by BJ Bourg
More silence.
“They showed his picture on the television,” Roger said.
“Whose picture?”
“That Gabe Burke fellow. Camille doesn’t think it’s him.”
I shot him a look. “What? I thought she didn’t see the suspect.”
“She didn’t, but she said he was too small to drag her through the water as easily as he did. She said it had to be a larger man.”
I groaned inwardly. That was not what I wanted to hear right now. Thoughts began to swarm, overwhelming my senses. I wanted to grab Grace, hurry home, and rush back to work. I needed to be doing something to move this case along. If it wasn’t Gabe, then I needed to find the real person responsible. I couldn’t rest if the killer was still out there.
“I can’t tell you enough how much I appreciate what you and your people have done for my family,” Roger said, disrupting my thoughts. “My daughter is alive today because of you guys.”
I waved off his comment, still trying to come to grips with Camille’s revelation. “We were just doing our job.”
“Well, you don’t get paid enough for doing that job.”
“We don’t do it for the pay.” I turned and looked him in the eyes. “Finding Camille alive and watching her recover in the hospital is worth more than all the gold in California. That’s why we do it.”
His eyes were glistening. “I thought my little girl had finally run out of lives. It was the worst feeling ever. I felt like I was having open heart surgery while being wide awake.”
“I know the feeling.”
He cocked his head to the side, his curiosity fully aroused. “You do?”
I nodded, but didn’t elaborate.
“Let’s go home, Gracie,” I said. “We need to feed Mommy.”
Roger thanked me again and we parted ways. I held Grace’s tiny hand as we left the driveway. I paused near the edge of the field. I could hear cane stalks crackling as the dogs continued pursuing their quarry.
Grace made a sound and I glanced down at her. Her face was beaming. At that very moment, I decided to put my job on the back burner for one night and focus on the present, to enjoy my time with my daughter. I had made a promise a long time ago to never be so consumed by my job that I neglected my family. It was certainly a challenge because I loved my job immensely, but I was determined to give her the attention she deserved.
“You think they’ll catch it?” I asked.
Her eyes grew wide and, in broken English, she asked, “Is it a bad guy, Daddy?”
“Nah, it’s probably a rabbit.”
She sucked in her breath and a concerned look fell over her face. “A rabbit? No!”
“It’ll be fine.” Pressing two fingers to my bottom lip, I let out a piercing whistle and paused, listening. Achilles and Coco either didn’t hear it or they ignored it, because they continued crashing through the cane without wavering. They were heading east toward the front of the street, so I took Grace’s hand and began walking home. We hadn’t gone a hundred yards when a rabbit leapt from the cane to our left and darted across the road.
Grace shrieked. “Run, rabbit! Run!”
About ten seconds later, our dogs broke through and continued the chase. Grace scolded them in as mean a voice as she could muster, trying to persuade them to leave the rabbit alone. Much to her chagrin, they didn’t listen.
I just shook my head and kept walking, laughing at the expression on Grace’s face.
“No, Daddy!” she said. “It’s not funny!”
“It’s okay, Pumpkin Seed, they won’t catch the rabbit.
“But Coco’s gone!”
“She’ll come back when she’s tired or hungry, and so will Achilles. They always do.”
That seemed to satisfy her and she rushed forward when we drew closer to the house. She was running full steam ahead when the toe of her shoe stuck in the ground and she spilled forward. She landed on her face, both hands spread out in front of her. She lay shocked for a second and then started to cry. I told her not to.
“Dust yourself off and keep going,” I said in a caring but firm voice. “You’re fine.”
She looked up as I squatted beside her. One crocodile tear had formed at the corner of her left eye. It broke free and rolled down her cheek. I took each of her little hands and brushed them off.
“Never stay down. Always get right back up and keep going.” I pointed toward the house. “The last one to the house has to clean up dog poop.”
Forgetting about her spill, she scrambled to her feet and took off at a stumbling run. My heart swelled with pride as I watched her go. I had noticed grass stains and a little scratch on her knees and knew it must’ve smarted, but she ignored them and charged ahead.
When we would reach the house, I would clean up her scrapes, they would heal, and she would forget about this little fall. But one day, when it mattered most, she would dust herself off, get right back up, and charge forward. Not because it came naturally, but because it had been engrained within her—and because I hadn’t been so consumed with my job that I’d failed to recognize those special moments, however small.
CHAPTER 32
It was about eleven when Susan and I finally got to bed. Achilles and Coco had returned home empty-handed earlier, and that had thrilled Grace. I had doctored up the scrapes on her knees and palm and then we’d all sat down to dinner. I’d refrained from saying anything to Susan about Camille’s thoughts on Gabe Burke while we ate, and I’d forgotten to tell her about it when we were getting dressed for bed.
“Sue, are you sleeping?” I asked now, as I lay wide awake, wondering at the identity of our suspect. Her breathing was slow and steady. She was sound asleep.
I tossed and turned, trying to fall asleep myself. It felt as though I was awake all night, but I must’ve fallen asleep at some point, because I suddenly found myself driving my Tahoe.
