was a fog crowding into his skull, like when he used to get migraines.

  “Is it just your head or your stomach too? I don’t want to catch the flu. You’ve been to the bathroom three times. You got the trots, that the problem?”

  Mortified, Dylan just lifted a shoulder. Only a few short days ago, he’d been down because of all the time he spent by himself. Now it took a major effort just to get a few minutes alone.

  “Better that you sleep in your mom’s bed.” T had settled on an explanation without Dylan needing to answer. “I sure as hell don’t want whatever you got.” The man shut off the game consoles. “Go ahead. I can spend the night reading.”

  Dylan stared. He couldn’t help it. And of course, T noticed.

  “What, you don’t think I can read?” He stood, and Dylan inched away in case he was going to go off on him again.

  “Everyone can read,” Dylan mumbled.

  “Yeah, not everyone likes to, but I got used to passing the time when I was in the army. Most people don’t know how much downtime you have when you ain’t training or fighting.”

  It was the first Dylan had heard that T had been in the military. He wondered if that was why Teeter was so weird now. Maybe he had PTSD or something.

  T moved to the couch and picked up a dog-eared paperback Dylan hadn’t noticed before. “This yours?” He held it up. “Found it in your room.”

  Dylan recognized it. To Kill a Mockingbird. “Yeah. I had to read it last year for English.”

  “It’s pretty good. So go on, now.” Book in hand, Teeter headed toward the refrigerator. By Dylan’s count, he was on his eighth beer since they’d gotten home. “And if you puke, you’re cleaning it up yourself.”

  “Yeah. I will.” Dylan made his escape. When he got inside his mom’s room, he closed the door behind him and sagged against it in relief. It was like he was tethered to Teeter, and these close quarters didn’t make the proximity any easier to take.

  He pulled out one cell. Flipped it open. The wrong phone, he immediately realized. It was the one SBI had given him. But he had a message from the marshal. Mindful of T in the other room, he pulled up his hood before listening to it. Afterward, he walked over to the bed, sank down on the edge, and replayed it again. Then he listened a third time, his mind racing.

  She’d all but said this would be over soon. Close enough anyway. Something unfurled in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Hope. He’d had it dashed lots of times before. Whenever they’d moved, he’d thought they’d finally be safe. He’d always been proven wrong.

  Maybe this time would be different. Maybe finally the killing would be over.

  He shoved the phone back in his pocket. Took out the one Grace had given him. She’d sent three texts since he’d last messaged her. Dylan stretched out on the bed and arranged the pillow so it shielded the screen.

  He read the first one. I’m so bored! Mom dragged me to the dumbest movie ever. Only good thing about it was the popcorn.

  The next read, Figure your uncle is close so you can’t text often. OMG how do u stand it? KHYF. Bad enough with my ps wanting ‘quality family time’ evry nite.

  Random but u think Lawson is married? I saw someone who looked like him walking from theater with someone super young. Pedo?????

  That one was a head-scratcher. Mr. Lawson? Naw, Dylan texted back. Maybe he’s got a young wife. He’s not that old, u no.

  He smothered a laugh when her response swiftly followed. A gif of an old guy with a long white beard. Dylan was going to have to play with the phone some. Figure out how to use the emojis and gifs. Although he didn’t think this cell ran to anything fancy.

  Hey know what else? Ps talking about going to Charlotte 2 visit SIS 2MORO. Told them I can’t go. HW due next week.

  Man, he was lame at this. Ps was parents. HW . . . homework. He’d have to look up the lingo when he got to school Monday. Yeah heard something bout that, he typed back. HW I mean.

  Ha, yep! BBQ at Kevin Randall’s. If ps go I mite live dangerously. Emoji of a key and a car followed.

  Dylan stared at the message for a long minute. Grace was his age. Well, three months older. They’d talked about it. He knew she had a permit too. He’d never even brought up getting one with his mom because the answer was a no-brainer. Nothing to drive and nowhere to go.

  I could pick u up. Start BBQ at six but anytime ok. Lock uncle in closet???
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  Shit, that’s exactly what he’d have to do. There was no way in hell Teeter would ever give him permission. His mom would freak. And truthfully, the idea made Dylan’s chest go tight. He’d nearly had a heart attack just walking down the street with Grace to Johnny’s. Sneaking out at night to go to a party . . . his whole body tensed at the thought. Even though it’d be dark. Who the hell could see him?

  But there was no way to get rid of T. And it was the first time Dylan was relieved to have him here, at least as an excuse.

  His skull felt like someone was hammering spikes into it. The glare from the screen of the cell made his eyes burn. He closed them, just for a moment. Pictures exploded across his mind, one after the other. The three guys killed because of Dylan. He’d never seen any of them in death, but there they were, Ethan and Chad bloody and unrecognizable. Trev, eyes wide and staring in his watery grave.

  He clutched his head and rolled to his side, but the mental reel continued. You control your thoughts; they don’t control you. The doc’s long-ago words swam over him. Dylan scrabbled for the comfort of the image of Trevor, swinging on that rope swing. In his fantasy, the woods were full of light. The trees crowding the banks of the creek opened up, as if in welcome, as Trevor swung higher and higher. A ray of sunlight painted his body as the sound of his laughter echoed and reechoed.

  But the vision melded into another one. Trev and him in that hollowed-out log they always went to. Trev opening his hands to show Dylan . . . what? The throbbing in his head squashed the image.

  He reached for the comfort of the rope-swing vision again, but it refused to form. Instead, a billow of black smoke blew through his mind, carrying images of Trev and him running, the backpack swinging from his friend’s hand. The remote-controlled boat dancing on the swollen creek, its light winking as it bounced off one rock to the other.

  Panic crowded into his chest again, and Dylan pulled the pillow over his head to shut it all out. Grace. He clung to the thought of her like a talisman and fell into an uneasy sleep, fingers curled around the cell.