“And the other doctor, Booth, didn’t see it that way?”
“The Stone’s family doctor did a report that Dr. Booth signed off on. It was total bullshit. I saw that report. It was all wrong. I went over the long list of mistakes with Dr. Booth, and he just kept telling me that ‘the family has been through a lot.’ No shit. Someone killed that woman then hanged her. And when I tried to explain that, I was told to stay out of it. Then I went to try to re-examine the daughter’s report and I had people so high up the chain of command screaming at me that you would have thought I’d committed the damn murder. They threatened to pull my medical license!”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Oh, sure… I could just call over to the sheriff and interrupt his golf game with Earl Stone…”
“Stone had ins with the department over in Carteret County?”
“What planet are you living on, Walker? Earl Stone may be the next President of the United States!”
“Yeah, well, I’m thinking, not so much. I’m thinking more like a cell in Maury. I hear they’ve got a vacancy now.” My sarcasm didn’t do anything to diffuse my rising anger.
“It’ll never happen. Anyway, that’s all I can really tell you. The autopsy on Anne Stone was a sham, and no one would dare cross Stone on it. Not one doctor, not one administrator, nobody would talk to me about this. Wait. I take that back, there was one cop. I think he got shafted, too.”
“Yeah. Arthur McDade. Sheriff’s deputy.”
“That’s him. McDade. Get in touch with him. Look, Walker… If any of this helped, great. I never believed Ben McComb killed that girl or that Anne Stone hanged herself. That’s the opinion of one medical examiner who was never given all of the evidence to examine. Thinking back on it now, it would never happen in today’s world. The state office of the chief medical examiner is set up differently nowadays, but some twenty years ago, it was just a network of local docs who volunteered. There wasn’t much oversight, and if someone like Stone wanted a certain doc to issue a report? Trust me, he could make it happen. Poor son of a bitch on the slab back there didn’t do anything wrong except have a crush on Earl Stone’s daughter.”
“You think Earl Stone had anything to do with his daughter’s or his wife’s deaths?”
“I think Earl Stone knows more than he’s saying.”
“And what if I told you that Earl Stone was molesting his daughter and beating his wife?”
There was a long pause. “Why would you say that?”
“I told you…Casey told me. I have her diary, doc. And according to this dead girl, her father belongs in prison.”
I could hear him take a deep breath, followed by a long exhale. “Keep it someplace very safe, Walker. And if I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone else you have it. And you better start thinking about other countries you want to live in. Stone finds out you have something that can ruin his shot at the White House and you’re not safe anywhere in this country.”
“Bring it on,” I snarled. And I meant it. Greller was now the second person to tell me I had to leave the country that I had defended for all of my adult life. Are you shittin’ me? All that did was guarantee I was going to be digging deeper.
Hooaah.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fresh Fish
I hung up with the doc after he reminded me he’d never speak to me again unless it was in court. He sounded downright scared.
I didn’t know Earl Stone. Maybe if I did, I’d be scared, too. Instead, I was just pissed—pissed at myself for getting Benjamin McComb killed over something he probably never did in the first place, pissed at myself for being naïve enough to think I could just play private investigator, pissed about the fact that now I didn’t want Amanda coming to this house in case some unwanted visitors showed… All in all, I was just pissed.
I went down to the basement and rummaged through my boxes of worldly possessions stored there until I found my old buddy Ice, my Mossberg. This handy little piece of equipment had accompanied me on many a night in Afghanistan and the Hindu Kush on special assignment, killing Taliban dirtbags. Up until Amanda, it had been the biggest love of my life, and there was no way it was staying behind when I returned to home soil.
For anyone who has never killed another human being, let me just say that a fair fight isn’t what anyone should want. Fair fights can get people killed. The best thing is to have a weapon that will kill an enemy in one shot, even if center mass is missed. We had an old saying in the military. ‘If you ever find yourself in a fair fight, your tactics suck.’ My shells were specially made by the Delta armorer and were still classified, but I can say this. They’re devastating.
My Mossberg is a compact, black, tactical shotgun that has a pistol grip and holds six rounds that are pumped into the chamber manually by the handgrip and a strap that wraps around my left forward hand, up at the working end of the weapon. When I hit a human being with this weapon, it makes a large wet mess and the fight is over.
I suppose I should clarify and explain that this is not a typical weapon for an Army Ranger or Delta operator in the mountains. One would more likely find SCARs, M4s and M16s, squad automatic weapons or sniper rifles than a shotgun. But I had different kinds of assignments. I was typically a few yards away from my enemy when I killed him, not across the valley like the fancy sniper boys. Anyway, the point was now that I was reunited with my old friend Ice, I felt better.
And yes, I’d named my shotgun. Somehow, ‘Mossberg’ had turned into ‘Iceberg’, which got shortened to ‘Ice’. Most guys named their guns after women. My gun seemed way too nasty for that. Ice and I had killed lots of people together—people who’d very much wanted to kill me. So I cleaned and oiled Ice, loaded him up with my secret shells and went back upstairs with a bottle in one hand and a shotgun in the other. Damn, I was turning country—except the wine was a beautiful Gazin Pomerol French Bordeaux, and I doubt hillbillies drank that shit.
