Among the Dead

by J. R. Backlund

  Moody shrugged. “Depends, I guess. Off and on. We could fight like cats and dogs sometimes, you know. Not see each other for months on end. Then she’d show up at the house, usually needing money. My boyfriend, Terry . . . he was always trying to keep the peace between us, but . . .”

  Her voice was getting shaky, and her eyes were turning red. She rubbed the skin beneath them and said, “Damn.”

  Rachel gave her a second, then asked, “Do the names Dylan or Kevin Gifford mean anything to you?”

  “No . . .” She stared at the table, searching her memory. After a moment, she shook her head. “No, can’t say I’ve ever heard of ’em before.”

  Rachel thought for a moment. It was starting to feel like a dead end. “Do you mind if I ask . . . about your daughter’s passing?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  Moody stared at the cigarette in her hand, rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “She didn’t leave a note, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m sorry, Miz Moody. I can’t imagine how difficult—”

  “Stop,” she said, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to hear that shit no more. You know how many people have said that to me?”

  Rachel stayed quiet, expecting Moody to stand up and walk away, but she sniffed hard, took another drag, and said, “Jamie was a troubled girl. Always. I don’t know why or what I done to make her that way. Maybe it’s because I worked too much or because her dad and I never got along. Maybe it was because she drank too much, and it messed with her mind . . . I just don’t know.”

  She threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stamped it out.

  Rachel recalled what Rucker had said about Jamie’s father not living with her. She asked, “Did Jamie know her father?”

  Moody was wiping a tear from her cheek. She laughed and said, “Oh, yeah. She got along with him a lot better than she did with me. I guess it’s easier when you don’t have to be the full-time parent. Jamie and him were thick as thieves. I tried to keep her from going to see him, but she didn’t blame him for nothing.”

  “What would she have blamed him for?”

  “For not being there when we needed him,” she said indignantly. “When it mattered. Before that whole thing happened at the high school, I wanted to get her out of there. I wanted to send her to a private school. A good Christian one where she’d get some discipline. Some morals. That’s all she needed. She was smart, you know. Smarter than me. She could’ve gone to college. But he wouldn’t help me pay for it. Not one bit.”

  “Wouldn’t or couldn’t? Private school can be kind of expensive, right?”

  Moody’s eyes narrowed. “What, you think he couldn’t have afforded it?”

  Rachel suddenly regretted asking the question. “Sorry, I guess it’s not really relevant to—”

  “Let me tell you something. That man owns half the land in Western North Carolina. If he wasn’t so damn tight with all his money, Jamie could’ve had a chance at a decent life.” She was crying, wiping her cheeks with her sleeves. “And he used to try and tell me I was after him for his money, but I didn’t want anything from that sorry sack of . . . I just wanted him to do what was right by that baby girl.”

  She stood from the table and turned away, sobbing. Paced in a circle as she wiped her eyes and tried to steady her breathing.

  Rachel felt a shock of realization. She tried to keep her voice even as she asked, “Miz Moody, who was Jamie’s father?”

  * * *

  Rachel had been heading south on I-26 for nearly an hour, processing what she had learned from Moody, when she remembered that her phone was still on silent. She had turned the ringer off to keep it from interrupting her interview. She took it out of her pocket and checked the notifications. Parker had left a voice mail and two text messages. She slid her thumb across the screen to call him back.

  “Rachel?” he said quickly after the first ring.

  “Hey,” she said. “I found Moody’s mother. You wouldn’t believe what she told me. I’m on my way back—”

  “Rachel,” he said, talking over her. “Rachel, listen to me. He’s dead.”

  “Who? Newfield?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He was shot. Yesterday. He walked out the back door of the gun range where he worked, went to his car, and took three in the chest. In broad daylight.”

  “Holy shit.” She felt panic rising within her.

  “I know, right? It’s crazy. What the hell are you working on up there?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  She hung up and scrolled through her contacts until she found Braddock’s number. Held her thumb over it but took a second to reconsider. She wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. She needed a clearer picture, a better understanding of what was happening. A theory that made all the pieces fit. In the meantime, she had to protect Caleb Rucker.

  She decided to call Miller instead. When he answered, she gave him enough details to convince him that Rucker was in danger.

  “He’s the last one, Chief. And I’m willing to bet whoever’s behind this is coming for him next.”

  “Jesus Christ,” he said. “You sure about this? I mean, McGrath, Coughlan, the Moody woman, and now this Newfeld guy . . . all dead because of some sex thing they got in trouble for back in high school?”

  “Newfield,” she said. “I don’t have the why yet. I’m still trying to figure that out. All I know is that three of the five people who were there when it happened have all been murdered in the past week. Moody supposedly killed herself, but who knows what really happened. Rucker’s the only one left. So either he’s the mastermind of all this or he’s next on someone’s list.”

  He sighed, and the line went quiet for several seconds. “Well, shit,” he said finally. “I guess we’d better make sure Caleb gets through the day without getting shot.”

  “You should bring him into the station.”

