“Yeah. Can you imagine?” Samba snorted. “I mean, no offense. But out there”—he gestured through one of the dirt-streaked windows—“sure, that’s where they think the action is. But the evidence room—this is where the magic happens. They might slap the cuffs on somebody, but this stuff is what catches the bad guys.”
He stood back and patted the tops of the boxes, turning one to face Josh.
“Remember that one? Some yahoo truck driver, used to pick up kiddos and then dump them along the highway back in the eighties.”
“Yeah, I remember. They caught the son of a bitch, right?” Josh forced his tone to sound casual, even though he’d read up on the case.
“Yep. He got some hundred-year sentence.” Samba shook his head. “It’s a load of bull, if you ask me.”
“Why?”
“I think,” Samba said pointedly, “those kids’ families should have the right to do whatever they want to the bastard.” He issued this declaration through a mouthful of chocolate crumbs. “Being around all this long enough, seeing the things people do—well, it’ll turn ya. I’d say I’m a peacenik in all other parts of life, but I’m pretty much a card-carrying fascist when it comes to criminals.”
“Me too.”
“They told me when I started, don’t take nothing personal. Biggest load of bullshit you ever heard, excuse my French. The only woman I ever loved is in one of these boxes.” He blinked, the tears searing his eyes the brightest blue Josh had ever seen.
“I’m sorry,” Josh said, knowing how empty the words were.
“She was an angel on this earth,” Samba said in a wobbled voice. “And I tell everybody who will listen, this job is personal. If it ain’t under your skin, you ain’t doing it right. We’ve all survived something. But you have to take that step back sometimes, let the evidence do its work so it can show you the right way.” Samba crossed the space between them and put his hands on Josh’s shoulders. “Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Samba kept one hand on Josh’s shoulder. “The cops came to me this morning with a request to pull some evidence for an ID,” he said. “Listen. I know you’re a strong man, Josh. I see that. But if you don’t want to be a part of this, I understand that too. I just want to give you the choice.”
Josh reached across him and twisted one of the boxes so that the label was facing them.
Hudson, J.
His brother’s box.
“Listen to me,” Samba said. “They found some remains, over by Baboon Jack’s, washed up on the beach in a duffel bag. Doc Mason sent them to some state lab, but word is they’re those of a male child.” Josh stared at the letters of his brother’s name, Samba’s voice fading in and out of his consciousness.
“Jesse.”
“We don’t know that yet,” Samba said quietly. “I know how hard this is, Josh, believe me. They asked me to pull all the missing kids’ files from the early nineties, and I knew your brother was one of ’em. I know all these kids. It’s my job to know them. And if we do this right, this could be the end of their story. A real burial, answers for the family.”
Josh thought about the splintered remains of his own family, his father in jail, his mother in the ground, Liana God knew where. There was nobody left but him. They knew Jesse was dead. The Shadow Man had given them that much as part of his plea deal to avoid the electric chair—but he’d never told them where, or how. Josh had told himself so many times that those details weren’t important, the right man was in jail, the body was only the shell of the person Jesse had been. It was more important to focus on Liana, the person he could still save. Now Josh saw that Samba was right; that this might be a chance to end the story.
“I can help,” Josh said. “I want to help.”
Samba smiled. “Good,” he said. “Whether it’s your brother or not, we’re going to help someone here.”
Josh opened his mouth to reply and was interrupted by the bleat of the front door buzzer.
“Looks like we’ve got company,” Samba said. “I’ll take care of it.” Dabbing at his face with his hopelessly damp handkerchief, he began to make his way to the front door.
A wave of paranoia rimmed with anger seized Josh. Was it someone coming to make the notification that the body in the bag might be Jesse? Why the hell hadn’t someone from the station called him right away? He felt a surge of protectiveness for Samba. At least the old guy had the balls to say it to his face, to give him the chance to help.
All these thoughts propelled Josh to his feet and he barreled towards the doorway, overtaking Samba in the aisle.
Josh flung the door open, but instead of coming face-to-face with Rush or Boone, he found himself looking at a woman.
She was tall, almost six feet, and her hair was hastily shoved into a ponytail, but a few curls had escaped and tumbled around a little owlish face. She wore black athletic shorts and a white shirt, but she had the stance of a fighter, her green eyes friendly but also determined.
Only his detective instinct told him she was nervous; still half turned towards the door, her body was tense and coiled like a runner at the starting gates.
“Hi, I was hoping you could help me out. I was hoping to request some information about a case. I saw the emblem outside—I wasn’t sure if this was the police station or not.”
Josh struggled with a reply, the rational part of his brain rendered momentarily silent by the caveman side. Samba crowded next to him in the doorway. “You’re in the wrong place,” Samba said. “This isn’t the police station. Although Josh here is a cop.”
“Kind of,” Josh mumbled.
“The police station is over on Cardamine Road,” Samba continued. “But it’s hotter than hell out there. Why don’t you come in for a second?”
She smiled. “Sure,” she said. “That’d be great.” She stepped past him into the entryway.
“We’ve got sweet tea, a couple of waters,” Samba told her. “Got some of the hard stuff too, but it’s under lock and key in the back.”
