Fatal Intuition

by Makenzi Fisk

  “No, she doesn’t,” Jimmy hissed.

  Sophie punched a feisty eleven-year-old fist into her palm. “Yes, she does. She’s been learning it from the internet. Last week, she kicked a board right off the backyard fence.”

  “I hope she can.” Allie turned down the hidden driveway to Erin’s parents’ house on the river.

  “And she has a knife like yours, Auntie Allie. She got it for summer camp, remember?”

  Optimism thawed cold fear. Victoria was smart. She was resourceful and she might take her abductors off guard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “You better not be lying to me, Armand.” Derek swished a mouthful of whiskey through his teeth and set the bottle on the hood of the delinquent rental car.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, man. You said to call if I heard anything, so I’m calling. I don’t think it’s in my best interest to have you come and visit me in person again.” Even on the phone, Armand was a weasel.

  “I’m positive it was Tiffany’s kid. She used to peek through my curtains all the time when Tiff was over. She’s grown up some, but looks pretty much the same. Same skinny ass, same blonde hair, same eyes.” There was a pause. “Same weird green color as yours.” He snorted. “You’re the baby daddy, ain’t ya?”

  Derek would have Armand’s weasel throat in his fist if he was there right now. “What did she want? Was she looking for her mother?”

  “Naw, didn’t mention a thing about her. All she wanted was something to get high.”

  “Did you sell her goddamn drugs?”

  “Course not, man. I’d never…”

  “If this is bullshit, the next time I come over will be your last.”

  “Maybe I gave her some ADD shit for her and her boyfriend. Nothin’ real serious. They make that for kids. It’s totally safe.”

  “You’re a freaking circus act, Armand. I suggest you consider moving out of Morley Falls. That’s my kind advice to you, for your own good.” Derek disconnected. Boyfriend. Lily had a boyfriend. She never did drugs before. A little beer once in a while was no big deal, but this was different. The boyfriend was a bad influence on his daughter. It was all the goddamn boyfriend’s fault.

  He picked up the whiskey bottle and heaved it at the nearest tree, regretting it the moment it smashed. Honey colored liquid drizzled into the grass and he closed his eyes until the crazy impulse to run over and lap it up subsided.

  He tossed his cell phone on the seat and shut the car door. The rental was smaller than his Mustang used to be, but easier to hide, and he’d edged it further into the bushes, where a casual observer would never spot it. He hoofed it along the back trail to the dead zone. Electronic devices were useless here in Gunther’s bog. The sun had come out and dried the trail enough so water didn’t slop over his shoes.

  At the edge of the clearing, he stopped dead in his tracks. He’d been enjoying the sensation of dry feet so much that he nearly missed the signs. The stillness of woodland animals, and the silence of the songbirds told him to be wary. He was not alone.

  A dark sedan with government plates parked in the driveway, and three people exited. He ducked behind a thicket, heart hammering in his chest. It was too far to make out who the people by the car were, but that blonde hair belonged to Erin Ericsson. She disappeared inside the shed with one while the other kept watch in the driveway.

  He wedged himself into a drainage pipe, sludge seeping through his clothes. If he twisted just right, he still had a decent view through the foliage screen of a wild columbine. A mental inventory of the shed’s contents filed through his mind. Had he left anything incriminating?

  His legs cramped and his neck muscles burned from the contorted angle by the time Ericsson stepped out with a handful of papers.

  Aw, shit. He’d forgotten about the police reports he’d paid for. The requestor’s badge number would be on them. He ground his teeth when she tucked them into her bag. Ernie, his last police ally, just got burned.

  As if the planets had misaligned to shit upon his day, Ernie chose that moment to show up in his cruiser. Beside him sat the department’s golden boy, Chris Zimmerman. Ericsson leaned down to whisper in Zimmerman’s open window and the news was out. To Zimmerman’s credit, he didn’t betray his knowledge by turning to gawk at Ernie. He gave a nod and got out of the car. Chauffeur Ernie stayed put, working on a report, or a crossword puzzle, or some damn thing.

  At least Ernie couldn't rat Derek out. He had no idea he was here, squeezed into a dirty pipe like a mole. He sucked air through his teeth. He was a better man than this. With elbows planted in front, he inched himself out and straightened his cricked spine. His back ached, his neck was in spasm and his knees trembled when he got his feet under him. At least upright he felt more like a man than a rodent.

  He hunkered behind a nearby dogwood and did his best to listen as words drifted over on the breeze. The first word he made out gripped his throat like an angry fist.

  “Schmidt. Lily Schmidt… Peterson is her father…” Ericsson had her back to him and the woman she was talking to must be FBI. “Might know where she is…”

  “In the swamp… Not on my map… Not another kid…” The agent was all angles and rough edges, the kind of female who looked right through his charm. Like fuckin’ Erin Ericsson did.

  Keeping to the trail left by Zimmerman’s boots, the male agent tiptoed through the weeds. Zimmerman kept his head down and Derek couldn’t make out a single word of their conversation. He guessed the prissy agent’s side of it went something like, “Slow down, I’m getting my shoes dirty. Are we going to be late for evening cocktails at the club?”

  It’s not that Derek had trouble with authority figures, he didn’t trust a man in a suit. A man without dirt under his fingernails had no business out here. A man with soft hands would never understand him.

  Zimmerman completed his circle around the shed and stepped toward the trail. He stopped and motioned to Ericsson who acknowledged him with a tip of her head, and leaned in to say something to the rough-edged female agent. Inside the car, sunlight glinted off a pair of binoculars in Ernie’s hands. Had the little bastard spotted him?

  Derek slowly turned and checked for an escape route. The path he knew best would take him to the old Johnson place. Sweat ran between his shoulder blades. He eased his weight onto the balls of his feet, ready to run for it, when the female agent suddenly broke away from Erin. She marched back to the car and got inside with the city boy in the suit.

  Erin walked to the bog. He held his breath when she planted the toe of her shoe on the plank and drew it back. As if she was finished testing the waters, she pivoted on her heel and strode with purpose toward the car.

  The planets had realigned and blessed him with a little luck. They were all leaving. He exhaled and slowly backed out of the bushes but worry nagged his subconscious. This was too easy. A branch snapped to his left and Derek’s heart plunged. Zimmerman.

  Erin exploded into action, sprinting straight for him. Dammit! Zimmerman sucked at clandestine work, but he was an excellent strategist. While Derek had been hiding like a child, and collecting prickly hitchhikers up his pant legs, Zimmerman had worked out the best way to snare a rabbit.

  The FBI agents exited the car and closed the noose. Sitting in his cruiser, as if caught picking his nose, Ernie raised his oblivious head.

  Derek made a run for it anyway. He didn’t get half a dozen steps before Erin blocked his escape route. He’d forgotten how fast she was.

  Well, if she wanted him, she’d have to work for it. Mud sucked against his shoes when he put his weight on the plank, and he shuffled sideways. He kept an eye on her when she skipped onto the end, nimble as a squirrel.

  It wobbled with the added weight and Derek extended his arms like a tight-rope walker. The tremors made his knees weak, his balance tenuous. His entire spinal column was a tower of blocks, haphazardly stacked by a toddler.

  Two more steps. Three. Out there was his sole clue to finding Tiffany
. The more he’d thought about it, the more he’d convinced himself that it was truly her purse in the mud. Who knew what clues it held? His legs threatened to send him headlong, and he fell miserably to his knees. The corner of that horseshoe buckle poked out, still out of reach. So close, yet a lifetime apart.

  “Derek.” Erin’s voice was soft when she spoke. “Don’t make this harder. Let’s talk.”

  The sheer misery of his situation hit him. “I didn’t kill Badger. I didn’t. I couldn’t have.”

  “Come on in and we’ll talk about it.”

  He wasn’t a crying man, but a hot tear defied him as it rolled down his cheek. “Aw, shit. Look at me.”

  She looked at the mangled skin where his ear used to be and shook her head. “All I see is a guy I went to school with a long time ago, having a rough time.”

