Devil's Way Out

by Nika Dixon

  “Anyone else?” Danny asked, his jaw muscle ticking.

  Marshall stuck his hands under his armpits to stop himself from reaching for her again.

  “Franco,” she said quietly. “He worked at the art store. Alan said he tried to tell the police about me. He died, too. I don’t know how. I just saw the picture. It was…bloody.” She sniffed. “There were more. Do you need more?”

  Marshall interrupted before Danny could prompt her to keep going. “Why didn’t you leave? Go to the police?”

  “Alan has people all over the city. Informants. Police. Politicians. He owns them. They would just send me back.”

  “You had tutors. A maid. People coming and going.”

  “No one else is allowed to be there without Victor or Vincent being there, too. And they may only work for a few weeks at a time. Alan says it’s for security, but I think it’s so no one learns what he’s doing.”

  “And what is it exactly he’s doing?” Danny asked.

  “He moves things for people. Illegal things, you know? Drugs. Guns. Whatever they need. People hire him to move things through the city and out. His police friends keep anyone from finding out, and his business partners pay him millions.”

  Danny frowned. “How do you know so much about his business if you’re locked inside an apartment twenty-four-seven?”

  Her shoulders twitched up. “After Eric, he didn’t hide his work anymore. He made me help.”

  “Help,” Danny repeated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  There was a long pause before he asked, “By doing what?”

  “Drawing,” she said softly.

  Marshall was so relieved she didn’t say “killing,” he almost missed the disgust in her voice. She was talking about more than sketches of sunsets and skylines. “Drawing what?” he asked.

  For a brief second, she broke her staring contest with the photo. Stark fear widened her eyes. Then she lowered her head again, shook it, and refused to answer.

  Danny gathered up the photo and the missing-persons poster and set them out of sight on one of the chairs.

  She continued to stare down at the naked tabletop.

  Marshall raked his fingers through his hair. Not reaching for her was turning him into a twitching mess. “Trust him, Em. Please. We just want to help.”

  After a tense moment of silence, she pointed a trembling finger at the sketchbook she’d set aside. “If I show you…would that be enough?”

  Danny nodded and slid the art pad closer, along with the box of pencils.

  “This might take a while,” she told him.

  “We don’t have anywhere else to be,” he replied.

  She flipped to a blank page and picked up a pencil. She timidly reached across the table. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her left hand hovering in the air over Danny’s. “Sometimes I need…contact.”

  “Contact?”

  “Touch.” She lowered her fingers and hesitantly touched the back of his hand.

  Danny flipped his hand over to let her get a more solid grip.

  “I need to finish the drawing.” She swiped a rogue tear from the corner of her eye. “Don’t wake me up or I’ll miss something.”

  Marshall kicked the jealous knot in his stomach at the sight of his brother holding her hand. “She gets a little distracted when she draws,” he explained.

  “Distracted,” Danny repeated. “Right.”

  “Swear to me,” Emma pleaded. “You have to let me finish.”

  Danny nodded. “You have my word.”

  When she lowered her head, Marshall expected her to take her hand back, but she was frozen in place, her fingers still tightly wound through his brother’s while she stared at the empty page.

  Concerned, he leaned toward her. “Em?”

  She didn’t move or even acknowledge she’d heard him.

  Remembering her warning, he stopped himself from touching her.

  After a few more seconds passed, she slowly pulled her hand from Danny’s, put the tip of the pencil to the paper, and started to draw.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Marshall leaned against the counter, his hand wrapped around a mug of coffee he wasn’t in the mood to drink. He set it aside and turned back to his study of the lady at the table.

  “How long you think she’ll keep going?” Danny asked, keeping his voice quiet even though they’d already discussed the fact she didn’t acknowledge them when they spoke at a normal level.

  They’d tried to ask her questions, but she didn’t react to their voices. A touch to her shoulder or arm barely earned them a twitch of response. The only motion she’d made as she worked had been to choose a different colored pencil, which she did without looking at whichever one she was picking up.

  Marshall shrugged. “No clue. She was…gone…for a good fifteen minutes the last time.”

  “It’s been over half an hour.”

  “Yeah, but she’s already done two. This is number three.”

  “How many more you think she’s going to do?”

  “No idea.”

  Another ten minutes passed before she made a movement that didn’t match the others. Brushing the colored pencils to the side of the table, she slowly lowered the pad of paper. She took a deep breath, put her palms on the table next to the sketchbook, and looked up at the empty chair across from her. She jumped slightly and twisted her head, relaxing when she spied Marshall.

  He was amazed at her change of presence. Gone were all traces of the fear and sadness that had been there only a short while before. It was as though they’d had no previous conversation about her past or her present situation.

  She started to smile—then Danny moved.

  Her complexion paled so quickly Marshall worried she was going to faint. He took a hurried step forward, but as he moved, so did she, banging up out of her chair and putting as much distance as she could between them before she backed into the wall.

  He stopped, and so did Danny.

  “Can we take a look?” Danny asked, pointing to the sketchbook.

  With a jerky nod, she slowly tore three pages from the book. She set them side by side on the end of the table, then retreated back to the corner.

