“He never mentioned me? Never showed you my picture or told you about my dreams and accomplishments?” Wistfulness, raw and real, tumbled out with her breathy words.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Henri Courtemanche, our father.”
“I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but—”
“Oh, this is not a game. It’s very, very real.”
“What are you talking about?”
JoBeth let out a dreamy sigh. “You know, I used to dream about you and me talking. Long, sisterly chats where we bared souls to each other in the middle of the night. Excited talks before the first day of school. Nervous talks about boys and exams. Hopeful talks about our dreams and futures.”
The kitchen chair was within arm’s reach. One step and Grace would be at the counter where the box of trophies sat, including a marble football mounted on a square of wood. The chair or the trophy could serve as a weapon, knocking this crazy woman out or down long enough to grab Alex and push him up the stairs.
Tapping the tip of the gun against her chin, JoBeth nodded. “Okay, I’m game, Sister. Let’s talk.” Her hand rock steady, she pointed the gun at the kitchen chair. “Sit.”
The issue was the shape of the room. No more than ten feet wide, it would be hard to shove past that gun. A person from the outside, someone coming down the darkened steps, could easily take out JoBeth. She’d texted Hatch that she was visiting the Lassens’ house, but he and most of the town were hunting for Linc, and he had no idea she’d landed herself and his son in the killer’s hands. And Blue, her trusty companion, was outside, lounging in the sun. It was her and Alex and a crazy woman who claimed to be her sister.
Grace slid her hands, damp with sweat, down the front of her pants. “I’ll sit if you let the boy go.”
“You’re not in a position to strike a deal, counselor. Now do as I say and sit.” She turned the gun on Alex. “Or Sunshine Boy gets his light put out.”
Grace pulled in a quick breath, but the room had no oxygen. Slammed with a wave of dizziness, Grace shoved Alex behind her then perched herself on the edge of the chair.
JoBeth’s face twisted in a warped smile.
“Who are you?” Grace asked.
“I told you, Gracie. Weren’t you listening? I’m your sister.” Her hair stuck out in a wild halo of blond, brassy curls, the kind that come from a box. She had big brown eyes and full lips. But she also had Henri Courtemanche’s angular cheekbones and strong chin, features Grace herself had. Was that why Berkley’s sketch looked so familiar? Because pieces of that face stared back at Grace every morning in the mirror?
“My mother was our father’s dirty little secret, a girl from the swamp with passions but no purse, not like your blue blood mother. But you know Daddy dearest. He thought he could have it all. Two women to love, and eventually two daughters. I was born in this room and lived for fifteen years beneath your feet.”
A shudder grabbed Grace’s spine. “No. That’s not possible. I would have known. My mother would have…”
The bad guys are on the streets, in our neighborhood, beneath our home. They’re watching me, following me, touching me while I sleep. Make them go away, Gracie, please, please make them go away. Momma.
Grace grabbed both sides of the chair to keep from spinning as the room careened.
“Your mother wasn’t the crazy one, was she?”
“No. Yes. I…” Grace’s stomach flip-flopped and something chunky and vile churned in her gut.
“At a loss for words? Usually you’re so much more articulate and poised and in control. The Golden Child.” JoBeth sat on the arm of the sofa but kept the gun trained on Alex. “For the longest time, I wanted to be you. I wanted your shiny gold tennis trophies and closet full of princess dresses and sparkly shoes. When you and your mom were away at tennis tournaments he would let us out. My mom would sleep in your mom’s bed. Once I even found her using your mom’s toothbrush. Kind of sick, huh? As for me, I used to go into your bedroom and try on your clothes. The pretty church dresses, the snappy little tennis outfits, the silky princess nightgowns. My favorite was the blue one with the ivory lace. Sorry about the tear in the hem. You were always so much taller than me. Three cheers for sunshine and better nutrition.” The half-smile twisting her lips was anything but apologetic.
“I wanted your trips to summer camp and weekly tennis lessons,” JoBeth continued with words that sickened. “I wanted best friends like Gina and Nanette, who would make me beaded BFF friendship bracelets. But I could never be you, Gracie. Daddy only had one favorite child. So I spent almost every minute of every hour of fifteen years in a hole in the ground being me. A skinny girl who played with computers and rarely saw the sun because I was only allowed out at night.”
