Redemption Road

by John Hart

  Find a place, some other life …

  “I don’t want to be alone,” he said; and it moved her to hear him speak that difficult truth. But others mattered, too. Gideon. Channing. Faircloth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  But at the motel he said, “Reconsider.” The smile was back, but the recklessness and easy grace were gone. He seemed needful and nervous, and that was the bitter side of loneliness.

  “I’m happy for you, Adrian. That you’re letting go.”

  “But you won’t come with me?”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Is it because you saw me beat those men?”

  “No.”

  He looked away, stiff-featured. “Do you think I’m a coward? For leaving?”

  “I think you’re allowed to move on.”

  “Olivet said there were other prisoners with other secrets. What if that’s true? What if there are others suffering as I did?”

  “You can’t go back,” Elizabeth said. “And it’s not just the murder warrant. No one will take your word over the warden’s. With the guards in his pocket, he’s unassailable. It’s the genius of what he’s doing.”

  “Because prisoners lie and prisoners die.”

  “Exactly.”

  Adrian flushed, the dark eyes troubled as he watched cars blow past on the dusty road. “Maybe I should kill him.”

  “Find a place,” she said. “Make that life.”

  His chin dipped, but not in agreement. “No one outside the prison understands how dangerous the warden is. They don’t know what he does or the pleasure he takes in doing it. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that a month from now, or a year. What if Eli was wrong?”

  “Even if he was, it hardly matters. Every cop in the state is looking for you, and you need to think that through. If you get picked up for Preston’s murder, you’ll end up in the same prison under the same warden.” He shook his head, but she persisted. “Look at me. Adrian, let me see what I can do. If he’s made mistakes, we might get lucky. Some other prisoner. A guard willing to talk. Be patient. As it happens, I’ve recently met some people in the state police.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, and his mouth tilted. “Is that a joke?”

  “Maybe.”

  There it was again: the smile, the unexpected flutter. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  “Good.”

  “But I’ll wait a day in case you change your mind.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Here. This motel.”

  “Adrian—”

  “It’s a lot of money, Liz. You can have half of it. No commitments. No strings.”

  She held the gaze for a lingering moment, then rose to her toes and kissed his cheek.

  “That feels like good-bye,” he said.

  “That was for luck.” She took his face and kissed him long on the lips. “That’s the good-bye.”

  * * *

  The drive out was hard. She told herself he’d be fine, that he’d manage. But, that was only half the problem. She tasted the kiss, the way he’d kissed her back.

  “You barely know him, Liz.”

  She said it twice, but if knowing was in a kiss, then she knew him pretty well—the shape of his mouth, the softness and small pressures. He was just a man, she told herself, a loose end from the distant past. But her feelings for him had never been that simple. They showed up in dreams, lingered like the taste of his kiss. Even now they worked to confuse her, and that was the thing about childhood emotions: love or hate, anger or desire—they never stayed in the box.

  * * *

  It took time to leave the low country and cross the sand hills, heading west. By the time she reached the center of the state, she’d channeled the confusion into a narrow space behind the walls of her chest. It was an old space, and her feelings for Adrian filled it from long practice. Life now was about the children and Crybaby and what remained of her career. So she took a deep breath and sought the calm center that made her such a good cop. Steadiness. Logic. That was the center.

  Problem was, she couldn’t find it.

  Everything was the kiss and wind and thoughts of her hands on his skin. Adrian didn’t want to stay locked away. She didn’t want him locked away, either.

  “Pull yourself together.”

  But she couldn’t.

  The carousel was turning: Adrian and the kids, Crybaby and the basement. Whom was she kidding when she said life could go back to what it had been?

  Herself?

  Anyone at all?

  When she crossed the city line, she stopped at a strip mall to replace her cell phone. The clerk recognized her face from the papers, but didn’t say anything about it. His finger rose once. His mouth opened and closed.

  “I don’t need a smartphone. Cheapest thing you have as long as it calls and texts.”

  He set her up with a flip phone made of gray plastic.

  “Everything’s the same? Passwords? Voice mail?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re good to go.”

  She signed the receipt, returned to the car, and sat beneath blue sky and a pillar of heat. Punching keys, she called voice mail. Seven were from reporters. Two were from Beckett and six more from Dyer.

  The last was from Channing.

  Elizabeth played it twice. She heard scraping sounds and breathing, then three words, far and faint but clear.

  Wait. Please. Don’t.

  It was Channing’s voice. No doubt. Faint as it was, the girl sounded terrified. Elizabeth played it again.

  Wait.

  Please …

  She didn’t hear the third word that time, disconnecting the phone instead and gunning out of the lot. Channing would have bonded out by now—as wealthy as her father was, there could be little question of that—but where would she go?

  Elizabeth called Channing’s cell phone and, when she got no answer, steered for the rich side of town. Her father’s house had tall walls, privacy. He’d want to keep her there and buttoned down. Maintain control. Avoid the media.