  Her first sketch was of a dilapidated wooden barn. One wall was half collapsed, exposing the hayloft to the elements. A rusted-out once-green tractor sat half hidden in the open doorway, the only spot of color in the otherwise drab image. On the second page, she’d drawn an old Ford F-series pickup—its red and white two-tone paint job not exactly an unusual sight around Absolution. The last picture was a portrait of a teenage boy with a snarky grin that pretty much said the kid figured he was king shit in somebody’s world.

  Three completely separate images, and none with any kind of clue as to why she’d chosen them.

  Danny spaced the three pages out. “I’ve seen this before.” He placed his palms on the table and leaned over to study the first two pictures.

  Marshall could think of at least half a dozen folks this side of Pikes Falls who owned a similar-looking truck, although he couldn’t recall if any of them were in as pristine condition as the one she’d sketched. “Could be any of a thousand trucks in this half of the state alone.”

  Danny picked up the picture of the rusty tractor in the barn. “No, this. I’ve been here.” He looked at Emma for clarification. “What’s this have to do with Alexander? With you?”

  She clenched her hands together and pressed them against her stomach. “You asked me what I do for him.”

  “You draw pictures of trucks and barns?”

  “I draw what I’m supposed to.”

  “So, why these?”

  “Because you need them.”

  “I need them?” Danny repeated.

  Marshall stepped around his brother, moving closer to the corner where she was flattening herself into the wallpaper. He tried to take her hand, but she wouldn’t loosen her knotted fingers, so he took both her hands in his.

  “It’s okay,
” he said softly, urging her forward. She allowed herself to be pulled forward, her feet sliding with a reluctant shuffle.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, hating the way she cowered beneath his touch. He turned her toward the drawings. Remaining protectively at her back, he pulled the pages closer. “Why did you draw these? Why does Danny need them?”

  She delicately reordered the pictures back into the series as she first presented them—the barn, the truck, and the boy. Then she overlapped the picture of the teenager with the drawing of the truck. “It’s his truck.”

  Danny picked up the two pictures. “The kid owns the truck.”

  “He drives it. I…I don’t know if he owns it, but he drives it.”

  “Oka-ay…” Danny drew the word out slowly. “And why is that important?”

  “Because he’s the one who’s burning down the barns.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Marshall walked back into the kitchen to find his brother still standing in the same spot he’d left him in—leaning over the table and staring down at Emma’s artwork.

  “She okay?” Danny asked.

  Marshall shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  After her confession about the kid in the picture being the one who was burning down barns, she’d broken down. Neither he nor Danny had been able to convince her Alexander wasn’t going to kill her for revealing her secret. They hadn’t even been able to deduce exactly what her secret was. Marshall had finally decided the conversation was over and let her go upstairs to the guest room, where she’d curled into a tight ball on the bed and refused to say another word.

  “Did she tell you anything else?” Danny asked.

  “Nope.” Marshall pointed at the drawings. “You figure these out yet?”

  “Nope.”

  There was a loud thump on the patio and a series of sharp barks. Drift bashed into the patio door, his tail swinging wildly back and forth while he panted a foggy patch on the glass. Marshall opened the door, letting the dog in. Drift’s claws scraped on the floor as he circled the kitchen, barked, then dashed into the hallway. There was no second-guessing Drift’s destination—the sounds told the story. There was a rapid pounding of paws up the stairs then down the hallway overhead to the room at the end, followed by a loud clump of the door hitting the wall as he bashed it open, then a creak of the bed springs as he jumped onto the bed in the guest room.

  “Shit.” Marshall ran upstairs after the psycho mutt.

  When he reached the open door to Emma’s room, he tossed out his plan to drag Drift back downstairs. She was still curled in a ball with her back to the door, but instead of having her arms wrapped around herself, they were wrapped around Drift, her face buried in the dog’s fur. Drift was lying with his head on his paws, facing the door, his eyes daring Marshall to try to remove him.

  Marshall gave up the idea even before the thought was fully formed. Without Sam to call him off, Drift wasn’t going anywhere. And if Emma was going to have a guard dog, Drift was as good as any.

  Marshall pulled the door half closed and returned to the kitchen.

  “All good?” Danny asked.

  “He’s not going anywhere. She isn’t, either.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Hank walked in through the open kitchen door. “So, we’re just leaving the outside doors wide-open now, is that it?”

  “We were waiting on Sam,” Danny explained, tipping his head toward the man coming in second.

  “Did Drift come in here?” Sam asked.

  “Upstairs,” Marshall told him.

  Sam’s eyebrows shot up with surprise. “What?”

  Hank filled a mug with cold coffee, then popped it into the microwave to warm it up. “He’s up with Emma, if I’m going to guess.”

  “Damn dog.” Sam headed toward the front of the house, but Marshall called him off. “He’s fine. Let him be.”

  “There is something seriously wrong with him lately,” Sam muttered with a shake of his head, turning back to the room. He let out a low whistle and picked up the sketch of the barn and tractor. “You hire one of those fancy crime scene artists or something?”

  “You know the place?”

  “Yeah. So do you. That’s the Wileys’ barn. Well, before it burned down.”

  “Hell.” Danny eyed the image with renewed interest. “I knew I’d seen it before.”

  “The Wileys?” Marshall asked, unfamiliar with the name.

  “Everyone’s favorite mystery asshole burned down their barn about, what? Six weeks ago? Over in Cherry,” Sam explained.

  “Are you sure that’s the same barn?” Marshall asked.

  Danny nodded. “Yup. Now that he says it, that’s the one.”

  “The old lady has a picture of it on her wall in the kitchen,” Sam added. “I remember because Bailey took a photo of the picture for the insurance, so they could see the condition of everything before the fire.”

  “Bailey would take a picture of a picture,” Hank muttered, checking his coffee before putting it back into the microwave.

  Danny handed Sam the other two drawings. “What about these?”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed. “This some kind of trick question?”

  “No. Why? You know who he is?”

  “It’s the kid—the witness—the one I told you about. Said he saw a black pickup truck leaving the Dunston fire.”

  “And you’re sure it’s him?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Sam wiggled Emma’s third sketch. “But you must already know that, seeing as how you also have a picture of his truck. Okay, so who drew them? Because I know damn well neither one of you two Picassos could have.”

  “Emma did,” Hank answered before anyone else could. The microwave dinged, and he took his mug out. He saluted them with it, then headed back outside.

  “I heard she was good,” Sam said. “I figured everyone was exaggerating, you know. Being nice. But damn, if she drew these, then the lady has some serious skills. I swear, this is as good as a picture. Hell, she even managed to make the little shit look as full of himself as he sounded.”

  Marshall tried to reason out when or how Emma could have met the kid. “When did you talk to him?”

  “Saturday morning,” Sam replied. “Bailey and I went out to meet the insurance folks. Kid was there hanging with the older Wiley boy.”

  The timeline made no sense. Emma had spent the entire day Saturday upstairs with Lucy. There was no way she could have gone to Cherry, and no way she could have known who the kid was without talking to Sam or Bailey. Even if she had talked to either deputy, a description from either of them couldn’t have managed to put such a photo-accurate image together, as Sam had suggested.

  What the hell was going on?

  There was a knock at the front door. Marshall leaned around the corner. On the other side of the screen door, Bobby lifted his hand in greeting. Marshall beckoned for Bobby to let himself in, but the mechanic shook his head and waved Marshall to come to him instead.

  Curious, he stepped onto the front porch. “Afternoon, Bobby.”

  Bobby yanked his ball cap off his head and crumpled it between his hands. “Afternoon, Marsh. Listen, I, uh, hate to bug you at home and all, but, uh…is Emma still staying with you folks?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good. Good. That’s good.” His shoulders dropped, and he bobbed his head slowly up and down. “Is your brother about?”

  Not liking the flow of discussion from Emma to Danny, Marshall’s stomach tensed. “He’s here. Come on in.” He started to reach for the door, but Bobby held up his hand.

  “Is Emma in the house?”

  Marshall dipped his chin.

  Bobby wrinkled his nose. “It’s not really a conversation for polite company.”

  Marshall leaned toward the screen. “Danny!” When his brother leaned out past the kitchen archway, he beckoned him forward. “Grab Sam.”

  Bobby headed down the stairs and waited beside his tow truck. As soon as the
y were all gathered, Bobby shook out his cap and jammed it back onto his head. “Sorry for the house call, Sheriff.”

  “It’s fine, Bobby. Everything okay?”

  “Well, not really. I mean it was—I just—” He adjusted his cap, fiddling with the brim. “I was thinking this morning on how the insurance man still hadn’t made it out to check up on Georgie’s car, and while normally I wouldn’t waste a bit on it, I promised Emma I’d let her know as soon as I heard back from the guy, but he still hadn’t called, so I thought I’d do a little checking up on him, you know?”

  “Fair enough,” Danny said.

  “Well, I gave his office a call. Just to ask if they were still planning to send someone out. The second I tell the woman I’m waiting on this Dorchester fella—that was the guy’s name, Gerry Dorchester—well, doesn’t she break down into a fit of tears and wailing. At first I thought maybe it was one of those bad breakup things, ya know? Office romance? But after her sobbing lets off, she tells me the guy’s dead.”

  “Dead,” Danny repeated.

  “Yup. So, I tell her I’m sorry that the guy’s gone and all, and ask if there’s someone else coming out to check on the car. Not to be rude, mind you, just thinking purely of getting this all sorted out for Emma and Georgie. Well, don’t the waterworks start all over again, and she tells me the lady that owned the car is dead, too.”

  Danny leaned closer to Bobby. “They’re both dead?”

  Bobby grabbed a newspaper off his dashboard. He straightened it and held it out to Danny. The front page of the morning local from Pikes Falls was splashed with a color photo of a gathering of police cruisers in front of a residential house. Blocked across the top of the page, the black-lettered headline shouted, Double Homicide Shocks City.

  Marshall scanned the article over Danny’s shoulder. There were quotes from the Pikes Falls PD and interviews with neighbors, but it was the names of the victims his eyes sought. Gerry Dorchester, insurance man from Pikes Falls Home and Auto, and Reena Vakur, a self-employed yoga instructor.