Beneath Bone Lake

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Beneath Bone Lake Page 6

by Colleen Thompson


  Sam felt like shooting him the bird.

  As he and Wofford left the hospital, Sam did his damnedest to look innocent, unworried. He waved good-bye to the duty nurse as if the sheriff always escorted him back home. Once he and Wofford reached the sheriff’s SUV, he quickly climbed inside the worn and grimy vehicle before anyone driving past could spot him.

  The driver’s side door creaked loudly as Wofford took her seat. When she turned the key, the Expedition’s engine coughed and sputtered repeatedly before chugging to life. “Darned thing’s beat to death.” A light flush rose from her neckline, as if the vehicle’s state embarrassed her. “Should get the new one in soon.”

  Ignoring the comment, Sam said, “Ruby stopped by the hospital this morning. She told me about those bodies in the house. Said you didn’t know yet who you’d found.”

  Wofford pulled out of the hospital parking lot and said, “We think we have one male, one female, but the remains were burned so badly, we’re not even one hundred percent sure of that much.”

  “Both adults, right?” he asked, the question tumbling loose as Zoe’s bright smile flashed through his memory. “You—you didn’t find a little kid in there?”

  Wofford shook her head. “The firefighters looked hard, and the state fire marshal brought in a dog and handler earlier. But there’s no sign of a child in that disaster. Thank God.”

  Sam released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and willed his pulse to return to normal. This woman might sound compassionate, but something else beat beneath the surface. Something that warned him she was assessing his every syllable and each inflection.

  “I understand you believe you saw a woman upstairs,” she went on. “Did you recognize this person? Could it have been Misty Bailey?”

  As the old Ford picked up speed, Sam felt every bounce and rattle transferred through the stiff suspension. With the street’s neatly painted older wooden houses whirling past his window, he tried to focus on the shape he’d glimpsed so briefly last night: slender enough that a knee-jerk impression shouted female. At the thought of how close he had come to reaching her, he swallowed hard to clear the taste of bile. “It happened so fast, I can’t be sure what I saw. But I hope to God it wasn’t Misty, that she’s somewhere safe with her niece.”

  The sheriff turned down a smaller residential street to bypass Dogwood’s historic downtown, which would most likely be clogged with antiques-and-crafts-loving visitors on a beautiful Saturday in April. The town’s namesake trees were blooming in showy white or pink displays. “Any ideas on where she’d go? She ever mention any boyfriend?”

  Sam shrugged. “She never talked about anything too personal. We’re just neighbors, that’s all.”

  He cast the statement as carefully as a lure upon the water. Was Wofford simply fishing for additional information, as she would with any witness, or was she looking at him as a potential suspect?

  Sure enough, the sheriff rose to snatch the bait, saying, “But you two worked together, right? At Hammett’s, up until Ms. Bailey quit last week?”

  “I wouldn’t say we worked together. I’m an independent guide, but I do pick up some clients at the restaurant. Generally, I’m in there a few times a week, so yeah, Misty and I got to know each other. Casually.”

  “Casually…” Wofford braked as two mop-headed preteens crossed the street, both of them crowded onto a single bike. Lowering the driver’s side window, she shouted, “Y’all run on home and get yourself some helmets.”

  The boys kept going, either not hearing or pretending they didn’t. Shaking her head, Wofford said, “I’d like to sit those two down and show them what happened to the Bradley girl, poor darlin’. She was hit last year just a few blocks from here. On my husband’s watch. Always bothered him that he never caught the coward who ran her down and took off.”

  He watched the corner of her mouth tic downward, saw regret flash over her expression—and almost liked the woman for it, though it was against his better judgment. “Was the girl killed?”

  Wofford shook her head. “Not killed but maybe should’ve been. She’ll never have anything close to a normal life, and neither will the family.”

  After a solemn silence, the sheriff made her way back to the topic at hand. “Getting back to Misty Bailey, I wanted to ask what you meant about knowing her casually.”