Grace pressed her palms into the plastic chair as the world continued to spin. Was JoBeth telling the truth? Had her father, the man who taught her about strength and power, perpetrated this heinous crime? “What kind of mother would allow that?”
“A mother who was desperately in love with a charming, powerful man who promised her the sky.” She momentarily jabbed the gun at the ceiling before settling it back on Alex. “He kept telling my mom that she was the love of his life but that your mother was too sick and fragile for him to leave. Load of bullshit, huh? Your mom was actually quite strong. My mom spent years chipping away at her, taking hair barrettes and the last piece of lemon meringue pie. My mom was the queen of patience and hope, giving her power to a man who promised her heaven but kept her buried in hell.”
“And you?” Grace asked around the horror clawing up her throat. “While your mom waited, what did you do?”
“Lived my version of a normal life. Played games, watched TV, drew pictures. He brought down books, and mom did her best to teach me. Did I mention mom never went to school and really didn’t like her home-school lessons? After I learned to read, he bought me a computer, and that small box with all those pixels became my world. Which was good, because a year or so later, Mom had the baby and kind of lost it.”
Grace pictured those tiny bones on the M.E’s table. “The infant buried with your mother.”
“Mom let me name her, and I called her Skye. She lived for two hours. That’s when mom asked me to break her neck.” JoBeth jabbed a finger into a tiny hole on the sofa, but the gun never moved from Alex. “Let me tell you something about living underground. There’s this thing called absolute darkness. You lose all perception of direction and space. Underground you also have absolute silence. No birds, no cars, not even the whisper of wind. Imagine the noise when I snapped Skye’s neck. It echoed through my head for years.” JoBeth’s wild hair jerked as she shook her head. “Our loving father wasn’t due to visit for another three days, so when Skye started to stink, I put her in the refrigerator.”
Alex swayed, and Grace swallowed the vile chunkiness edging up her throat. This was sick and wrong, and the man she called her father was a part of it. She must have made noise because Alex pressed his hip against her arm.
“Honestly, having me kill Skye was one of my mother’s saner moves. In some part of her brain, she realized that this”—she swept her gun-less hand in an arc about the room—“was wrong. She didn’t want another daughter to grow up without ever seeing the sun. But do you know the sick part?” JoBeth inched closer, like she had a secret. “Little Skye’s dead eyes got to see the sun because Daddy didn’t bury her deep enough in your backyard with all your mother’s pretty flowers. A dog got to her, but lucky for Skye, he let me out that night, and I found her. Well, everything but her right arm. And when I reburied my baby sister, I did it right. I dug deep.”
“But when your mother died, you dug up baby Skye.”
“It seemed right, keeping my family together.”
Grace shook her head, trying to get her mind wrapped around what was coming out of this woman’s mouth. “I can’t imagine what you went through.”
“Oh, I could tell you more stories, tales of what it
was like to live just inches from people who will never see you, never hear you, never reach into the ground and pull you from a living hell. Of course, at the time I didn’t realize it was hell, because that was my normal. Do you hear me, Grace? Hell. Was. My. Normal.” The words were rough and sharp and old, like the pointed end of a rusty shovel.
Grace pressed her hands to her twisting stomach.
“I never thought to run away. Only when I got away from that basement and that man did I realize the wrong that had been done to me from the moment of my birth.” Spit shot from JoBeth’s lips at the last word. “And you’re right, Gracie, you will never know what I went through, because you were born and raised in a world of the light and living. But thanks to our little game, you got to hear and feel a tiny bit of the terror of being buried alive.”
A sob caught in Grace’s throat. “Lia. Janis. Linc. How? Why?”
“Took months of planning and careful execution, but yeah, I did it all. For years I dreamed of putting Daddy Dear in a box in the ground. In my dreams I’d set up a little camera and microphone so I could watch him and hear him. But you know what’s really sick, Sister Gracie? I never could go through with it. Talk about father issues, huh?”
“You started this, this game to get back at our father?”
