by Meryl Sawyer
The original owner had entertained grandiose ideas. A fancy wrought-iron archway typical of New Orleans had soared above the entrance. Now it had rusted and pieces had broken off or been scavenged. Several majestic oaks with swags of moss were clustered around the entry. Beyond the trees, he spotted three rusting Fords on cinder blocks that had been there for as long as he could remember. Muddy pickups and battered cars languished near ramshackle trailers.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered under his breath as he stopped near the single-wide he’d called home for the first seventeen years of his life. His mother had tried her damnedest to make the trailer look like a real home, but the white picket fence she’d painted every spring hadn’t been touched since she’d died two years ago.
Justin stepped out of the Silverado. His boots hit the dirt with a thunk and dust billowed up to his ankles. Whoever was renting the trailer didn’t appear to be home. Justin eased aside the gate dangling from one rusting hinge and walked up to the door. Wood slat steps with weeds jutting through the gaps between boards led up to the makeshift porch.
Justin could see himself sitting on the steps eating a mayo sandwich on white bread. His mother had never allowed weeds to sprout through the gaps, but even she couldn’t keep out the snakes who liked the coolness during the ferocious summer heat. He’d dropped pebbles between the slats to see if any snakes were coiled below. A plunk told him he’d hit dirt, not a snake.
He shook off the memory and knocked. A Dixie Chicks tune blasted from the rear of the trailer park. With it came a gust of wind and the scent of rabbit stew. He wondered how many rabbits he’d shot and brought home for his mother to cook, when they hadn’t had enough money to do more than pay the rent on the trailer.
No one came to the door. He tried the knob, but it was locked. He walked down the wooden steps and went around back where a propane tank supplied fuel to the trailer. The garden his mother had tended, even when she’d been so eaten up by cancer that she could barely walk, had been taken over by weeds and wild onions.
He didn’t get it. He honestly didn’t. From the moment he’d joined the Army and began making money, he’d tried to persuade his mother to move to a nicer place. To the end, she’d insisted this was her home.
“I’m glad you can’t see it now, Ma,” he whispered to himself. “The place is a disaster.”
He saw a flash of red in the dense brush beyond the forsaken garden. What the hell? Wildlife thrived in the woods around Twin Oaks, but the only animal he could think of that color was a fox. The ones around here were gray, not red.
“I gots me a gun trained on yore back, sonny.”
There was no mistaking the three-pack-a-day rasp. Cooter Hobbs should have died long before Justin’s mother had, but the old cuss was too ornery to kick the bucket.
“It’s me, Cooter,” Justin said, turning slowly, his hands in the air.
Cooter stared at him from behind the barrel of a shotgun. He hadn’t changed a bit since Justin had moved to Shady Acres as a child. His hair had been white then and shot skyward like a field of wheat. Beneath searching eyes worthy of a repo man were oysterlike bags.
“Whacha’ doin’ here, you?”
“Just checking out the old place.”
“New feller in town lives here now. Works at the Lucky Seven. Janitor or some such.” Cooter gestured at the single-wide with the weapon. “Don’t keep up the place like yore ma. Stupid sumbitch.”
Yore instead of your and sumbitch. No sir, time hadn’t improved Cooter’s vocabulary or mellowed him one bit.
“Movin’ back, you?” Cooter hitched at his bib overalls with his thumb.
“Maybe.”
“I knew you wouldn’t amount to nuthin’. Shoulda gone to Ole Miss.”
Justin bit back a smart-ass reply. He was going to get plenty of grief about Ole Miss when he moved home. There would be a lot of gossip about Verity, too, but no one would dare say anything about her death to his face.
Cooter raised the rifle and took aim at something in the bushes behind Justin.
“What are you doing?”
Cooter shook his head and lowered the shotgun. “Damn dog’s too fast fer me.”
“What dog?”
“The ole red mutt the Dickersons left behind.”
