Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  “Thought I’d talk to him today,” she said. “I’m headed out there now.”

  “You know where you’re going?”

  “More or less.” Which was a crock. She had a vague idea based on a conversation with the manager at Big Pines.

  Ingram shook his head. “Outta-towner like you, you’re liable to get lost.”

  “I’ll be fine.” She moved toward her door, but he didn’t budge.

  “You should let me take you,” he said.

  “Not necessary.”

  “Trust me on this, Agent.”

  She started to bite his head off, then stopped herself. Why was she turning down help? Besides the fact that she hated accepting it from a redneck good old boy?

  But he was right in pointing out that she didn’t actually know where she was going. His coming along would save her time, if nothing else.

  “Fine,” she said. “You can navigate.”

  He gave an approving nod. “We’ll take my truck.”

  “I’d rather drive.”

  “And I’d rather be in a county vehicle.” He moved for his pickup.

  “Why?”

  “Because.” He looked at her over the hood. “Less chance we’ll get shot.”

  THE SHIMMERY GREEN beauty of forest was marred by the scourge of meth. They bumped along in the sheriff’s pickup on a road that was new to Tara, but lined with some of the same eyesores she’d seen on the route she’d taken the first night: boarded-up houses, rusted car hulls, smoke-blackened trailers.

  “It started with the house fires,” Ingram said, talking around a wad of chewing tobacco. “We got a string of calls, one week after another. At first the fire department didn’t know what all was going on, but they figured it out pretty quick.”

  The road curved east, and the trailers disappeared. Clusters of mailboxes marked dusty turnoffs where modest houses were tucked behind the trees.

  “When was this?” Tara asked.

  He tapped his thumb on the wheel and seemed to think about it. “Back when some of the paper mills started shutting down. I guess late nineties? I was a deputy back then, Roy Mooring was sheriff.”

  She looked at him. “Any relation to Wyatt Mooring, the federal judge?”

  “First cousins, I think. Anyway, old Roy started making noise about all the problems around here. Him and some other sheriffs got on the task force the DEA was putting together. They went to Quantico, got all trained up, came back down and started doing raids everywhere. Cleared out some of the trash. But then after the new recession, things started back again, worse than before.”

  Tara looked out the window at the tangle of woods. “We’ve got it down in Houston, too. It’s a cheap high, and times are lean for a lot of people.”

  “Yeah, but up here it’s cultural.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Goes back decades. Some of these families, they come from bootleggers. Prohibition made criminals out of a lot of people around here, even churchgoing folks. It created what you might call a contempt for the law. All these years later that’s still around.”

  Tara watched him talk, somewhat surprised that they seemed to be engaged in an actual conversation. In his truck with a spittoon at his elbow, the sheriff seemed perfectly at ease chatting with a female investigator. A federal one at that.

  “So, back then it was homemade booze,” she said, “and now it’s homemade speed.”

  “That’s about the size of it.” He glanced at her. “Although I have to say, the speed’s a lot worse.”

  “I know.”

  “You see signs of it everywhere. Dumped cooking containers and ingredients all over the place. Sheds, car trunks, creek beds. Hell, last year Jason got a call out after some kids found a stash buried behind the elementary school. People call up the office all the time, tell about some neighbor who’s cooking up meth. It’s gotten better these last few years, but still.”

  “Is the task force still active?” Tara asked.

  “Last year they shut down about twenty labs in this county. And now we got a hotline for people to call in.”

  They jostled over ruts, and Tara glanced around. She hadn’t seen a house or a trailer in a while, and they seemed to be getting farther away from civilization, not to mention paved roads.

  “The task force is helping, but it’s still a big problem,” Ingram continued. “Filling up our jails, our dockets. I’ve seen it eat up whole families. Seems like everyone’s got someone they know that’s on it if they’re not on it themselves.”

  “Joe Giroux?”

  “Ah, probably not him.” Ingram smiled. “White lightning’s more his specialty. Although never say never. That’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, no one’s immune. I’ve seen grandmothers on the stuff.”

  They dipped over a low-water crossing, and Tara glanced around at the thicket. The sheriff had been right. She never would have found this place on her own, despite having directions.

  “Speaking of,” Ingram said. “You know, Joe, he’s a little rough under the collar.”

  “I figured. What’s he do officially?”

  “Officially? I’m not sure anymore. And I doubt you could find it on any tax return. I know he dropped trees for about twenty years before he got laid off. Now he mostly lives off the land.”

  “Liam Wolfe’s land,” Tara said, just to see if she could get Ingram’s take on it. She still thought it odd that Liam let someone squat on his property.

  “He’s lived here forever,” Ingram said, as if that explained it. “Been through floods and droughts. Old guy’s tough as a boot. I don’t know what all he does now. