by L. T. Ryan
"Vernon," Reese said.
"You either, Billie." He brought the vehicle to a stop, kept a tight grip on the steering wheel as he twisted around to look at us. "Jesus Christ, Billie. You come at me with this story about this guy being your cousin. I mean, how many times had we talked, Hon? Huh? Dozens? Hundreds? Christ, at least that many with me perched on a bar stool drinking a beer. And on many of those occasions, when I asked you about your past, you said you had no family. No ties. Not a goddamned soul on earth."
Reese glanced down for a second. That was the worst gesture she could make at that moment, and she knew it. She should've remained defiant, even if she said nothing. Instead, she gave away her position.
Vernon continued. "I specifically asked you if you had any aunts, uncles, or cousins. You remember your response?"
Reese said nothing.
"You said no, Billie. No. 'No, Vernon, I don't have any family at all.' So, was that a lie? Did you think that would stop me from digging too deep, looking up people from your past?"
She remained silent, her gaze now fixed on the rearview.
"I'm torn," Vernon said. "On the one hand, I want to believe you. I want to take your word that this Jack Smith guy sitting here really is your cousin. But then I wonder, how does he end up in town with a busted up Jeep, staying at Ingrid and Herbie's house, instead of yours? What sense does that make?"
I had an answer ready, but didn't bother with responding. Vernon's anger had led him to another world, and there was no pulling him out of it.
"And you, Jack," he said. "I gotta tell you, it'd be real easy to pin this on you. I mean, I think there's more than enough circumstantial evidence that this would be a slam dunk case. You don't strike me as a fella that can get decent legal representation, either. The DA would eat you alive in this case. The jury—" he paused to laugh "—hell, they'll be ready to fry you after the opening statements."
"So what're we doing out here, then?" I said.
He glared at me. "Because out here I can say whatever I want, and you can answer however you want, and not a single word of it is going to be recorded."
"What about slow Miles here?" I said.
"He'll do whatever I tell him," Vernon said
"And what about your dashboard cam?" Reese said.
Vernon's lips parted and formed a half-snarl, half-smile. "That's why we're getting away from the car."
A few minutes later we stood fifty or so feet behind the cruiser. Miles had been instructed to wait inside and only come out if Vernon called out for help. If it came to that, Miles had permission to shoot us without hesitation. I doubted he had the capacity to do so, though. Still, I didn't want to chance making a break for it yet. It wouldn't take long for the others to figure out what had happened. We'd be caught within a couple hundred miles, at most. Vernon was hot right now. Once he settled down, and was willing to listen to logic, I felt I could reason with him.
"All right," Vernon said. "Just the three of us. Who wants to go first?"
Neither Reese nor I spoke.
"Aw, come on now. This is your chance to come clean. Speak now and I'll keep in mind that you cooperated. Say nothing, and I find out that you've been lying, well that's not gonna look good in front a jury of your peers."
I wasn't inclined to say anything. We'd given him a background story that he'd have a hell of a time disproving. If the FBI had done their job right, any search of Billie's past would return an endless maze that dies a couple years before her arrival in town. And unless my old contact Brandon had sold me out sometime in the past couple months, there was no way Vernon could uncover anything using my alias. Jack Smith of Fourth Avenue, Brooklyn, New York led a boring life. Every search for his family history would result in dead ends.
"Already told you, Vernon," Reese said. "I can't help it if you refuse to believe anything I have to say."
He looked down at the ground, nodding. "So, how come he ends up here with a dead Jeep and stays at someone else's house?"
Reese held his gaze but did not respond.
"Such a simple question, and yet you can't give me an answer. Not even a lie."
"You know how the Geotz's were," she said.
"I wasn't even sure Billie was here," I said. "I was able to determine that she ended up in a small town in this area of Texas. If she were here, I'd find her. And I did. Pretty damn quickly, too."
"So you just get in your car—"
"Jeep."
"Excuse me, your Jeep." Vernon paused and shook his head. "And you drive all the way down to Texas figuring that if Billie was here, you'd somehow find her."