  “Casually as opposed to biblically.” Unsure whether Wofford caught the reference, Sam put it more boldly. “I never slept with her, I mean. Passed the time with some flirting, but she didn’t seem interested in more. Besides, I got to thinking she was living way too close for comfort anyway.”

  The dark eyes flicked an interested glance in his direction. “What do you mean?”

  Sam shrugged. “I’m not looking for long-term now. Some women handle that better than others.”

  He could have elaborated that it would be damned awkward to end up stuck next door to an ex-lover, but instinct, along with the memory of Pacheco, screamed at him to watch his step.

  To her credit, Wofford smiled, saying, “Don’t shit where you eat, right? Isn’t that what passes for male wisdom about dating too close to home? So you weren’t involved in any kind of relationship with her?”

  “That’s right.” Attempting to change the subject, he asked, “Do you have any idea what happened to the house? Was it a gas leak? Or did that guy with the tattoos set the explosion off intentionally?”

  Wofford shot him another look, this one coolly appraising. After turning onto the oak-and-pine-bordered county road that would lead them toward the lake’s south end, she said, “Second explosion could’ve been gas. Flames might’ve ignited what collected near the roofline after the initial blast.”

  “Which was caused by…?” Sam ventured.

  “Fire marshal thinks they were cooking in there,” Wofford explained. “And I’m not talking about food.”

  “What do you mean?” Sam recalled a strong, ammonialike odor as Sam had walked from the Monroe boat dock toward the house. “Wait—yesterday, I smelled it. I thought it was an animal, but—it was drugs, right? They were cooking up drugs in the house.”

  Wofford nodded. “Methamphetamines, most likely. Explosive as all get out. Whoever was inside might’ve been trying to dismantle things in a hurry after Ms. Monroe showed up. Too much of a hurry for dealing with those chemicals.”

  “I’ve read in the paper about a few labs found in the county lately.”

  “They’re popping up all over.” She made a face at the mention. “Most of the time we only find them when the rocket scientists accidentally blow themselves to kingdom come.”

  “I can only imagine how it breaks your heart when that happens.”

  The smile flashed past so quickly it might never have been. “Only when innocent people end up hurt, too,” she admitted. “But mostly, the meth-heads set up shop in isolated houses. Trailers rusting in the woods, old, tumbledown lake places. Anywhere the neighbors won’t notice the stink of the chemicals or pay much attention to the traffic.”

  Sam shook his head. “I didn’t notice anyone strange over at the Monroe house until last week. And even then, I didn’t think much of it. Zoe didn’t look upset, and hell, nobody put me in charge of what kind of company Misty Bailey keeps.”

  Wofford cut him a hard look, her black gaze boring through him. “No one’s saying that, Mr. McCoy.”

  “Sorry.” Sam grimaced. “Once a man’s found himself on the wrong side of suspicion, he tends to get a little paranoid.”

  “But that last time,” she said lightly, “there was something to the FBI’s suspicion, right? Had your hand caught in the electronic cookie jar, didn’t you?”

  Sam snorted, knowing very well that Wofford had reviewed the details of his case, along with the terms of his probation. He could have explained about the elderly neighbors who had come, proud but penniless, to let him know what kind of corporation he’d been hired to protect. But he imagined she’d heard scores of excuses during her caree
r in law enforcement. So what if this one came from a guy who’d once raked in big bucks defending rich companies from hackers?

  So instead, he brushstroked the known facts, saying, “Yeah, I damned sure did, and it’s cost me big time. Cost me a hell of a lot more if I screw up again.”

  “Then let’s hope, Mr. McCoy,” she said, currents of meaning flowing beneath the surface of her words, “that you’re a faster learner than your big brother.”

  Sam flinched, blindsided, then wondered why he hadn’t seen this coming. Of course, Wofford would bring up J.B. Considering the drug connection, it was only natural.

  “It’s been eight—no, more than ten years—since I’ve seen him. Bastard showed up uninvited at my place in Austin. Tried to shake me down for money.”