“I didn’t start this game!” She jumped from the sofa, the still air swishing as the gun drew closer to Alex. “You did. When you bought the Giroux land, you started it. I was content to live on my mountain a mile and a half in the sky. I was content to come back once a year and drop a handful of camellia blossoms on my mother and Skye’s grave. I was happy, Grace, or at least as happy as a person like me could be. You were the one who wasn’t happy. You were the one who changed things. I tried to buy the land, to keep my family from suffering further at the hands of the Courtemanche family, but you won.” A trickle of liquid ran from her nose, and she swiped it with the back of her hand.
“You killed Lia Grant and Janis Jaffee!” Grace’s horror gave way to fury.
“Pawns. They were pawns!”
Grace wanted to shake the crazy out of this woman. “They were young women who lived and breathed and dreamed. You took that away. You killed them.”
“They were part of The Game.”
“Murder isn’t a game!”
“It’s a game.” JoBeth sniffed, but the mucous continued to drip from her nose. “It’s all a game.”
“You tortured two young women. They died brutal, painful deaths. A boy could be drowning as we speak.”
“A game. It’s a game! No one gets hurt in games.”
Grace opened her mouth to argue but pictured Hatch. This wasn’t about right or wrong. Judgment would come later in a court of law. It was about diffusing a crisis situation. She needed to listen, to hear JoBeth’s story, and to commiserate with her. Then it would be time to help her find a way out of that misery. “Okay, you’re right. No one gets hurt in games.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tucker parked his rental car behind the sheriff’s SUV in the circular drive at Gator Slide, the winter home of the late Oliver and Emmaline Lassen. As he got out of the car, he saw no signs of gators…or a killer. Who was he kidding? This trip to Cypress Bend was a longer shot than pie.
He wondered about the sheriff’s SUV, though. Was a local already checking on the home in response to his visit to the station? Had there been some kind of disturbance? Must be important to take a man off the hunt for the little boy.
A blue speckled hound lounged in a wedge of sunlight in the SUV’s backseat, his tail thumping at the sight of Tucker. He slipped a hand through the open window and scratched the dog’s head. “What are you doing out here all by your lonesome?” The dog yawned and went back to sleep.
Gator Slide was a three-story house in the ritzy part of Cypress Bend, situated at the end of River Run Road and perched on the banks of the Cypress Bend River. The closest neighbor was a half block away. The grass needed a good mowing, and dead leaves and yellowed palmetto fronds gathered on the steps and in the corners of the porch. Every shutter in the house was drawn. He walked up the porch steps and peeked through the curtains flanking the glass panes on either side of the front door. Storage boxes and draped furniture. On the surface this appeared to be a house waiting for its new owners.
He knocked, noting two sets of footprints along the dusty wraparound porch. No answer.
Around back sloped a lawn leading to the river. A single gator bathed on a flattened patch of grass near the dock. Nice little boat at the dock. A fourteen-foot aluminum skiff with a shiny new electric motor. Would be the perfect size for him and the kids.
The footprints ended at the back door. Again he knocked. The gator lifted its head.
A three-car garage sat on the far side of the house. Windows all covered with paper.
He took out his phone and called the sheriff’s department. “This is Tucker Holt of the Kentucky State Police. Did you dispatch an officer to 707 E. River Run Road?”
After a short pause, the woman said, “No. Is this an emergency, detective?”
“No, not yet. One of your department SUVs is in the drive, but I haven’t found the responding officer.”
She took the license plate number. “Let me pass this on to one of the lieutenant deputies, and he’ll get back with you.”
Tucker checked the clock on his phone. Hannah’s dance recital was still hours away. He was in no hurry to leave, but he was itching to get in that house. He jammed his phone in his pocket and headed to the front door.
* * *
The doorbell rang, a faint chime that sent a rush of hope through Grace’s chest.
“Someone’s here,” Alex said on a croak. “Maybe it’s Hatch or one of his FBI pals.”
Grace’s arm tightened around Alex. JoBeth still had the gun aimed at the boy’s head.
“Maybe not,” JoBeth said. “I heard on the news they’re still in Tate’s Hell on Level Three.” Keeping the gun aimed at Alex, she backed up the steps.