  Unable to hold her clear blue gaze, he dropped his eyes. She extended her hand and he shuffled toward her. He had shitty luck. That was all. Just a helluva lot of unfortunate incidents. It could all be explained away. Erin reached out and he gripped her hand, her skin smooth under his calloused palm.

  He glanced back at the buckle. If he allowed himself to be taken in, would he ever get his answers? Would they believe him or would he wind up back in Stillwater? His body shook and the walls closed in on him. He tried to pull away but she held tight. She was stronger than she looked, but didn’t weigh enough to anchor him when he dove.

  Darkness overtook him. His body shuddered when he hit the mixture of mud and rotted organic matter that made up the black soup where the excavator had dug. He couldn’t breathe. This was the end. He imagined himself being dragged to hell by his ankles and tucked his arms in for the ride. He’d make such a tragic figure in the afterlife.

  * * *

  Erin released Derek’s hand when the plank began to tip. She wasn’t going in there with him. Last year, he might have completely submerged. It might have been a life-threatening situation. Now, with most of the water pumped out by misguided developers, it was a much denser goo. All Derek managed to do was wedge himself, headfirst, in the spongy muck. She tipped back and forth before she regained her balance enough to retreat to shore.

  Zimmerman shrugged his wide shoulders in the universal gesture of what the heck ? and stomped after Derek. He yanked him by the ankles, pulled him onto firmer ground and released him with a soggy thump.

  “Where am I?” Derek sputtered. He coughed brown water from his nostrils and struggled to sit up.

  Zimmerman ignored the squawk of his radio. “I’m about done dragging your hind end out of the mud, dumb ass. Every time I see you, I’m knee deep in the loon shit with you.” Zimmerman brushed clumps of muck from his trousers and frowned at his ruined boots.

  Lockwood joined them. “Messy, but effective, technique.”

  Derek rubbed mud from his eyes and squinted up at her. His entire body vibrated with the shakes, like an alcoholic going into DTs. “You look like an angel.”

  “It’s not the first time I’ve been told that.” Lockwood purred in her gravelly voice. “So, you’re the guy causing all the ruckus? Go figure.”

  Gonzales grinned at Erin and she stifled the urge to smile back. Delirium tremens, potentially fatal, were no laughing matter, if that’s what this was. For all she knew, he had low blood sugar. Either way, Derek needed medical attention before they could have a coherent conversation with him.

  She shot a glance toward Ernie, who silently watched from the driveway. By now, he’d probably figured out that he was in trouble. He was probably calculating how much cash he had in savings and if that would last until he got another job.

  Zimmerman’s radio squawked again and this time he thumbed the mike. “Busy here. One in custody. Can I get back to you?”

  “Why don’t they text you or something?” Gonzales mumbled.

  “No service.” Zimmerman clipped the radio back onto his duty belt. “Our radio repeater gives us coverage as far as this point, but not out there.” He vaguely pointed to the miles of dense bush.

  “Oh. I figured my GPS was glitchy.”

  “Officer Jenssen!” Zimmerman called, and Ernie’s posture snapped erect. No one used his real name unless it was serious. “Bring the blanket from the car.” Ernie bolted up to the driveway to do his bidding.

  “I’ll cut a couple of poles,” Erin knew exactly what he needed. “We’ll haul him out with a travois.”

  “And it’ll keep him warm.” Lockwood nodded her approval. Before she’d joined The Bureau, her bio included a number of years on San Diego PD’s Harbor Patrol Unit. No doubt, she knew how fast someone could get chilled if they were wet. Stress and alcohol abuse compounded it.

  “We need to be able to talk to him as soon as possible.” Erin helped fashion a makeshift stretcher and secured it around the poles with cable ties before they loaded Derek.

  Zimmerman’s radio squealed unintelligible words, and then the dispatcher used plain speak. Ten codes were becoming more and more a thing of the past anyhow.

  “Sarge, I really need you to get back to me on this. It’s important.”

  “Fine,” Zimmerman yanked the radio from his belt. “Go ahead, but be advised that I’ve got company.”