  “I was thinking I could just send a unit over to babysit him.”

  “After what happened the other night?”

  “Damn. I knew you were going to say that. All right, I’ll try to bring him in. I can’t force him, though. If he don’t want to come along, I can’t make him.”

  “You have to try,” she said.

  “Yeah . . . okay, I’ll go over there and talk to him myself. But at some point, this had better start making a lot more sense.”

  “I know, Chief. I’m working on it.”

  Rachel weaved through the light traffic that was accumulating on the outskirts of Asheville, grateful that it was a Sunday.

  “Hey,” Parker said. “What’s going on?”

  “Had to make a call.” She hit the brake on a downhill turn, barely keeping the wheels off the shoulder. “I know I’m pushing my luck here . . . Shit.” She jerked the wheel to avoid hitting a motorcycle that suddenly appeared in the right lane. “Where in the fucking hell did you come from?”

  “Say what?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. Look, I know I’m asking a lot. More than we agreed on, but—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Just promise me an exclusive on whatever you’re working on.”

  “You got it.”

  “Great. What do you need?”

  “I’ve got another name for you,” she said. “I need you to tell me everything you can about this guy. His personal info, his family, his business deals, his political activities, any criminal history, anything he’s been in the news for . . .” She checked the map on her phone. “And I need it within the next hour and a half.”

  “That’s a tall order,” he said. “I’ll do what I can. What’s the name?”

  “Lawton Jones.”

  51

  Dorothy Shipley was standing at the counter in the Main Street Pharmacy when her neighbor came through the door, spotted her, and scurried over.

  “Dorothy,” she said, barely able to contain her excitement. “Dorothy, you have t
o hear this.”

  “Geraldine,” Shipley said, “what in the world are you so worked up about?”

  Geraldine was a tiny woman who was prone to fits of anxiety. She treated them with some kind of all-natural herbal medication that she ordered online, which never explained why she made so many trips to the pharmacist. Shipley suspected she was supplementing her treatments with valium and the occasional glass of white wine. But she appeared stone sober as she took a breath and said, “I think Chief Miller just arrested Caleb Rucker.”

  “Arrested Caleb? For what?”

  “Well, how am I supposed to know that?” she asked with a look of irritation.

  “Okay, girl. Calm down and tell me what happened.”

  “I’m sorry . . .” she said, touching Shipley’s forearm. “You know how I get.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Anyhow, I was over at the nursery looking for some violets to replace my geraniums that died last year . . . you know, the ones I had around the fountain by the guest room . . . I was hoping to get four or five of them planted today, but no sooner had I started looking than Chief Miller came up in that big SUV of his, got out, and walked straight up into Caleb’s office trailer. A couple minutes later, here they come together. They walked right by me without saying a word. And Chief Miller went and loaded Caleb in the back seat and drove off.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  “And didn’t say anything to you?”

  “Nope,” she said. “Didn’t say nothing to nobody. There was two or three other people there too. Standing around, not knowing what to do. We all just left after a while.”

  “My word,” Shipley said. “I wonder . . .”

  “Wonder what?”

  She lowered her voice. “Well, you know that detective woman the sheriff hired?”

  “Yeah,” Geraldine said, leaning in close.

  “She’s working for the chief now.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I’m letting her stay at my house. She and the chief met in my living room first thing this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I just hope . . . Lord, I hate to even say it . . . I just hope Caleb didn’t have anything to do with all that mess.”

  “Hmm. You know, I always—” She looked over Shipley’s shoulder, cleared her throat, and said, “Well, hi there, Commissioner.”

  Shipley turned, surprised to see Lawton Jones standing a few feet away, holding a large bottle of antacids.

  “Geraldine, Dorothy . . .” He looked lost, as if he’d forgotten where he was or how he’d gotten there.

  “You feeling okay, Commissioner?” Shipley asked.

  “Uh . . . yeah. Sorry to interrupt, but . . . Caleb . . . was he in cuffs?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Geraldine asked.

  “Handcuffs,” he snapped. “Was he in handcuffs?”

  “Oh . . . No, he wasn’t, come to think of it.”

  Jones started for the door. Halfway there, he realized he was still carrying the bottle. He set it on a shelf at the end of the cosmetics aisle and hurried out.

  “Now wasn’t that plain odd?” Geraldine asked after he was gone.

  “It sure was.”

  The pharmacist stepped up to the counter and said, “Here you go, Miz Dorothy.” He handed her a bag containing her blood pressure medication. “Any questions for me?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “I believe I’ll be just fine.”

  He smiled and wished her a good day. She said bye to Geraldine as she turned to leave, promised to call if she learned anything more about the situation. On the drive home, she decided she would pray. She would ask the Lord to forgive Rucker for his sins, whatever they might have been. After all, she thought, what else is a good Christian to do?

  * * *

  Bishop raised his head above the ridge and spotted the back of the house. It looked closer than he had remembered. Almost too close. But he was in the right spot, nice and level with a line of sight directly into the window by Rucker’s recliner.