  The last part was a joke. Elizabeth saw the news trucks from two blocks out. It wasn’t the A-list talent—they’d be at the church or the station—but it was a lot of energy, even for a double killing. It was the optics of race and politics, of torture and execution and Daddy’s little girl. No one recognized Elizabeth until she turned for the drive, then the shouting started.

  “Detective Black! Detective!”

  But, she was through the line before anyone got organized. Fifty feet up the drive she hit private security. Two men. Ex-cops. She recognized them both. Jenkins? Jennings? “I need to see Mr. Shore.”

  One of the men approached the car. He was in his sixties; wore a decent suit. A four-inch Smith rode his belt. “Hey, Liz. Jenkins. Remember?”

  “Yeah. ’Course.”

  He leaned into the window, checked the seats, the floorboards. “I’m glad you’re here. Mr. Shore’s pretty upset.”

  “About what?”

  “Your timing.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “What can I say?” Jenkins keyed the radio, told the house she was coming. “Everything’s a bitch when your kid goes missing.”

  “What?”

  He stepped back rather than answer the question.

  Missing kid?

  That couldn’t be good.

  “Straight up to the house. Mr. Shore’s waiting for you.”

  Elizabeth took her foot off the brake, the drive twisting past statuary and formal gardens. The short distance felt longer. By the time Elizabeth parked, Alsace Shore was on the bottom step. He wore jeans and another expensive golf shirt. Twenty feet out, she could see the flush in his neck. “How dare you wait so long?” He stormed across the cobbled drive. “I called the department three hours ago!”

  Elizabeth climbed from the car. “Where’s Channing?”

  “You’re supposed to tell me that.” He was coming undone. No question. Behind him, his wife huddled in the
open door.

  “How about we start at the beginning?”

  “I’ve explained this twice, already.”

  “Do it again.” His mouth snapped shut because she was cold and hard, and people rarely used that tone with him. Elizabeth didn’t care. “Tell me everything.”

  It was difficult for him to do, but he swallowed his pride and told her about the drive from court and the awkwardness between them, about the pink room, the hot chocolate, and the open window. “She’s not thinking right. It’s like she’s a totally different person.”

  “I think she is.”

  “Don’t be flip.”

  “She’s snuck out before,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, but not like this.”

  “Explain.”

  He struggled, and other emotions broke through. “She was in a dark place, Detective. Resigned. Untouchable. It was as if she’d given up on everything she’d ever been.”

  “She’s in shock. Are you surprised?”

  “Jail, I suppose. The threat of prison.”

  “It’s not just jail, Mr. Shore. I warned you about this before. She was abused until she broke, then killed two men in defense of her own life. Did you think to tell her you understood? That maybe you’d have done the same thing?”

  He frowned, and she knew he had not. “You’ve seen the photographs?”

  “I don’t need to see them, Mr. Shore. I was there. I lived it.”

  “Of, course. I’m sorry. This day…”

  “Did she take anything with her?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Leave a message of any kind?”

  “Just the open window.”

  Elizabeth studied the girl’s window, remembering her own childhood room and the one time she’d gone down the tree beside it. “She’s not a minor, Mr. Shore. The police won’t consider her missing until she’s been gone for at least twenty-four hours. If anything, they’re worried she’s jumping bail, which means any looking they do is the kind you probably don’t want.”

  “I don’t care. I just want her found.”

  Elizabeth held his eyes and saw that he was begging. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone? Friends? Places? Something she kept secret or didn’t want you to know about?”

  “Honestly, Detective, the only person or thing she seems to care about is you.”

  Elizabeth saw it then, so clearly.

  “I love her, Detective. I may not show it, not with the houses, the career, the issues with my wife. I may not show it, but my daughter is my life.” He put a palm across his heart, the red now in his eyes. “Channing is my life.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth had seen it a thousand times before: people taking others for granted until the others were gone. He was close to tears when she left, a large man, breaking.

  She felt the smallest sympathy.

  Back at the street, reporters collected at the end of the drive, cameras up and the questions louder. Three of the boldest blocked the exit, and Elizabeth accelerated so there would be no confusion about her intent.

  There wasn’t.

  When she was through she moved faster, skirting the center of town this time, then turning down a narrow one-way street lined with white picket and wisteria. That was the back way into her neighborhood, and it shaved a few minutes off her time, the old car complaining at the first ninety-degree turn. The next street was hers—a shaded lane—and she raced its length without apology or regret. Everything felt wrong, not just Channing’s message but Elizabeth’s choices, too. She should have kept the girl closer, never left town. Explanations rose in her mind, the possibility of lost phones or resentments or miscommunications. But, nothing was that clean.

  Wait.

  Please.

  Don’t.

  Elizabeth made the driveway and left the car running. She found a broken bottle on the porch, and a glass turned on its side.

  “Channing?”