I nodded and kept my mouth shut. Had he run the registration on the Jeep? If not, would he? I contemplated accounting for that now, but decided against it.
"Ok," he said. "Plausible, I suppose. I guess I just have one more question."
"What's that?" I said.
"Not for you." He took a step to the side and squared up with McSweeney. "Who the hell is Reese?"
Chapter 22
Crystal River, Florida, 1988
Jack moved as quickly and silently as he could, but it didn't matter. The guy whipped his head around and in an instant he was on top of the boy. Jack's leg caught the edge of the porch, and an unwieldy nail dug into his thigh, tearing his shorts and the flesh beneath. He gritted his teeth and kept from yelling out.
The man had little trouble with Jack. He positioned himself behind the boy, placing him in an arm bar. His other hand wrapped around Jack's mouth. His fingers smelled like cheese puffs and whiskey. So did his breath.
"Just keep quiet, OK?"
The stink burned in Jack's nostrils.
The guy stepped back, dragging Jack into the house. He let go of the boy's mouth to shut the door. He mumbled something about the others in the woods. Jack managed to turn his head enough to get a look at the guy in the light. His beard had flecks of silver in it. His eyes were dark both in color and rage. They were opened wide, flicking side to side as if the man were on the lookout for someone, or something.
Son of a bitch is crazy.
Jack tried to bite the man's hand when he returned it to his mouth, but the guy's grip was so tight that Jack couldn't spread his teeth far enough apart. At some point he'd relax the grip, or adjust the arm bar. That would be the time for Jack to make his move. And he was ready. The panic that crept up at times was still nowhere to be seen. The situation wouldn't allow it. He heard the words of his father echoing in his head.
Stay calm. Stay alert. Stay in tune with your body and surroundings.
It didn't matter if they were hunting, fishing, or sparring. The mantra his father repeated throughout his life had now taken hold of Jack. And he knew he'd need it as the guy dragged him through the house and up the stairs, finally stopping in front of a bedroom door.
The guy couldn't have picked a worse room to enter.
It was Jack's room.
Chapter 23
Her mouth dropped open as Vernon repeated the question. Her identity had been compromised. Had I been careless? Had he heard me call her by her name? Had someone else? Was her apartment bugged after all?
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said.
"Oh, you're not," he said. "Pretty simple question, right? Who is Reese? Either you know, in which case you tell me, or you don't. And in that event, I'd expect you to say something like, 'I don't know.'"
"It was her nickname as a kid," I said. "You know, like the candy. She couldn't get enough of it, so we called her Reeses, which shortened to Reese."
She nodded. "Jack's the only person left that calls me that anymore. He must've let it slip at some point, I guess."
"Yeah," I said. "I guess."
The look of contempt on Vernon's face deepened. He spit to the side, then turned and walked to the cruiser, motioning for us to follow a few steps into his journey. His limp grew more pronounced as he neared the car, almost as if he'd tried to conceal it earlier but finally gave up. The taillights cast a soft red glo
w on the ground, enough to make out obstacles. I stumbled over a large rock, but managed to get back in the vehicle without re-tweaking my ankle.
Where were we going next? Did they have a spot already planned further in the desert? Some place with pre-dug graves, just waiting for the right moment. Or maybe back to town so he could place me under arrest, and hit Reese with an accomplice charge.
Vernon dropped the transmission in gear and cut back across the field. After bouncing through the landscape, he found the rutted path again. We bounced and collided for a few minutes until Reese finally braced herself against me and we moved in unison for the most part. We were headed back to town. This time the drive felt like it took half as long.
We took the highway into town. Drove past the garage. I peered into the darkness, looking for the Jeep and wondering if it was still there. Maybe they'd already sent it off to the junkyard, figuring I'd be out of town by morning. The double homicide investigation changed all that.