“Sweet tea’s fine,” the woman said. “Thank you.”
She sat on the edge of the orange paisley couch with the center cut out and stared at the hole in the foam.
“So if this isn’t the police station,” she asked, “what is it?”
“It’s the evidence room,” Josh explained. “All those rows back there, they’re full of boxes of evidence—everything from bikes to guns to booze.”
Something in her face changed. “Every case? How far back?”
“Older than me,” Samba said, handing her the glass of iced tea. “Don’t even hazard a guess.”
She chuckled, at ease again.
“I’m Samba, by the way. And that’s Josh. What’s your name?”
For the first time, she hesitated. It was only for a beat, but Josh saw her consider her options before answering.
“Aurora Atchison.” She almost whispered it. It took Josh a minute to process the name, roll it over in his head, figure out why something about it sounded familiar.
Samba didn’t take as long. “Well, I’ll be darned,” he answered, removing his glasses and studying her. She looked towards the door and shifted uncomfortably when Samba spoke again, this time more gently.
“Are you here about your mother’s case?”
She stood up so quickly that she almost upended the table. “Yes. I can come back, though—I know it probably takes a while to pull the files. You guys are probably busy. Thanks for the tea. I—um, I’ve taken up enough of your time. I’m just going to go.”
“I’m sorry,” Samba said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s all right. Really.” She bolted for the door. Josh followed her outside, his brain churning with the details of her case. Aurora Atchison. It was an old case that was almost a legend in Cooper’s Bayou—part horror story, part cautionary tale. An abusive husband, a murdered wife, the baby daughter left at the mini-mart. So this was her—the little girl lost, now returned.
; “Hey, listen,” Josh called to her. “I get it. You don’t want to talk about it—believe me, I get it.” She paused on the bottom step and turned to face him, shading her eyes from the sun.
Josh dug around in his pocket and retrieved a folded white square. He scribbled a number on the back of it. “I mean, if you get lost, or whatever.” That was ridiculous—the town was four streets wide—but she took the card.
“Thanks, Josh.”
“I’m not really from here either, you know,” he said. It was all he could think of to say. “I know what it’s like to be new in town.”
She smiled and nodded, and he watched her walk to her rental, a cherry-red subcompact. In his mind, he finished the sentence.
I know what it’s like to return to the scene of the crime.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Aurora wanted a margarita.
She’d never been much of a drinker. Usually, she just ordered a Diet Coke at bars when she was out with friends. “I’m driving,” she’d tell the bartender when he shot her a questioning look, even though they both knew nobody drove in New York City.
Control freak, Nicky teased her at work, but she was right. It was better than being out of control, wasn’t it? “Tightly wound,” her attending had called her, which made her think of the cheap gold watch he wore too snugly on his hairy wrist. It wasn’t a completely bad quality. It made her a good friend and a fantastic nurse. It made her reliable and punctual.
It also made her a little bit boring.
Still, this trip to Florida was changing all of that.
She felt a strange comfort in the house on the bayou. She had even ventured into town a few times, to the grocery store, and then to the evidence room. Of course, she hadn’t made any friends here yet, and she didn’t feel like she could just stroll into a local bar and order a drink the way you could in New York. It was an odd sensation, being a stranger in town whom everyone knew. Papa had left her instructions about the house, but he hadn’t told her who was trustworthy. All she knew was that he had been working on something, that some question remained about the night her mother died.
Aurora settled for a glass of iced tea and stepped out onto the porch. In the darkness, the waters of the bayou rose and fell in thick waves, like swirled cream. A boat laden with partygoers idled a mile offshore, music blaring.
They had all been on a boat ride the night of the murder. Aurora, her mother, and her father. She tried to conjure Raylene’s image from the depths of her mind. She remembered climbing into her mother’s lap on someone’s porch, in front of a glass table rimmed in white. “You’re too old to be held this way,” her mother had said with a laugh, but she’d cradled her anyway, rocking her back and forth, Aurora’s spindly legs draped over the chair’s armrest. Aurora couldn’t remember her face or anything she was wearing, or even whose porch it was, but somehow she remembered that grip. Loving. Intense.
Aurora stemmed the tide of emotions that were rising to the surface. There was no time to sit here and let the past engulf her. If Papa wanted her to continue the search for the truth about that night, she was up to the task, no matter how painful it was.
She shut the French doors behind her. Tonight she would tackle the files in the cherry-finish secretary desk in Papa’s office. Royce Beaumont, the attorney, had told her about several documents she needed to bring to their first meeting in the morning. She was counting on the contents of the desk to be what she expected—papers, bills, checkbooks—but was afraid there would be something else there that she wasn’t ready to see.
The sight of Papa’s spindly handwriting on the file folders brought an unexpected rush of tears to her eyes. Why had he left all of this for her to do? She could feel a throb between her eyes beginning to bloom into a headache. Well, it would only take a minute; Papa was organized, and everything was easy to find. The folder labeled HOUSE was tucked in the back. A manila folder was among the deed to the house and other legal papers. A folder labeled with a single word.
Raylene.
She was unfolding the contents even as her mind was screaming at her to stop, to let it be, to leave it alone. So he had done his research after all. She spread the pages out across Papa’s desk. It was an old, blurred photocopy of the autopsy report and the police report. This was what Nana and Papa had been protecting her from all these years, and now she understood why. Aurora read the details, knowing they would never be erased from her memory. Death by asphyxiation. He had strangled her with his bare hands. There was evidence consistent with rape; she had been found half-naked on the shore of the bayou, less than a mile from where Aurora was sitting right now. Papa had circled and underlined words on the autopsy report. Contusion, right knee. Defensive wounds. Broken fingernails.
Aurora felt the weight of it all settling in her chest. She caught sight of herself in one of the antique mirrors hanging to the right of the desk. She resembled her mother, but she was Wade’s daughter too. Was that why Papa could not share this? When he saw her, did he see his treasured daughter but also the man who had taken her away forever?
Clipped to the report was a letter from the police department, informing Papa that every effort was being made to bring Wade Atchison to justice. Her grandfather had circled her father’s name and written a question mark above it. Was he questioning who had killed her mother? Wade was a criminal, a violent man, a jealous man. Who else could have possibly killed Raylene?
The rest of the file contained clippings from area papers. Aurora paged through them. She’d seen the local paper, The Bayou Bumblebee, for sale at a gas station she’d stopped at on the way into town. These papers mentioned places she didn’t recognize: Starflower, Kervick, Papillon City. She expected accounts of the murder, but the articles were all about alligators; probably mixed in with some files for his job.
The house phone rang. Aurora had not even known it was connected. Probably Jefferson, checking on her. Reflexively, she picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Time to go home, beb,” a singsong voice warned. She thought of the woman in the cemetery who had used that same word—what had Ernest said her name was? Charlie? This voice was different. Fuller, stronger, angrier. Male.
“Who is this?”
“Go back where you came from, Aurora. Or else you gonna be sorry,” the voice hissed, “just like your mama.”
She slammed the phone down, her heart galloping in her chest. They got calls like this at the hospital all the time, crazies saying vile things. Aurora and Nicky laughed about it, didn’t give it a second thought. Something about being under the bright lights of the hospital made her feel safe, secure, indestructible.
But now she was in this house on the bayou.
By herself.
Get it together, she told herself. It was just some hillbilly kid with nothing else to do on a Friday night, looking to scare the new person in town. She checked the lock on the front door and resumed her seat at the desk, but the words on the paper seemed meaningless now; all she could hear was the voice from the phone.
You gonna be sorry just like your mama.
Outside, the wind picked up. The tree outside her bedroom window listed to one side, its branches heavy with Spanish moss that fell like a curtain across her view of the bayou. Maybe she should call Jefferson, let him know about the prank caller. But he was an older man; what could he possibly do? Or the police? She’d seen a cop at the coffee place this morning. But what could they do? Everyone in town knew who she was; they either addressed her by name or stared at her when they thought she wasn’t looking. A late-night call to the cops would only fuel the gossip mill. There was nobody in town she could trust to stay quiet.
Go back where you came from.
“This is where I came from,” she said out loud. There was no way some voice on the phone was going to stop her now. She settled back into the chair, thumbing through the rest of Papa’s files. She was a New Yorker; she didn’t scare easy. Aurora imagined recounting this story to Nicky. Just me and
the voodoo dolls, all alone in the house! The two of them would laugh about it. Aurora smiled to herself and made a mental note to text Nicky in the morning.
And then the phone rang again.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Josh was breaking into his place of employment.
He realized it on the ride over, chuckling at the thought of how ridiculous his life had become. Was this latest adventure criminal? Probably. A bad idea? Certainly, but he was in the habit of stockpiling bad decisions. What was one more? Sleep was an impossibility. Hope had taken root inside Josh and would not let him rest. He hoped it was Jesse in that bag, and prayed it was not. People said it was always better to know, but ignorance looked real good sometimes.
Josh glanced at the clock. Almost eight. Back in his old life, he’d be doing surveillance on some slimeball crack dealer right now, parked in the shadows, poised to strike. Now he was coming back to the warehouse. All night he’d been thinking about Jesse, about the promise he’d made to his brother that he hadn’t kept. And then he’d realized that his salvation had been surrounding him this whole time.
Evidence.
He needed to look at the boxes again, to learn the stories of the other missing boys, to know them as well as he knew his own story. It was more than a need: it was a raw compulsion. There was something in one of those boxes that would give him the clue he needed to identify the boy in the bag, whether it was his brother or not. Samba was right. He had a responsibility to all the people whose stories were in those boxes, not just his own kin.
Josh cut the engine and stepped into the velvety darkness. There was a charge in the air, a faint sizzle that warned of another thunderstorm creeping across the bayou. Someone had busted all the streetlamps on Spruce, so the only light was from the bone-white moon, draping the evidence room in a patchwork of shadows. The place was ominous in the daytime; at night, its hulking form was downright spooky. Josh closed the distance between his car and the warehouse in a few quick strides, ignoring the twist of apprehension in his gut.
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