“High school?” Shipley wore a skeptical smirk. “Has anyone considered the possibility that the Gifford boy was just a bad seed? Lord have mercy, I hate to speak ill of the departed, but maybe he was picking people at random. That child had some serious anger issues, you know. One of the worst students I ever had.”
“That doesn’t explain the shooting,” Carly said.
“Well, maybe that didn’t have anything to do with Dean and Andy at all,” she said. “Maybe Dylan just knew too much about his brother’s other activities. People are saying he’s been dealing drugs and all. Could be, whoever his partners are, they just killed poor Dylan to keep him quiet.”
Rachel shook her head. “I don’t think so. Dylan and Kevin were both scared that someone was coming for them, but Kevin didn’t know who. Whoever else is involved in this, I don’t think they have anything to do with Kevin’s business.”
“Hmph.” Shipley didn’t look convinced.
“Sounds like you’ve got somewhere to start, at least,” Miller said. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing,” Rachel said. “It’s best if I handle this on my own. If I need help, I know where to find it.”
“Fair enough. But if anybody asks, you’re working for me. Plain and simple. And I’m paying you the same as Ted was.”
She was about to protest, but he said, “No arguing about it, either, or I’ll run you outta town myself.”
“Okay,” Rachel said. “Thank you, Chief.”
“And you can stay here for free as long as you need to,” Shipley said.
“Oh, no, Mrs. Shipley, I—”
Shipley raised a hand to stop her. “Child, don’t even think of trying to tell me otherwise. Andy was my friend. If there’s anything I can do to help, then by God, I will.”
There was no use in arguing. Rachel smiled. “Thank you.”
Miller checked his watch and stood up. “Well, Dorothy, I guess we have Sunday services to get to.”
“Yes sir, we do,” she said, rising to her feet.
“Thank you again for the coffee.” He turned to Rachel. “Good luck, Miss Carver. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
* * *
“So what can I do to help?” Carly asked.
Rachel was driving her back to her car at the Riverside Pub. She turned onto Main and asked, “Are you off today?”
“Yep.”
“Then go home and get some rest. Tomorrow, go back to work and don’t tell anyone that you were at that meeting. If I need anything, I’ll let you know.”
She pulled into the parking lot and stopped behind Carly’s car.
“If you say so.” Carly opened the door but hesitated to get out. “I feel like I should be doing something.”
“I know,” she said. “It sucks, but we have to be patient. It’s going to take me some time to figure this thing out.”
“You know, when we had that first meeting, and you were telling us about how victimology would probably be the thing to break the case open”—Carly’s eyes were fixed, staring into space through the windshield—“I wanted to prove you wrong. I wanted it to be some piece of physical evidence. Something I could process and bag and hold up at the trial and say, ‘Look what I found.’ And I was so excited when I saw that goddamn bat. It didn’t even occur to me at the time that I never would have found it had you not led us right to it. You’ve been right every step of the way.” She looked at Rachel. “And you’re right about this too.”
“Let’s hope so,” Rachel said.
“What’re you gonna do now?”
“I’m going to see the Oracle.”
Carly stared at her for a moment, then asked, “Did you think that was going to sound cool when you said it? ’Cause it really didn’t.”
“Get out.”
* * *
The Camry started to lose traction halfway up the hill. Rachel found a relatively level spot near a switchback, kicked in the parking brake, and hiked the rest of the way. Ten minutes later, she was panting and knocking on Brenda Jordan’s screen door.
Brenda padded out of the kitchen wearing a blue house coat, holding her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. “Is that you, Miss Rachel Carver?” she asked, her voice muffled by the cigarette bouncing between her lips.
“Hi, Miz Jordan.”
“I’ll be damned. What’s got you up here all by your lonesome this early in the mornin’?”
Rachel checked her phone. It was 8:15. “Is it too early? I can come back later.”