Justin remembered the Dickerson’s cute puppy. He’d played with Redd several times when he’d visited his mother. The pup had been tied in front of their trailer on the last morning Justin had come to see his mother. He’d taken her to the nearest hospital in Jackson, but by then it was too late to save her.
“Midnight movers,” Cooter said with a huff of disgust.
People who didn’t have rent money often moved in the middle of the night. If they didn’t, Cooter would demand a television set or a gun as partial payment on the rent. Cooter didn’t own Shady Acres but he managed it in return for free rent.
“Mutt’s jist an egg suck dog.”
“Redd’s probably starving.”
“Sumbitch’s as good as dead.” Cooter turned to leave. “Git outta here, you. Don’t gots no vacancies. No one wants you here anyway.”
Cooter shuffled off. Justin knew plenty of people, not just Cooter, would share this attitude. At least he had a year to prove himself before he would have to run for sheriff.
He shouldered his way through the brush and gave a low whistle. No sign of the red dog. He whistled, then called, “Here, boy. Here, Reddy.”
A twig cracked and a black nose poked out. A head emerged just far enough so the dog could see Justin. The animal was as alert as a wolf. On guard. Set to hightail it.
“Reddy, remember me?” Justin squatted down so he was eye level with the dog, a trick he’d learned from the K-9 dog handlers in New Orleans. “It’s okay, boy. It’s okay.”
The animal watched Justin but made no move to come closer. Justin noticed the dog’s rib cage showing through his fur. There was game in the brush, mostly squirrels, rabbits, and nutria, but a dog raised as a pet wouldn’t be much of a hunter.
“Come here, boy.” Justin sat down on the carpet of pine needles. His cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Radner,” he answered.
“You’re in,” Peebles told him. “Only Buck Mason didn’t vote for you.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He watched the dog creep forward a fraction of an inch. “When do you want me to start?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll need a few days to clean up things in New Orleans and to find a place here.”
“Make it fast. Kids hunting squirrels found a body in the unincorporated area. Dougherty says its been in the woods for some time, but you know he isn’t up to a murder investigation.”
Tom Dougherty had been a deputy sheriff for as long as Justin could remember. He was a nice guy, but he was about as bright as Alaska in winter.
“Any idea who the victim is?” Justin asked, kicking himself for the rush he felt. Someone was dead. He shouldn’t be excited, but he was. He’d assumed returning to Twin Oaks would mean nothing but routine police work, and it would be hard to prove himself. If he solved this crime, he would certainly be elected sheriff.
“No. Dougherty says there aren’t any missing person reports.”
“He should check neighboring jurisdictions.”
“From what Doughtery says we could have our first homicide in…what?…eleven years. Since what’s-his-name shot his partner during an argument over their hogs.”
“Maybe I’d better take a look before they contaminate the crime scene.”
“Good idea. I’ll call Dougherty and let him know you’re coming.”
Justin hung up, noticing Redd’s curiosity had prompted him to slither forward a little more. The dog was peering at him, his head bowed slightly, his tail between his legs as if he expected to be kicked.
Justin wished he had food, but he didn’t. He stuck out his hand. “Here, Reddy.”
The dog ventured nearer, obviously responding to the sound of his na
me.
“Good boy. Good, Redd.”
The dog slunk closer, and Justin patted his head. “Good boy. Looks like you’ve fallen on hard times.”
Redd’s tail swished just a little. Justin wouldn’t call it a wag, but it was a start. The dog, a mix of golden retriever and coon hound, once had a silky coat the color of a new penny. It was matted and full of burrs. A tick bloated with blood hung below one eye.
“You could use a trip to the vet and a day at one of those fancy dog spas.”
He stroked his head and fondled his ears. Redd licked his hand. Just his luck. The only one in town genuinely glad to see him was a dog.
CHAPTER TWO
“OUCH,” KAT MUTTERED under her breath. She’d nicked her knuckle with the carrot peeler for the third time. The dull blade could barely handle a carrot, but she was expected to peel beets from the prison garden with it.