  Sam had been shocked that J.B., who had scared the hell out of him by breaking into his condo “to surprise him,” looked so little like the smart-mouthed, devious brother he remembered. With the bloated face and red nose of a drinker, J.B.—only three years older—had aged fast and hard. But both substance abuse and prison could do that to a person, just as they had killed the brothers’ father by the age of forty-eight. And like their father, J.B. had developed the same hair-trigger temper, the same intolerance for life’s frustrations. When Sam had refused his demands for a “loan,” the asshole had pulled one of Sam’s own golf clubs out of his bag and smashed a glass-topped coffee table, a good laptop computer, and his brother’s wrist, in quick succession.

  Remembering, Sam flexed the fingers of his right hand. “I don’t even know where he is now. Prison, I imagine, or dead, maybe. J.B. and I—we might’ve shared a set of parents, but we’ve never been what you’d call close. Best thing that ever happened to me was when our caseworker split us up for foster care.”

  If she hadn’t, Sam suspected he might not have survived his childhood. Or even worse, he would have turned as violent as his brother as a means of self-defense.

  “Feds are looking for him,” Justine Wofford said, “in connection with a truckload found by a U.S. border patrol. Two tons of marijuana.”

  Sam gave a low whistle. “I always figured him for low-level stuff. An assault here, a B and E there, a few drunk and disorderlies thrown in for good measure. Maybe even murder, if he threw an unlucky punch. But big-time smuggling? The J.B. I knew couldn’t coordinate a backyard barbecue, much less a drug-running operation. Not exactly what you’d call a people person.”

  Irritation spasmed at the corner of the sheriff’s mouth. “Didn’t say he did it well. This is his third offense. They get hold of him this time, they’ll throw away the key.”

  Sam shook his head in disgust, thinking of the wasted potential. “What a dumb ass.”

  J.B., who’d started out life so damned smart, with such potential, had had the same chance to change his course as Sam had. But J.B. hadn’t ended up with the Monroes. Would Sam, who bore the same genes, have fared any better without their influence? Even with it, he’d still screwed up plenty. But never once with his fists, never with a weapon.

  Slowing for a curve, Wofford shot another glance in his direction. “Sure you haven’t seen your brother lately? Or heard from him at all?”

  Sam shook his head in answer. “Can’t imagine he’d ever come to me for help again. Last reunion we had, I ended up pressing charges, put his ass in jail for six months. But you already know all that, don’t you?”

  “I know that part of it, yes,” she admitted.

  “Then you have as much information as I do—or more, it sounds like—on the subject of my brother. And if you knew as much as you think you know about me, you’d realize the last damned thing I’d mess around with is a bunch of hopped-up amateur chemists. I’ve got too much to lose, for one thing. I want my life back, once this supervised probation’s over in a few years. Until then, I’m just killing time until the day I’m allowed to get my hands on a computer.”

  “You sound like you miss it.”

  “More than I can ever tell you,” he said. “Which is why I’m staying as far as I can from any risks.”

  Most of them, anyway.

  The SUV turned onto South Cypress Bend, the dusty, dirt road that would lead them past the state preserve and out to the lonely point of shoreline where only Sam’s house stood at present. One tire hit a rut, and Sam felt sick, his headache vying with sweaty nausea for attention.

  The sly look Wofford cut him made Sam feel even worse. “But this latest deal with the feds wasn’t your first arrest, was it?” she asked. “There was that juvie theft charge when you were seventeen. A theft from your own foster parents.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Sam said, wondering where she’d gotten the supposedly sealed file. “First of all, it was nothing—just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Apparently, they didn’t think so, since the Monroes had you removed to a group home.”

  Pain throbbed at Sam’s temples, and he tasted bile. For three hundred fifty dollars, he had lost the only stable family he’d ever known. For three hundred fifty dollars that he hadn’t even taken.

  But he knew better than to argue. Had long ago learned exactly how far that would get him. Instead he told the sheriff, “Bullshit or not, it scared me into flying right for my last year in the system, so my sentence ended up adjudicated.”

  He could hardly blame the Monroes for giving up on him at that juncture. For years, he’d done everything he could to test their commitment, but their love and faith had held fast…until the night that blew up like a firecracker in his and Aaron’s faces….