It was now dark outside, and I was wondering how long it would take before I had visitors from Mr. Stone. Fuck ’em. I had Ice. Whatever progress I had made in turning into a civilian was lost. I was back in combat-mode, fully wired, blood pumping and enjoying the familiar feel of the adrenaline rush.
I called Amanda, who made me happy by picking up on the first ring.
“Hey, baby!” she said, so cheerfully that I smiled for the first time all day. “How’s it going over there?”
“It’s been an interesting day,” I said. I proceeded to explain the events of my afternoon. She listened to every word. When I was finished, she simply said, “Sell the house.” I was taken off guard on that one.
“Sell the house. Leave there tonight and come here. If they killed Ben McComb just for talking to you…”
That sounded very familiar. I interrupted her. “Relax. No one is coming here tonight, and if they do, it would be a very large mistake on their part.”
“You almost got killed once already. Remember?”
“Yes, it’s how I meet women.”
“I’m serious. The house is very nice from the outside, but it’s a house of horrors, and you need to get out of there now, Cory!”
“I like my house, I like my neighbors and I am not being forced to move because Mr. Sick Fuck thinks he can do whatever he wants.”
“I want you to come here tonight. Just tonight, okay?”
“It’s safe. Chill out.”
“Fine, then I’m coming down there tonight.”
“Okay, it’s not that safe. You’re not coming down until I get this all sorted out. Give me a couple of days and I’ll figure out what to do.”
“Call the police, Cory. That’s what you do! You call the police and you stay the hell out of it before you get killed!” She was getting herself worked up, sweet thing.
“I can’t call the police,” I mumbled.
“And why not?”
“Because Stone and the sheriff are old buddies. For all I know, it was the guards who killed B
en, not inmates.”
“The guards? Cory! This is insane!”
“I’m thinking about calling the Feds, maybe giving them the diary.”
“Good. That’s good! Do that. Call the FBI right now.”
“Give me a couple of days. This is a twenty-year-old case. No one is going to want to talk to me. I need to finish reading it tonight, make some copies, then start talking to someone in law enforcement who’s not connected to Stone.”
We went round and round for a while, but I finally convinced her to stay put and give me some time to get organized. I put the wine in the fridge and slung Ice over my shoulder so it was across my back, the barrel facing down. I always carried him in this fashion, so if he needed to come out and say hello, all I had to do was slip the strap around and he’d come up under my right arm, ready to bark. This was probably a little over-the-top for a walk around the neighborhood, but fuck it. I have a permit and a box of medals. No cop is going to hassle me for exercising my right to bear arms, even if this weapon is technically illegal.
Oh, well. I walked out of the back door—call me paranoid—and crept through my gardens to check ‘the perimeter’, as we military types like to call it. There was no one around. I made a mental note. Buy a dog—a big fucking nasty dog with huge fangs.
When I was satisfied that there wasn’t a cadre of assassins trying to kill me, I walked down the road, back to the dock where I had met the Hatfields and McCoys, aka Thomas and Caleb. The boat was tied to the dock, and ‘the boys’ were still there. I wondered if they ever moved forty feet from that spot. Like, ever.
I walked down the old wooden dock under the dim light of an overhead lamp on a wooden post. The sun had almost set and it was fairly dark now. As I walked closer, I could see they were drinking cans of beer and barbecuing some fish on an old oil drum someone had cut in half and filled with coals. Voila! That was what I was looking for—fresh fish.
“Evening, fellas,” I called out as I approached. “I was wondering if you had caught any fish I might be able to buy.”
They greeted me in their Hoi-Toider, now with a buzz on, and I didn’t recognize one syllable. Caleb tried to stand up, then sat back down with a loud flop, bringing great fits of laughter from his buddies. He was hammered.
“Had a few cold ones, huh?” I said with a smile, trying to be one of the boys. Thomas laughed at that and spat out a bunch of gibberish, which I finally caught on to mean that the beers were only there to wash down some peach moonshine that Caleb’s brother-in-law had made for them.
Caleb handed me a Mason jar of the colorless liquid. I had no interest in getting wasted with these good ole boys, but I also didn’t want to offend their kind offer. I accepted the jar, offered cheers to the crew and took a slug. It was delicious. Okay, I’m totally lying.
I’m pretty sure someone had put some peaches in turpentine for a month then poured it into that jar. Drinking a bottle of that might get me another purple heart.
I smiled and told them how smooth it was, ignoring the screaming coming from my liver. I have no idea what they said in response. Holy crud, these people need to learn some English. Caleb rambled on and on, then I heard him use the word ‘feesh’ a few times. I concurred. To what, I have no idea, but I grunted a yes to something about fish, and the next thing I knew, Caleb was wrapping one from a cooler into some newspaper and handing it to me.