I was perplexed. I thought I’d remembered crashing my Tahoe, yet here I was, driving south on Old Blackbird Highway in my SUV. It was dark and I was having a hard time seeing. I reached for the knob to turn on my headlights, but it wasn’t there.
A cloud of fog had suddenly rolled in from the water and I couldn’t see five feet in front of me. I leaned forward, squinting. Suddenly, the fog dissipated and my lights came on, revealing Gabe Burke standing in the roadway directly in front of my vehicle. He was crying and cradling something in his hands.
I jerked my steering wheel to the right to avoid hitting Gabe. I was now heading straight for the trees that lined the shoulder of the road. I reached for the brake pedal, but pressed the accelerator instead. My Tahoe raced forward, heading straight for a large oak tree. I braced myself for impact, but suddenly found myself back on Old Blackbird Highway, heading straight for Gabe Burke.
I was about to swerve to miss him, but he lifted a pistol and aimed it directly at me. Changing my mind, I smashed the accelerator and plowed right over him. I felt the vehicle bounce roughly as though I’d raced over a speed bump.
I stopped my Tahoe and approached Gabe’s body. I cocked my head to the side, confused. Although I had clearly driven over him, he was seated in the road, unharmed, cradling something in his arms. When I drew closer, he looked up and smiled.
“Here,” he said, and held out his hands.
I glanced down curiously. At first, it was too dark to see what he was handing me, so I moved to the side to allow some light to illuminate the object. When it came into view, I recoiled in horror when I saw that it was Camille Rainey’s head on a stick.
“Shit!” I bolted upright in bed and stared wildly around. My heart was racing. I was covered in sweat. I squinted as I probed the darkness, trying to orient myself. Relief flooded over me as I realized I was at home in bed, and Camille was fine.
I leaned toward Susan, worried that I’d disturbed her sleep, but she hadn’t stirred. Shaken by my nightmare, I slipped out of bed and padded lightly downstairs. I stumbled toward the kitchen in the dark and grabbed a glass. I
filled it straight from the tap and gulped it down. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and flipped on the light under the counter. Achilles, who had been sleeping under the table, stood and stretched. His back rubbed against the table as he sauntered out from under it.
“Why aren’t you sleeping on your bed?” I asked idly. “It was expensive. You should use it.”
Sensing something was wrong with me, he walked over and nudged my hand. I rubbed his head and took a few cleansing breaths. I filled another glass of water and stood there until my heart had slowed to a normal rhythm.
Taking my glass with me, I walked to the living room and dropped to the sofa. Achilles stretched out across my feet and rested his chin in his outstretched paws. His fur was warm against my flesh.
I grabbed the remote control and turned on the television. I began flipping through the channels. It was almost three in the morning and there wasn’t much worth watching. I remembered my mom saying she had recorded the news from Wednesday. I had begun to watch it, but never finished. I accessed our recordings. There were dozens of television shows in the listings and I’d never heard of any of them. I clicked on a few of them and cringed each time I saw singing animals or talking cars.
“What in the hell are kids watching these days?”
Achilles’ ears perked up at the sound of my voice, but he didn’t lift his head.
I continued scrolling through the recordings until I found the news from Wednesday. I pressed the OK button and settled back to watch the program.
“Laura Cavanaugh is in Mechant Loup now,” said an anchor from a local Fox affiliate. “What can you tell us, Laura?”
“I’m here at the Mechant Loup Boat Dock, where something evil is lurking in the dark waters of the bayous that snake through this swampy paradise.” The blonde reporter, who I recognized from other incidents that had taken place down here, turned and pointed toward the busy pier. “As you can see, this is a very active scene as law enforcement and volunteers frantically search the lakes for more victims. So far, three are confirmed dead, and the circumstances surrounding their deaths remain a mystery.”
“What?” I said aloud. “For the last time, there weren’t three victims. Where in the hell are they getting this?”
The camera moved from the bustling activity and back to the reporter, who brushed several strands of blonde hair from her face.
“According to a source close to the investigation, some kind of underwater creature is preying on unsuspecting visitors. I’m told authorities have no idea what is behind the attacks on tourists, but they believe it’s no longer safe for anyone to be in the water and they are contemplating a ban on all water sports until they bring a closure to this mystery. Shelly, back to you.”
The anchor, a young woman with dark hair and eyes, said, “Laura, this sounds like the beginnings of a horror movie. Do authorities have any leads at all?”
“As you might imagine, local leaders aren’t saying much as they try to get a handle on what’s going on in their jurisdiction, but citizens are definitely on edge and my source tells me some people believe a mythical swamp creature is preying on tourists who don’t respect the land. My source also tells me that the mayor’s office is thinking about advising tourists to stay away until this case is resolved.”
“They’re thinking about shutting down the town?”
“That’s what my source is saying. A full quarantine would be the only way to keep people out of the water.”
I shut off the television and sank into the cushions of the sofa. Who in the hell could’ve fed this information to the reporter? I now understood why Pauline was angry. Someone was undermining our investigation.