A block further down I spotted that old GMC pickup parked on a side street. The cab appeared empty. Was the house it was parked in front of where Darrow lived? I made a mental note of the street and house, a white or light colored Cape Cod with hedges around the front.
We stopped in front of the police station. Miles hopped out, went in through the front door. Vernon took us around back. He parked in a spot near the rear entrance.
"Don't do anything stupid," he said, letting us out.
Reese led the way inside. Wasn't much to the station. From the back door, I could see clear to the front. There were two rows of chairs on one side of the room, a receiving desk on the other. Cinder block walls separated us from where I assumed the cell block and interrogation room were located.
Vernon stood behind the receiving desk, shuffling papers and stacking them into a neat pile. He picked up a couple pens and put them in a cup already loaded with several others. Then he dusted the surface off with his sleeve, shaking his head with a look of disgust on his face. Once everything was in order, he unlocked a drawer under the desktop and pulled out a keyring.
"Follow me," he said, opening the only door along the cinder block wall.
We stepped into a fluorescent-lit room. Everything was coated in the same shade of dim-yellow. Two empty jail cells waited at the far end of the room. A cluttered desk with an old CRT monitor was placed in front of them. There was a small room to the right of the door we entered through. To the left were a coffee maker, microwave, and a small fridge, all up against the cinder block wall
Vernon spread his arms wide. "Welcome to our holding cells, interrogation room, and break area."
His demeanor had changed. Perhaps it had something to do with the three surveillance cameras mounted to the ceiling. No way to bypass those.
"Not too shabby, Vernon," I said. "I take it that's not your desk."
He shook his head and puckered his lips like he wanted to spit at the messy workstation. "I don't spend any time there, no." Then he shot a look at Miles, who immediately went to work cleaning off the desk.
"So what's the plan?" I asked.
Vernon started a pot of coffee and ignored my question. I waited a few moments, and then asked again.
"Why don't you let me worry about that," he said.
"You didn't wake us up in the middle of the night, then drag us out to the desert, then back here for nothing. Let's get to it. Get this shit over with."
"This shit," he said, "as you put it, has to do with the murder of two of our town's oldest, finest, and most-respected and beloved residents. They were among the original citizens who built this place from the dirt up. I'm telling you right now, we'll take as long as we need to get this figured out. So why don't you get nice and cozy and keep your damn mouth shut until I ask you a question."
"You think I don't realize what happened?" I said. "I found them, man. I saw that poor old woman shot through the head only a short time after I found her crying, afraid that something was going to happen to them. So why don't you quit dicking around, ask us what you gotta ask us, then get to searching for the bastards who did this."
Vernon lunged at me, put one hand on my throat and hit me in the stomach with the other. It might've been a small town, but he was still a cop. Even with the cameras in the room, I knew that striking back wasn't an option. They could spin it anyway they wanted. Hell, the system would have most likely malfunctioned at that moment. At least, according to them. And no one would second-guess them. For the next few seconds I countered his moves. Blocked his second punch, a wild haymaker aimed at my face. I broke his chokehold and arm barred him to prevent him from going after my neck again. Every move was defensive.
Miles jumped on Vernon's back and pulled him away. Reese placed herself between us to keep me from going after Vernon, and stopping him from lashing out again.
"Christ," she said. "The hell is wrong with you two?"
"I'm tired of being jerked around," I said. "I know you are, too. And look at this bastard. I say what he needs to hear and he jumps on me. Son of a bitch. You're lucky we're in here, Vernon, and not back in the middle of nowhere."
"We can easily go back, boy," he said.
"That's enough." Reese put her arm across my chest and pushed me back to the wall. She lowered her voice a few decibels. "Jack, come on. You're only going to make it worse acting like this. Let them do their thing. Once they question us, they'll have to let us go. They have nothing on us."
"They're wasting time," I said. "You know it. We should all be out there looking for who did this."
"All of a sudden you're invested in this town?"
"I couldn't care less about this town. But I care that an old woman tried to tell me something was wrong and I missed it. Christ, I ignored it. I could've stopped this." I pulled away from her grasp and wrapped my hands around the back of my head.