I asked him how much it was. The three of them were laughing and carrying on and were so wasted that I had no idea what to say or do. I took another sip of the lighter fluid when they offered it again, then told them I needed to get home. They smiled and waved me off, and I turned to leave, which led to Caleb exclaiming something that sounded like “God damn!”
I turned around, not sure what he was cursing about, then realized he had spotted Ice across my back.
“In case you didn’t have any fish, I was going to go get me a bear,” I said casually and walked back toward home. I could hear them roaring in the background about me shooting a bear. If nothing else, I had probably bonded with the locals a little bit, and they were salt-of-the-earth types who would be good to have as friends.
I walked home silently, feeling like I was on patrol, my head on a swivel. It was a familiar feeling, but not one I’d wanted in my new home. It felt as dark in my heart as it was outside.
I got home, walked the perimeter again then went in through the back door. I inspected the house, and after I was satisfied that the Boogey Man wasn’t hiding anywhere, I went into the kitchen, where I set Ice down on the counter.
I opened the newspaper at the sink and pulled out the fish Caleb had given me. I looked it over. It was definitely a fish. That was about as specific as I could be. I had eaten some pretty nasty stuff in the third world, so whatever kind it was, I wasn’t worried about it. At least it was fresh. I scaled and gutted it in the sink, filleted it and threw it into a pan with whatever veggies I had in the fridge. A little garlic and olive oil, and presto…dinner was under the broiler. More importantly, the wine was now cold.
I ate alone, psyching myself up to finish reading the diary I didn’t want to read, and drank some wine until the feeling of dread had eased a bit. I finished eating, cleaned the kitchen and dug the journal out of my desk. Ice and I ended up sitting in the den with the bottle of wine. Ice sat on the couch next to me while I read a heartbreaking little book from a dead girl whose face now hung in front of me.
As I read, I thought to myself that I should have drank more of that peach moonshine. I’d almost been killed a hundred times in my life, and I’d seen plenty of killing, too. I’d killed people with my bare hands. I’d had friends blown to pieces right in front of me. I thought I was a pretty tough guy. Reading a teenage girl’s diary made me bawl my eyes out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Last Entry
I read all night.
Most of her journal contained flowery girl stuff that I guess any teenager would write. Casey’s crush on Ben was the main topic, with side stories about her friends on the island. I made a few notes on a legal pad, writing down the names of the friends. Maybe they’d still be around…or at least traceable. Maybe one of them knew something?
The entries about her father were limited, thank God. Either he only abused her on occasion or she didn’t always want to enter it into her notebook. Her comments about her mother also became darker, although they were vague. There seemed to be resentment building there. It was hard to understand the inner workings of a teenage girl. Hell, I had a hard enough time understanding adults. Nothing stood out until I got almost to the end. The entry there made my hair stand up.
July 29, 1991
He finally did it. It’s not worth fighting him anymore. I just got it over with and pretended he was Ben. He didn’t hit me. He wasn’t even mean. When it was over, he just got up and left. God, what if I get pregnant? It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.
I felt physically ill again. This animal had abused his daughter for so long that by the time he’d raped her, she’d acted like it was no big deal. My head was spinning. I poured the last of the wine into my glass and drank it straight down. I looked at Ice and thought how the two of us could really wipe the smile off of Earl Stone’s face. Actually, we’d wipe his face off his face.
I made myself continue reading. There was nothing else about that night in the diary. She seemed to just accept it, and because he hadn’t verbally abused her or beaten her, she somehow seemed to think it was easier than his previous attacks. There were no entries for a few days after that one, which had been less than a week from the day she’d died. I read through to her last entry.
August 1, 1991
Mom is being a total bitch. Now she’s even meaner than he is. I hate this house. I’m going to leave home the minute I turn eighteen and never come back. Dad, I miss you! You would never have let any of this happen. I wish to God my mom had never met Earl Stone! I wish… Seeing Ben tonight. Maybe he’ll help me get out of here. Ben is so
sweet. I love him. Casey-N-Ben forever?
Earl Stone was her stepfather? As horrific as that was, it made a lot of things fall into place. I considered all the mentions of Stone being her dad, even by Casey in her journal. I guessed his ego had required that she call him that and everyone had believed it.
What should have been a fun summer for a sixteen-year-old girl, soon to be seventeen, was instead the end of a long string of abuse that would end with her being strangled and dumped into the water. I wondered about what she’d written and what Ben had said in prison. The second-to-last time they had been together, she’d freaked out when they’d started to get intimate.
Then, their last night together, she had told him she loved him. She had planned on making love that night. They never had, according to Ben. He’d said he was going to die a virgin a prison. He had been right. He just hadn’t known how soon.
So what had happened that night? Had she freaked out again? I’m sure she had more PTSD than I do. Maybe when she was with Ben, she flashed back to her sick stepfather’s assault. Two kids in love, on the beach with their friends, enjoying a great night… What had happened?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Trading for Leads
When I finished reading the diary, I went back down to the basement and hid it where I’d found it. If it had been a good enough hiding place for twenty years, it would work for another few weeks. Of course, I had followed this same logic with Ben McComb, now deceased.
Blood from a Stone Page 10