“Hurry up,” yelled the crew chief, a lifer from Baton Rouge who’d ruled the kitchen for twenty-three years.
Kat didn’t respond. What difference did it make how well peeled the beets were? Few prisoners ate them. Most tucked them in their uniforms and took them back to their cells to make pruno, rotgut hootch.
She chipped away at a beet the size of a football. Whatever they were using to fertilize the garden really worked. Her hands were scarlet from beet juice that wouldn’t wash away for days, but she kept scraping at it. This was better than her last assignment in the laundry.
Don’t you dare hope, she told herself.
Still, she couldn’t help fantasizing about being assigned to the garden. It was backbreaking work, but at least she’d be outside in the sunshine. The air would be fresh, the way it was in Twin Oaks. If she were home again, she wouldn’t complain about the dank scent of the Big Muddy when the wind blew toward the town. Anything would be better than a jail rife with body odor that the most powerful disinfectant couldn’t wash away.
“Yo, Wells!”
Kat kept her back to the male voice and furiously hacked at the huge beet. Male guards sometimes singled out female prisoners to get them alone. They’d be pulled into storage closets while the other guards pretended not to notice.
“Hey! Bitch! I’m talkin’ to ya.”
Kat looked over her shoulder at the hulking guard, who was new. He glowered at her from the double doors that led into the kitchen area. Even though there were five women around Kat, an eerie stillness enveloped the room. She knew what they were thinking: the closet.
Kat was prepared with a shank hidden in her shoe. She was ready to use the makeshift knife even though it would mean solitary confinement. Then she would have to start over and be assigned to the latrines. It would take her two years to work up the job chain to the kitchen again. Extra time might be added to her sentence.
“Warden wants to see ya.”
Yeah, sure, she thought. And pigs fly. Warden Bronson didn’t want to see her. This was just an excuse to get her alone. She slowly washed her beet-stained hands in the large sink where the remaining beets were soaking off the dirt.
How exactly was she going to stop him? She didn’t want to kill him—then she’d never get out of this hellhole—but she wasn’t going to allow him to rape her. Sweat began to bead on her scalp. She took a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her.
“Hop to. The warden doesn’t like waitin’.”
No one looked her in the eye as she crossed the large room. The guard moved aside, and she sized him up. He was a short man built like a coal furnace. A shank wound might just infuriate him, and he could use it as an excuse to beat her to death.
Under the glare of fluorescent lights, she walked at his side down the corridor. The concrete walls had once been painted gray, but they appeared to be molting now. There was a guard at the far end of the hallway, watching the women working in the laundry. Several storage closets lined the corridor. The guard marched her right by them.
“Yo, Hank. Hozit goin’?” he greeted the guard stationed at the laundry. “We’re off to see the warden.”
“Get out!” the guard replied as he gave Kat the once-over.
She had green eyes with long lashes and brownish blond hair. She’d come into prison chunky but hard work and prison food had left her slender. Once an ugly duckling, she realized she was somewhat attractive now. Once she would have welcomed the change, but in prison she knew this was bad news. She’d learned not to encourage guards by making eye contact.
The guard led her down the cement stairs to the first floor—the way to the administrative wing of the prison. A flicker of apprehension registered deep in her brain. She’d never actually known anyone who’d been taken to see the warden. Once a week, he came through the prison with the captain of the guards, looked around, and spoke in hushed tones with the captain, then left.
At the bottom of the stairs, the guard punched a code into the security panel at the steel door leading to the administrative wing. After a clicking sound the pneumatic door swung open, then closed behind them with a whoosh. They had to wait for the door to shut behind them and automatically relock before the second security door finally opened.
On the other side, the concrete gave way to industrial beige carpeting. The walls had fresh paint and travel posters mounted on them. It wasn’t plush but compared to the other side of the door, it rated four stars.
Oh, my God, Kat thought, air suspended in her lungs. Maybe the warden did want to see her.
Why?