  He rolled up his backpack and laid it in front of him. Then he pushed down on its center, brought his rifle up, and set the handguard on the indentation he had made. He checked his watch. Rucker would be at work for at least two more hours. Perhaps even longer if he had deliveries to make. But Bishop had been too restless to sit at home.

  He lay prone on the rise and pulled the rifle against his shoulder, looked through the scope, and found the window. The glass pane was just a couple of feet from the recliner, he judged. Given his position, a bullet would strike it at a near ninety-degree angle. Any change in its trajectory from impacting the glass would be minor, if it happened at all. And he would send enough of them downrange to ensure that it wouldn’t matter if the first one went a little astray.

  He made a slight adjustment on the eyepiece ring, then laid the rifle on its side and backed down the slope until he could stand. He rose to a crouch, careful to keep his head below the ridge, and went over to a flat spot at the base of a sugar maple. He sat with his back against the mold-covered trunk and looked up at the branches. New buds were pushing from the tips. They looked like they could break open any day now.

  The burner buzzed in his jacket pocket. He stood and jogged downhill, wanting to put more space between himself and the house. Not that it mattered—Rucker lived in a remote spot, four miles outside of town and a quarter mile from the nearest neighbor.

  “What is it?” Bishop whispered into his hands cupped around the phone’s mic.

  “We’re in trouble,” Jones said. “It’s over.”

  He sounded scared.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “That Carver bitch has figured it out. She’s working for Chief Miller now. And he’s gone and picked up Rucker and taken him into protective custody.”

  “When the fuck did that happen?”

  “Just now.”

  “How did you find out? Did they question you?”

  “What? No, I heard about it from Geraldine and Dorothy at the goddamn pharmacy, for Christ’s sake.”

  “All right,” he said, fighting the urge to shout into the phone, “just settle down, and we’ll figure this out.”

  He looked up at the ridge, felt a rush of fear. Could the DCPD be on their way here now? There was no way to know. He had to get moving.

  “Are you at home?” he asked.

  “Almost,” Jones said.

  “Just stay there and keep cool. I’ll call you back.”

  He ended the call and stuffed the phone in his jacket, sprinted up the hill and grabbed the rifle and the backpack. He took a quick look around, saw nothing, but felt no sense of relief as he descended the slope and jogged the trail back to his car.

  * * *

  When Jones got home, he rushed inside and went straight for the single malt on the top shelf of his liquor cabinet. It felt a little safer to be in his house, though he couldn’t figure out why. It didn’t matter when all was said and done. If the cops came for him, it would be the first place they would look. Not that he had any designs on running. That had never been an option for him.

  Revenge came with a cost. He had known that from the beginning, had been willing to pay the price. At least when he had conceived it, when he’d sworn that he was willing to do whatever it took to see it through to the end. But he had hired Bishop for the job. He realized now that had been a mistake.

  The phone rang as he finished his first shot. He poured a refill and answered.

  Bishop sounded like he was driving fast. “Are you home yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there any cops there trying to arrest you?”

  “No . . . What?” He went to the window by the front door and looked out at the driveway. “No, there’s no one here.”

  “Then take it easy. There’s nothing to worry about yet.”

  “Yeah . . .” He took a mouthful of scotch, swallowed hard, and said, “Okay.�
��

  “We don’t have any idea what they’re talking to Rucker about. Even if they figured out how he fits into it, that doesn’t mean they know a damn thing about us.”

  “Right. Wait . . . Oh, shit.”

  A white sedan eased to a stop on the road by the mailbox. Jones recognized it instantly.

  “She’s here,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Who do you think, you fuckin’ asshole? The Carver woman. She just pulled up out front. What do I do?”

  “Invite her in,” Bishop said. “I’m almost there.”

  “What?”

  There was no answer.

  “Hello?” Jones yelled. He checked the screen and saw that it was black.

  Outside, the car crept forward onto the driveway.

  52

  “I’m just getting started,” Parker said. “I haven’t found out much about his personal life or his politics, but he’s into all kinds of businesses. A lot more than just real estate.”

  Rachel was riding the brake down Jones’s driveway. She stopped a short distance from the walkway to the front door and shifted into park. “Has he ever been arrested?”

  “Not as far as I can tell, but, you know, real research takes time.”

  “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Bryce.”

  “Want me to keep digging?”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Are you kidding?” he asked. “I feel like I’m helping you solve a real mystery.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use the help.”

  “Count me in.”

  Rachel let him get back to work. She slipped her phone into her jacket pocket as she stepped out and took in the elevation of Jones’s massive log home. It rose two stories toward steeply pitched gables. The ground sloped away from the driveway on the southern end, exposing a third story encased in stacked stones. A mansion clinging proudly to the mountainside.

  She went to the front door and rang the bell. He answered a few seconds later. His face was red and moist. He held a whiskey tumbler in his left hand. A thin coat of whatever he was drinking lined the bottom.

  “Afternoon, Miss Carver.” He didn’t seem surprised to see her. “Come in.”