  “Boss wanted me to let you know right away. A lawyer’s down here with a prison guard from Stillwater. Uh, Deputy Chief is with them now. The guard has just confessed to the Lewis murder.”

  Lockwood cocked her head. “This place gets stranger and stranger.” She hoisted the travois. “Let’s get him up to dry ground so medics can have a look at him. Maybe then we can get some answers on the whereabouts of our fugitives, and your missing niece.”

  “Wasn’t me,” Derek moaned. He rolled to his side and extended his hand toward an unreachable spot somewhere at the end of the wooden plank. “Tiffany…”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Slow down, you little shit.” I stop filming and put my phone away. I know what that kid is up to. T has her on a leash, using his belt and a piece of rope from the truck, but she’s stretched it to its limit up ahead. With his messed up knee, she probably figures she can get him off balance and do a runner, but I’m onto her. At the sound of my voice, she turns her blonde head and the rope sags between them.

  “How long is this gonna take? I thought you said this place was nice, not a hut in the swamp.” T’s face is flushed and he’s panting like a dog. “I gotta sit down.”

  Sweat rolling down the back of his neck reminds me of the greasy plumber back in juvy. The toilets backed up every second day, with some kid or another plugging them, and you’d be amazed how much crap he hauled out. Toothbrushes, bars of soap, underwear, you name it. Watching that sweat roll down, I can still smell it.

  “It’s not in the swamp, but we have to get past it to get to my place.” I don’t want to think about the sweaty plumber, or the stink of the backed up toilets. “What’s your real name? Tell me.”

  “Call me T.”

  “I’ll tell you about the first time I killed someone.” I pull the gun from my waistband and turn it over in my hand.

  His head comes up.

  “All the gory details.” I’ve hooked him.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Swear to God.”

  He sighs and looks at his shoes. “T is short for Trenton Leslie Madison.”

  “Those are girl names.”

  “No, they’re not. They’re family names.”

  “For girls.” I knew he must have had a rough time in juvy because he was a skinner, but a skinner with girls’ names? He would have had to hide every single day. How did I not know he was a pedophile before? “No wonder you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “Now you tell me .”

  “I stepped on a bug when I was three.” I slide the revolver back into my pants. I am not telling him about my mother. I’m not telling anybody.

  “Aw, please, sugar-baby.”

  “Let’s go.” I turn to leave.

  “I’m not going any further un
til you tell me the real story.”

  “Come on, T. It’s not that much farther. All you’re gonna do if we sit here is feed the skeeters. Keep moving.”

  He grinds the crust of blood off his nose with his fist and glares at me. “You’re always telling me what to do. If I say I’m taking a break, I’m taking a goddamn break.” He plunks down on a rotted stump and gingerly stretches his knee. It’s fatter than the last time, all knobby under his jeans. “Where are we going? What if they come for her?” He juts his chin at the kid who’s crouched in the grass as far from him as she can get.

  I tug the rope to make her waddle closer, and she turns her back when he gawks at her as if he’s got x-ray vision.

  “Fine, you big pussy.” I toss him a beer and explain it like I’m talking to a baby. “I told you. I’ve got a place on the river. It’s all mine.” I promised him heaven on earth, and a place of our own at my bog, but I need to scout it out first. Make sure no one else is there. Besides, the shack is good too. A home away from home. No one would hear a scream for ten miles.

  The kid shifts her weight and slowly glances at the grip of the revolver sticking out of my pants. She’s planning something. I can’t believe I didn’t see the resemblance the second T pointed her out on the side of the road. She’s Erin Ericsson’s niece, of course she’s planning something. The excitement of that knowledge wiggles in my belly like a tadpole, all eager to sprout legs and break free. Something’s about to happen, and it’ll be wild.

  A twig snaps somewhere and a bird flashes by. “Goddamn whiskeyjack!” I holler, tossing a stick after it. It hops from branch to branch, challenging me. I throw another stick, but it dodges at the last second and yaks at me.

  The kid gets to her feet and stares up. “Priya? Is that you?”