She took a step back. Her eyes wavered left and right, then focused on mine. "How?"
Chapter 24
I didn't have it figured out. Not entirely, at least. Everything pointed to Darrow and his men. But it was all a secret. People told me to hang back, not get involved. In what, though? I could speculate all day, but with no firsthand knowledge as to what these guys were into, I couldn't find the link between them and the murder. They disliked me, which would have been a solid reason to take me out. Perhaps that's why they went to the house. Herbie and Ingrid got in the way. Collateral damage. That explanation was too easy, and I had a feeling the real reason was far more insidious. They were the intended targets. Herbie and Ingrid had built the town from the dirt up. Darrow and his men threatened the foundation of the place. They weren't going to take it any longer. Maybe that's why Herbie took a chance on a guy stranded on the side of the road. Perhaps he thought I could lend a hand. In the end, they paid for their convictions with their lives.
"Jack?" Reese said.
I looked past her at the two cops standing near the far wall. Vernon's beet-red face and heavy breathing told me he hadn't settled down yet. Miles shuffled foot-to-foot and fidgeted with his holster. Looked like a kid who couldn't hold his piss any longer.
"Jack?" She backhanded me across the chest.
"Not now," I said. "We'll talk about it when we're out of here." I leaned in closer, whispered, "And I need you to answer my questions one hundred percent truthfully. Got it?"
She nodded, said nothing.
"Vernon," I said. "I apologize. I got upset and lashed out. It won't happen again."
So long as the bastard didn't make another move against me.
Miles attempted to take on the role of peacemaker. He stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Hey, it's OK, man. As long as we can sit down and talk about this like—"
"Jesus, Miles," Vernon said. "Shut the hell up and go pour everyone a cup of coffee."
Vernon unlocked the interrogation room and directed us inside. I'd thought he'd split us up, attempt to find holes in our story. I'd assumed wrong. We talked for an hour, going over the details four or
five times. Then he asked me to recount my last conversation with Ingrid, when I'd found her crying. I managed to do so almost word for word, emphasizing that she wanted me to leave, that she felt like she was in danger. And then how she insisted I stay. Figured she felt as though she owed it to me to keep her husband's promise.
"That's the kind of people they were." Vernon wiped the stained edge of his mug, took another sip. His gaze lifted up to the wall or ceiling behind me. He stared there for a minute, smiled. "She used to watch me when I was a little boy. Man, I thought she was the best thing ever back then. Hell, I thought that for a long time, matter of fact. Wasn't until I matured and found my wife that I really appreciated Ingrid, though. She was there for us, time after time, helping out with my little ones. Helping my wife through horrible bouts of postpartum depression. You see, my wife got it bad with kids two and three. I thought she wasn't going to make it at one point."
There was a brief pause when Miles stepped into the room.
"Ingrid gave so much to everyone she met," Vernon said. "Even the assholes in this town. See, that's why this makes no damn sense, and that's why it's so easy for all of us to point the finger at you, Jack, because no one has anything to gain by killing Ingrid and Herbie. I swear, the only logical explanation is that some psychopath did it so he could get off."
The room fell silent for several minutes while Vernon presumably meandered through his memories of Ingrid. His eyes went misty, and he looked down at the table. I understood how he felt. I'd been there myself. But, damn, to think the only possible conclusion was that I was a psychopath.
"All right." Vernon slapped the table. "Let's get back to it. Start from the beginning, when you broke down outside town."
I went over everything one more time, meeting Herbie, the bar, and the encounter with Linus and his large friend. I told him again about the fight at the garage, and the older man in the pickup truck. He confirmed that was Darrow. I paused there, waiting for Vernon to add something else about the guy. He didn't. I recounted Ingrid's last conversation with me, the clues I missed. And finally, I told him how we found the bodies. He seemed deflated when I'd finished. Perhaps he expected me to slip up somewhere, get some detail wrong, something he could pin on me.