Brenda opened the screen and waved her in. “Hell no, you already made the trip. Come on in.” She led her through the living room. “And I done told you about that ‘Miz Jordan’ crap. Call me Brenda. I mean that.”
They sat down at the kitchen table. “Clint’s in there sleepin’, so we can’t be partyin’ hard or nothin’.” She let out a raspy laugh. “But you want a soda or somethin’? I got Orange Fanta and some Diet Rites in the fridge.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Rachel said. She took out her pen and Steno pad. “I wanted to go over a few things with you regarding the conversation we had the other day. Maybe ask a few follow-up questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Have at it.”
“I’m curious about the incident you told us about. The one that happened when Dean and Andy were in high school. When they got in trouble for smoking marijuana.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you tell me any more about that?”
Brenda tapped her cigarette on the ashtray. “I can try. Course I just know what I heard from Andy’s mom.”
“I understand,” she said. “Just trying to get as much background information as I can.”
“You might be better off talkin’ to her. Course I think she lives over in Hoke County somewhere now.”
“I might do that. But maybe you can tell me what you remember first.”
“Well . . .” She looked at the ceiling. “From what I remember, there was four or five of them boys that got busted. All the teachers were real hush-hush about it. Like they were afraid to say too much. I asked my old English teacher, Mrs. Reynolds, about it at the time. She had gone on to become an assistant principal by then . . . but we were always pretty tight, her and me, even after I graduated. Anyway, she got all tight-lipped and wouldn’t say a word. Even got kinda pissy with me just for askin’. Was the first time I can ever remember her gettin’ mad at me for anything.”
“Really?” Rachel made a note of that.
“Yeah, but hell, that just made it worse. Everyone was talkin’ about it. Speculatin’ on what had happened. Before you know it, Dean was movin’ back to live with his momma, and some other girl got expelled. I think she might have been the one to give ’em the joint.”
“I thought you said Dean got it from his uncle.”
“Yeah . . .” Brenda looked out the window, trying to sort through her memories. “That’s true. I’m tryin’ to think . . . Maybe she got busted for somethin’ else . . . No, I’m sure it was drugs.”
“Hmph. Why don’t we get back to Dean and his friends for a minute?”
Brenda was lost in thought. She shook it off and said, “Yeah, anyway, they all got in trouble for it. The basketball coach, Mister Grisley . . . God, what a name . . .” She laughed and coughed. “He busted their asses out in the woods behind the school.”
“And, as far as you know, he and Andy stopped hanging out together after that?”
“Yep.” She put out her cigarette and lit another. “As far as I know.”
It wasn’t much, but it was the only connection Rachel had. She needed to know more. “Can you tell me who the other boys were?”
“I think it was Caleb and this other boy named Martin, if I remember right. They were always together, the four of ’em.”
She wrote the names down. “Caleb and Martin.”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Would you happen to remember their last names?”
“Oh, yeah, Caleb’s.
Caleb Rucker. He still lives around here. Owns a tree nursery over on the west side of town.”
“And Martin?”
Brenda closed her eyes and tilted her head back. “Martin, Martin, Martin . . . I’m almost positive that was his first name.” She looked back at Rachel. “But hell, for the life of me, I can’t remember his last. He left outta here as soon as he graduated. Never came back, as far as I know.”
“I see.” She made a final note. “I appreciate your help, Brenda.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, that wasn’t much. I hope it helps you get whoever shot them deputies.”
“Oh, that’s up to the SBI at this point. I’m just getting as much follow-up information as I can. For the reports and all.”
“I bet you got a bunch of ’em.”
She nodded. “Yeah. Better get to them. Thanks again.”
“Hell, anytime.” They stood and walked out to the living room. “By the way, I noticed you were breathin’ kinda heavy when you got here, and I don’t see a car. Did it break down on you or somethin’?”
“No. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t make it up the hill.”
“Up the hill?” Brenda pointed out the screen door. “You mean you came up the front?”