I paused for a second, considering something. Cavanaugh had reported there being three drowning victims at noon, and we hadn’t even found Camille by that time. How would anyone know there were three bodies at that time? Had they simply assumed three people had drowned?
A cold chill suddenly reverberated over me as I remembered Camille saying she had pretended to be dead so the creature or person would lose interest in her.
“Our suspect thought he had killed Camille!” I blurted out loud, jumping to my feet and disturbing Achilles’ slumber. “He assumed we would find Camille’s body, so he leaked info about the three victims to the media. He’s the source—the killer called the reporter!”
I suddenly realized that if I could prove Gabe Burke was Cavanaugh’s source, then we could prove he was the killer and this case would be closed.
Thinking quickly, I walked to our home office and pulled out my laptop. I returned to the sofa and fired it up. Once I’d accessed the website of the local Fox station, I searched until I found Laura Cavanaugh’s contact information. There was an email address, a desk number, and a cell number.
I glanced at the time displayed on the bottom corner of my laptop. It wasn’t even three o’clock yet. I knew it would be rude to call at this time of the morning, but I needed to know, and I needed to know now.
I glanced over at Achilles and shrugged. Muttering an apology, I dialed her cell phone number and waited.
CHAPTER 33
“Hello, how may I help you?” asked a tired voice. The female who answered had done so on the fourth ring. I had almost hung up on the third, but decided to let it ring until the voicemail picked up so I could leave a message.
“Is this Laura Cavanaugh,” I asked, “from the local Fox 8 station in the La Mort area?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Clint Wolf. I’m the—”
“I know who you are,” she said quickly, interrupting me. She seemed wide awake now. “You’re the chief of detectives for the Mechant Loup Police Department. Before that, you were the Chief of Police before taking a year off to work as a swamp tour guide. You also worked as a detective for the City of La Mort before that. I’ve followed your career very carefully, beginning when your wife and daughter were—”
“I get it,” I said, a little rougher than I’d intended. “You know me. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just really good to hear from you. I know you don’t know this, but I was in journalism school when your wife and daughter were murdered following the La Mort Riots. For my Master’s project, I wrote a paper titled, When the Messenger Becomes the Message: The Media’s Role in the La Mort Riots. I believe the media’s false portrayal of police officers helped contribute to the destruction and chaos in the city—and that includes what happened to your beautiful family.”
I shifted on the sofa and stared down at Achilles. He was watching me with great curiosity. I didn’t know how to respond to what she’d said, so I simply said nothing.
“Anyway, although I’ve covered a number of stories in and around Mechant Loup, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you or interviewing you.” She paused, but still, I said nothing. “So, what can I do for you, Detective Wolf? I know you didn’t call at three in the morning just to chat.”
“No, ma’am…I’m sorry.” I shook my head to clear it. “Um, I need to ask you some questions about your story from Wednesday at noon.”
“Oh? Did I report something that was inaccurate? If I did, I’m truly sorry, but it is kind of hard to report the facts when your mayor or chief won’t talk to me.” She paused slightly before continuing. “If you want to give me an interview, I’d be very happy to correct the record.”
“No, ma’am, what we say here has to stay here.” Although she couldn’t see me, I was shaking my head. “We can’t go on the record with any of this, do you understand?”
“I don’t know…” She was hesitant. “You’re calling at three in the morning because you want me to answer your questions, but you won’t answer any of mine? That doesn’t seem fair.”
I knew I was facing an uphill battle. Journalists would rather go to jail than reveal a source, and I had a good feeling she would never tell me who had provided the information for her story. Still, I had to try. “Look, you’re right, I called you
for information, so it’s only fair that I entertain any questions you might have. I’ll cooperate with you to the extent that I’m allowed, if you’ll show me the same courtesy. Deal?”
“That sounds reasonable. How will this work? Will it be one for one—you get one question and I get one question? Or did you have something else in mind?”
“Why don’t we just talk?” I moved the phone to my left hand and ear and opened a new Word document. With my fingers poised over the keyboard, I asked my first question. “Where’d you get the information about there being three drowning victims?”
“A confidential source. Why—was that incorrect?”
“Can you keep it off the record? At least until this case is solved?”
“How long will that take?”
“You’ve been doing this long enough to know I can’t answer that with any degree of certainty. I hope to solve it right now—with your help—but I can’t say for sure if that’ll happen.”
“Hmm, you’re thinking it was the killer who called me, aren’t you?”
She was bright, that was for sure.
“I am.”
“Okay, I’ll keep it quiet,” she said. “Was I wrong about the death count?”
“Yes, you were. There were only two drowning victims—Chrissy Graves and Frank Jones. Your story ran at noon. Right about that time, I was on the lake with Officer Takecia Gayle searching for a missing girl by the name of Camille—her last name’s not important at the moment. Anyway, we found Camille almost two hours after your live broadcast. The person who called you was either mistaken about how many bodies we’d found, or he said three because he thought he had drowned three people. Only, he was mistaken, because his third victim pretended to be dead.”
“Wait a minute—you have information that a man is responsible for drowning these people? These were homicides and not accidents or animal attacks?”
“We’re off the record, right?”
“Sure.”