  The door grated on its broken hinge, and she moved through the empty house, calling the girl. She checked the backyard, then searched the house again. No note. No sign. Back outside, she took her time on the porch, finding a flowerpot out of place and a dark smear she knew was blood. She touched the stain, then tried Channing’s cell again and found it ringing in a bush beside the porch. She stared at it, disbelieving, then broke the connection.

  The girl was gone.

  29

  By the time Elizabeth reached the station a lump of dread had settled in her stomach. Something was wrong, and it was something bad. The message and the blood, the broken bottle and the lost phone. Channing went to Elizabeth’s house, but would have stayed there. She had no doubt. The girl was in trouble. But nothing meaningful could be done without access to police resources, and that could be a problem.

  The place was crawling with FBI and state police and enough media to make the collection at Channing’s house seem small by comparison. She parked across the street, a hundred feet down. The feds were unmistakable with their black cars and stenciled Windbreakers. The SBI investigators were only a shade less obvious. Taking out the new phone, she called James Randolph, who answered on the first ring. “Jesus, Liz. Where are you?”

  “I’m parked out front. What’s happening?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Christ. Listen.” He paused a beat. “Can you meet me in back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two minutes.”

  He hung up, and Elizabeth took a right turn to avoid the camera crews and reporters. She worked a wide route, traveling extra blocks to approach the rear of the station from the other side. At secure parking, she keyed the pad and waited as the gate rolled open on heavy-gauge wheels. She saw Randolph on the steps, a cigarette pinched between thin lips. He dipped his head left, and she turned for that corner of the lot, meeting him in a shady place beneath a locust tree that rose from an empty lot on the other side of the fence. “Goddamn, Liz. Where have you been?”

  “Good to see you, too.” She exited the car. He was worked up, and that was rare for him. James had been around long enough to see most everything. “Can I have one of those?”

  “What? Yeah. Sure.”

  He shook out a cigarette, and she watched his face as he lit a match. She wanted him settled. “Thanks.” She leaned into the match. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Things have been crazy.”

  “Because of Adrian?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “The dead guard?”

  “What? Oh. Him.” Randolph raised his shoulders. “Yeah, I guess that’s part of it, him being murdered and all.”

  “What’s happening here, James?” He held the gaze; drew hard on the cigarette. “James?”

  He flicked the butt; looked miserable. “Ah, shit.”

  * * *

  They went through the secure door, and Randolph talked as they followed the long hall and took the stairs up. He told her about the investigation at the church. “Nine more bodies.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s the final count. We dug ’em up, hauled ’em out. They’re with the medical examiner, now. Listen, I know this is hard for you, more victims in such a special place.”

  She stopped him with a raised hand. Everyone considered it her father’s church, her childhood home. It hadn’t been like that for a long time, but this was too big.

  Nine more bodies?

  Nine?

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be. Tell me what else.”

  He led her to a corner near the evidence room. For the moment, it was quiet. Just the two of them, his voice. “Look, this thing’s huge, right? SBI is in from Raleigh, feds down from Washington. It’s alphabet city with a million eyes looking for the smallest mistake. They’re saying it could be the biggest serial killer in the history of the state, and that puts pressure on everybody. Right or wrong, your name’s wrapped up in that, now, and I don’t mean a little
bit. I mean deep, Liz, like seriously deep.”

  “Because of the church?”

  “Because everyone thinks you left here with Adrian Wall. Because they don’t understand the motive or relationship, and because cops get nervous when they can’t trust other cops.”

  “When I left with Adrian, he was charged with misdemeanor trespass that everyone knows is bullshit.”

  “Yeah well, since then he beat Officer Preston to death.”

  “People know me here, James. They trust me.”

  Randolph looked away and actually blushed.

  Elizabeth didn’t understand at first, but then she did. It was the basement. She’d forgotten that everyone knew the story, now; knew she’d lost control and lied about it, that she’d been subdued and stripped naked and bound like an animal in the dark.

  “They think you’re damaged goods. I’m sorry.”

  Elizabeth stared at the floor and felt her own sudden flush. Three doors down, the room was full of FBI and state police and pretty much every cop she’d ever known. “Do you believe that?”

  “No.” He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t.”

  “Then, why the face?”

  “Because there’s more.”

  “More of what?”

  “The bad stuff,” he said. “The really bad.”

  * * *

  He wanted her to see the murder board, but it was in the conference room, and that was at the end of the bull pen. “I’m sorry,” he said, because going to the conference room meant a long walk through a crowded room, a minute at least with every cop there watching.

  “I came here to see Dyer.”

  “You need to see this first.” He led her the rest of the way down the hall. Outside the bull pen door, Randolph kept his eyes on her face and away from her wrists. “It’s just a thing,” he said.”

  But it wasn’t. He opened the door, and the stares hit as silence spread out like a cone. She worked between the desks, and through the silent men. Eyes followed. The whispers began. Halfway through the room, Randolph took her elbow, but she shrugged it off. Let them stare. Let them judge.

  When they made it to the conference room, Randolph closed the door and lifted an eyebrow. “Okay?”