“Yeah . . .”
She laughed. “Damn, girl, that trail ain’t meant for you to be drivin’ up. The main road is out back. Lets out on the expressway just a half mile from here.”
“Huh,” Rachel said, looking out at the mountains. “Doesn’t that figure?”
48
The phone was ringing in Bishop’s Bluetooth earpiece as he worked on his AR-15. He had a new barrel in place, a longer one, meant for greater accuracy and higher muzzle velocity. He tightened the nut that held it secure, then installed the gas tube with a low-profile block.
“Hey,” Pratt said when she answered. She sounded groggy and stuffy, as if she had cried herself to sleep last night.
“Hey there, pretty lady. Just thought I’d check in on you. How you holding up?”
“Okay, I guess. Missed you last night.”
“Yeah, sorry about that. Wish I could’ve been there for you.”
“Tough night at work?”
“Aren’t they all?” He slid the free-floating handguard into place. It was free floating because its only connection was to the upper receiver. It didn’t touch the barrel, which meant it wouldn’t interfere with the natural flexing of the metal as the bullet travelled through it. That was supposed to make the rifle more accurate. Bishop trusted that, even though he didn’t know for sure that it helped.
“Yeah,” Pratt said with a sigh.
“So listen, I was thinking . . . since you’re off tomorrow, maybe we could get away for a couple of hours. Maybe go for a picnic at Lake Fontana or something.”
“Mmm, that sounds perfect. Can’t we go today?”
“Sorry, sweetness,” he said, tilting his head to get a better view as he threaded the first of six screws. “I’ve got too much work to do today. But if I really bust my butt, I think I can take off all tomorrow and Tuesday morning.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“So . . . ?” She sounded hesitant to ask. “Does that mean you might be staying the night?”
“Would you be okay with that?”
“Oh, God, sugar, you know I’d love it.”
He chuckled, reached for the hex key to tighten the screws. “Good. I was worried you might be getting tired of me.”
“Never,” she said.
“All right. It’s a date then. I’d better get back to work. I’ll call you a little later when I get a break. See how you’re doing.”
“Okay.” She sounded giddy. “Work hard. I’ll be waiting for you.”
He pressed the button on his earpiece to end the call, confident that he was in the clear. At least as far as the sheriff’s office was concerned. The SBI was another matter, but there was no way to know what they were up to. He had to trust that he had done everything right, that he had left them with nothing to go on. They were grasping at straws. Shaking familiar trees, hoping some meth-head bikers would fall out.
He finished tightening the last screw, then reassembled the rest of the rifle. Once everything was in order, he popped the magazine in place and loaded it into the hidden compartment under the Juke’s passenger door. Then he put his tools away, hit the button to open the garage door, and climbed in the car. He had a spot in mind fifteen miles to the north. A secluded place where he could finish his preparations.
* * *
The dirt road came to an end at a rotted pine log. Bishop parked and got out. In the back seat, there was a thin sheet of plywood with a reactive target stapled to it. The twelve-inch card had a black bull’s-eye over a fluorescent backing. When a bullet struck it, the black material surrounding the hole would break away, leaving a highly visible ring that could be seen from a distance.
Bishop took out the target and set off for the drop, a steep escarpment lining the south side of a valley. When he reached the edge, he turned and climbed down along the cuts in the face, taking his time to ensure good footing with each step.
When he got to the bottom, he jogged to the soggy stream bed, hopped over, and hiked up the north side until he found a sandy patch. He propped the target up in front of it, looking back across to guess at a good spot for a matching elevation. Then he went back for the rifle.
The weapon fell into his hand as he opened the compartment. He looked around to make sure the area was clear and then went back to the ledge. He climbed about halfway down, which put him level with the target on the other side, and leaned against a boulder. A pair of foam earplugs sat in his pocket. He scanned the valley as he took them out, rolled them in his fingers, and stuffed them into his ears. Satisfied that he was alone, he drew back on the charging handle and let it go, put the bull’s-eye in the crosshairs of his scope, and squeezed off a round.