She followed the guard, unable to think of a reason. Her first parole hearing wasn’t coming up for another year. She hadn’t been in trouble for months. Even if she had done something wrong, the captain of the guards handled punishment, not the warden.
The guard walked into the reception area outside the warden’s office. A secretary with hair like steel wool hovered over a computer terminal. She glanced up, saying, “Kaitlin Wells?”
“Yes,” Kat replied, her voice tight.
“I’ll let the warden know you’re here.” The secretary picked up the telephone and announced Kat’s arrival.
A paralyzing numbness spread through her body, then subsided a bit, replaced by spasms in her gut. What now? Hadn’t she been tortured enough for a crime she didn’t commit?
Warden Bronson opened the door to the inner office. His gray hair was cut ruthlessly short, which made his forehead seem higher than normal. Probing brown eyes stared at her while he spoke to the guard.
“Wait here for Ms. Wells.” To the secretary, he said, “Hold all my calls.”
He stepped aside and motioned for her to come into his office. Uneasy, Kat stepped in and froze. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, making it difficult to think. Harlan Westcott, the federal prosecutor responsible for her robbery conviction, sat in a chair in front of the warden’s desk.
A charged silence like the air before a summer storm filled the room. Lightning was about to strike, she decided, and it was going to electrocute her. The warden closed the door with a clank that seemed more ominous than the way guards slammed shut the steel cell doors.
“Hello, Kat,” Harlan said casually as if they were old friends.
Kat nodded at him but didn’t trust herself to speak. At the trial, the prosecutor had been hateful—no match for her public defender. The memory triggered a raw, bitter ache underscored with anger.
Warden Bronson told her to sit down as he sat behind his desk. The only chair was next to Harlan Westcott. She walked over and lowered herself into the seat without looking at the prosecutor. Her hands were still red from beet juice, but she didn’t care what Harlan or the warden thought.
“I have a proposition for you,” Harlan said.
Those who hadn’t seen him in the courtroom might have mistaken the curl of his lips for a smile. Kat didn’t respond. What was going on? What kind of proposition could Harlan Westcott have for her?
“Do you want to go home?” asked the warden.
Her heart lurched at the word home. Why were they jerking
her chain?
“You can walk out of here tomorrow,” Harlan told her. “If…”
If. The big if. The catch was coming. She could see it in Harlan’s ice-blue eyes—the same eyes that had relentlessly accused her of taking money from the bank’s vault.
“If you help us catch the people who really took the money from Mercury National Bank, you may go home.”
Her world slammed to an abrupt stop, and her breath stalled in her lungs. Sound in the room ceased. She was conscious of Harlan’s lips moving, but she didn’t hear the words. Had he really said he knew she wasn’t guilty?
“We know you didn’t take the money,” the warden said.
A surge of white-hot, primitive anger hit her like a sucker punch to the gut. She wanted to smash her fist into Harlan’s smug face. Rage throbbed inside her, more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. It was a full minute before she could speak.
“Then why on earth am I still in this hellhole?”
“I can’t reveal my source,” Harlan replied. “We uncovered the information as part of an ongoing investigation.”
She clamped down on her jaw and battled the nearly uncontrollable urge to call him a son of a bitch, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose it. “Then I’m free.”
The warden spread his hands wide and the ring on his pinkie caught the light. “No, you’re not.”
If they knew she was innocent, why wouldn’t she go free? How could this be justice in America? She’d spent over three miserable years in prison.
“It’s complicated, but I think Harlan has the solution.”
“I’ll just bet he does.” A bitter edge crept into her voice despite her best efforts to conceal her emotions.
Harlan Westcott adjusted his perfectly knotted rep tie, and a whipcord thin muscle in his neck pulsed. “We can’t just release you without explaining why. At this point it would jeopardize this undercover investigation, but if you agree to help us…” He paused. “You can leave tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. She could be free. She would be able to raise her face to the sun and smell the flowers and enjoy fresh air. She would do just about anything to get out of here.