“Dad!” Alex screamed.
JoBeth clicked shut the door.
“Down here, Dad! We’re down here! She’s got a gun, and we’re down here!”
Grace grabbed the boy and cupped her hand over his mouth.
JoBeth polished the gun’s barrel with the hem of her T-Shirt. “You’re wasting your breath, Sunshine Boy.”
He broke free from Grace. “Daaaaad! Daaaaaaaaaad!”
Grace lunged across the tiny kitchen and knocked the box of trophies onto the floor, metal and wood and stone crashing. She grabbed the football trophy, the marble heavy and solid.
“And you, too, Big Sis.”
Grace banged the marble against the wall. Alex continued to scream.
“You don’t get it, do you?” JoBeth said. “Whoever that is can’t hear you. No one can hear you.” JoBeth tapped the gun’s grip on the door, on the wall, and on the ceiling. “This place is soundproof. No one above heard the first time a gun went off down here. Want to test it a second time?” She aimed the gun at Alex.
The trophy crashed to the floor. Grace had to get that gun out of JoBeth’s hand. “Gun? A gun went off down here?”
“Oooo, you want to chat some more, Sister Gracie? You want to hear about the gun? A gun went off down here once. Took just one bullet for my mother to blow her brains out.” She swept her free hand to the tiny Formica table. “It happened here in our lovely, elegant dining room. Mom stood right where you’re standing, Sunshine Boy.” JoBeth walked to where Alex stood and raised the gun. “She held the gun to her head like this.” The gun barrel settled on Alex’s temple.
A whimper slipped from his lips.
Grace’s palms grew slick and hot. Sweat broke out along her upper lip.
“Then Mom—poor, sick, crazy Mom—pulled the trigger and…” JoBeth paused while Grace dropped her shoulder. “Boom,” JoBeth whispered then took a step back and smiled.
Alex sunk onto one of the chairs, his shoulders heaving in a s
ilent sob. Grace threw herself between him and her half-sister.
JoBeth waved her free hand in an arc. “Bits of her brain flew there, and there, and even way over there. Did you know brains look like clear Jell-O with worms? I know because I stared at them for nine days as I screamed my lungs out, trying to get someone down here. I banged on the door and even took a knife and tried to dig my way out. Couldn’t get through all that concrete and metal. But no one came. Unfortunately, I couldn’t fit mom in the refrigerator. Do you know what a dead body looks like after nine days, what it feels like, what it smells like? I do, and so does Daddy, because when he came down, he passed out. I loved seeing him prone and powerless. But just to make sure he stayed out long enough for me to grab Mom and Skye, I knocked him upside the head with one of his stupid trophies. Great minds think alike, huh, sis? Anyway, then I waltzed out with only the clothes on my back and a pocket full of money I’d stolen from Henri’s wallet over the years.”
JoBeth stared up the steps, tapping her leg. “You know, I need to go check on our visitor. He may have heard Sunshine Boy’s first cry.” She kneaded her stomach with a knotted fist. “I should have shut the door. I should have shot Sunshine Boy. See, Gracie, you’re not the only one who’s making dumb moves today.” JoBeth bent to pick up the purse Grace had dropped on the floor when she’d lunged for the box, but she kept her eyes trained on them the entire time. “Wouldn’t want to leave you with a phone.”
* * *
Hatch hopped out of the boat and ran toward Hayden, who had just pulled into the parking lot at Tate’s Hell State Park. Hatch desperately wanted to get his hands on thirteen-year-old Lincoln Henderson, but if he couldn’t, his teammate Hayden was the next best thing. Hayden had finally tracked down Grace’s real estate agent and got the name of the private bidder for the Giroux land. “What’s her name? What the hell is her name?”
“JoBeth Poole,” Hayden said. “I didn’t find much on her, but she fits the profile. Lives on a mountain in the Colorado Rockies. No significant other. No kids. No apparent job. Five years ago she worked for a geek group in Denver. Appears to know her way around both computer software and hardware. Jefferson County sent a deputy to search for her. She and her white pickup truck are gone. Hasn’t been seen for weeks.”
The Buried (The Apostles) Page 28