The pop sounded dull, but he knew it was resonating and echoing along the valley. He pulled the plug from his left ear and listened for several seconds. There was no sound of anyone nearby. Looking again at the target, he saw the fluorescent-green circle the bullet had left in its wake. It was to the right of center and a little high. He took a dime from his pocket and made three clicks on the windage adjustment on his scope, two on the elevation. He stuffed the plug back in his ear, lined up another shot, and fired.
The fresh green hole was just right of center. He made another click on the windage screw, sighted the target, and fired. The bullet struck center, and he smiled. He took a breath, braced the stock against his shoulder again, and sent a volley. One round after another, as quickly as he could without sacrificing accuracy.
He fell into the rhythm easily. Had practiced it many times before. He didn’t bother to time it now, but he knew, at this range, he could make ten hits on target in less than eight seconds. And that was good enough.
He clicked on the safety, collected the shell casings, and went back to the Juke. He stowed the rifle under the car then made the climb down to retrieve the target, taking a second to smile at the fluorescent-green rings. A few minutes later, he emerged from the woods and tossed it into the back seat. Then he jumped in, started the engine, and sped away.
49
It took more than ten minutes of slow going, mostly working the brake pedal, for Rachel to negotiate her way down the trail in reverse. A cool droplet of sweat ran down her side as she hit level ground. She sighed and shifted into drive and turned onto the expressway, heading west back into town. She stopped at a gas station to buy a sandwich and an energy drink and ate in the parking lot, leaning against the back of her car and thinking about her conversation with Brenda.
She had no new details about McGrath or Coughlan, but she did have two new names. One of those men still lived in the area. Perhaps he knew of a more recent connection between them, something that didn’t date back to when they were all teenagers. But
if he did, why had he not come forward to say so? Perhaps that connection, whatever it was, seemed inconsequential to him, not worth mentioning. Or perhaps it was something he wanted to keep secret.
She balled up the wrapper with the last bit of her sandwich and tossed it in the trash. Dropped in the Camry and continued west on Main, like Brenda had told her, looking for Rucker’s Tree Nursery ahead on the left. It appeared in a large clearing half a mile past the edge of town. She turned into the gravel lot and parked in front of a chain link fence.
A gate in the center opened to a path that split the yard between shrubs and flowers on one side and saplings on the other. Rachel followed the path to an old office trailer, ascended the shaky, weather-worn wooden steps, and poked her head inside. A large barrel-chested man in khaki shorts and a green sweat shirt was accepting money from an elderly woman.
“Just hang on a minute, ma’am, and I’ll get you some change.”
“Oh, you keep that,” she said.
“You sure, ma’am?” he asked, scratching a sun-spotted patch of leathery skin on his forehead. What was left of his sandy hair danced around his ears as he sat down in front of a tiny fan on his desk. “I got it right here.”
“Of course I’m sure. I couldn’t have loaded all that myself. I just hope my lazy grandson will be there to help when I get home.”
She smiled at Rachel as she walked out. He stood and came to the door and said, “Well, if he don’t, you just call and let me know, and I’ll come by this evenin’ and help you myself.”
The old woman glanced back and waved, then continued down the path.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said to Rachel, as if noticing her there for the first time. “How can I help you?”
“Mister Caleb Rucker?” she asked in her most official-sounding voice.
“Yeah?” he said with a wary look. “That’s me.”
* * *
Rucker led Rachel through an aisle of dogwoods toward a pop-up canopy.
“I ain’t talked to Dean since high school,” he said.
They stepped into the shade where a small fountain spilled over a pile of stacked stones into a plastic pond. Rucker eased himself onto one end of a concrete bench and kept his eyes on the water. Rachel sat down beside him and asked, “How about Andy Coughlan?”
Among the Dead Page 20