  “I’m not my brother,” Sam insisted. Neither one of them.

  “If I thought for one second you were,” Wofford said, “we’d be having this conversation more officially.”

  Sam looked at her directly, not for a moment missing the implied threat. “And we’d be having it with my lawyer present.”

  They drove in silence for a while, until the trees opened up to reveal the charred ruins of the Monroe house, where scarcely a beam remained upright. Several SUVs were parked in the street, one bearing some kind of official emblem, the others unmarked. He counted four, no, five men milling about the property, including two wearing vests marked DEA.

  Rubbernecking as she drove past, the new sheriff swore under her breath. “So much for keeping local control of this….”

  And so much, Sam understood, for limiting his role in this investigation to a “friendly” ride home from the hospital and a brief, informal chat.

  C HAPTER S EVEN

  Evil is unspectacular and always human,

  And shares our bed and eats at our own table.

  —W. H. Auden,

  from “Herman Melville”

  Though Elysse’s cat stared at her accusingly from behind the sliding glass door, Ruby wasn’t staying. For one thing, she didn’t have it in her to wait around passively for those in charge to tell her that her sister had definitely betrayed her, or even worse, to say Misty was dead and they had found a child’s body among the collapsed walls of the house. Panic bubbled at the thought. Whispering prayers, Ruby eased the screened porch door shut, her hand clutching the keys to her friend’s white Corolla in a death grip.

  If I keep moving, they’ll still be alive.

  If I keep acting, I will find them.

  And if she didn’t, Ruby understood that she would fall apart. That everything would blow to pieces like the supply truck she’d once seen struck by a rocket-propelled grenade.

  Halfway to Hammett’s on the Lake, her newly recharged phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, Ruby winced but answered.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Elysse demanded. “I turn my back on you one minute and you’re off somewhere with my—”

  “You’d been asleep at least an hour, Leese, and I left a note there on the counter.” In it, Ruby had explained that she was meeting Crystal Kowalski, who had finally returned her call, at Hammett’s before the dinner rush began. “Didn’t you see it?”

  “I
read the note, but Lord, Ruby. You shouldn’t be driving around by yourself. Not at a time like this.”

  “Listen, if you’re worried about your car—”

  “You’re really stressed now, so I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Elysse said sharply. “I’m worried about you, of course. After the sheriff left—”

  “I know, I know.” Ruby didn’t need or want to be reminded of her tears. “But I’m fine now. Really.”

  Somehow, seeing her own heartache reflected in her friend’s face had made Ruby’s meltdown worse. She’d been relieved when Elysse had finally conked out and given her the time and space she needed to regroup.

  “Besides,” Ruby reminded her, “you have another twelve-hour shift tonight, so you really need to get some sleep.”

  “You can’t seriously imagine I’d just go to work and leave you. I’m calling in sick tonight. Of course I’m staying with you—and don’t even think of arguing with me about it.”

  In spite of her anxiety, Ruby smiled at the fierceness in Elysse’s voice. With the rest of her life in turmoil, their friendship was the one lifeline keeping her afloat.

  “Thanks, Leese. Thank you so much. I’ll be back there in a little while. Then we can start making calls and getting people organized. We’ll figure out a way to find them.”

  “We’ll figure out a way to bring them home,” Elysse echoed fervently, and in her voice, Ruby heard the promise that she and her daughter would be welcome to share the house on stilts for as long as necessary. But perhaps not Misty, for Elysse hadn’t been nearly as confident as Ruby that her sister was innocent. And once provoked, Elysse held on to grudges with a vengeance.

  After thanking her, Ruby ended the call, thinking about her sister. After all, Misty was the only person with access to the bank accounts, and Elysse’s doubts about her—but no. Ruby had spoken to Misty weekly over the past year, had always either lived with her or seen her almost daily, with the exception of this past year. Misty had never given any indication she was having urgent money problems or involved with anyone. With work and classes and Zoe’s care all weighing on her, she’d had no time at all for men, she’d claimed, yet she’d seemed in good spirits.

 

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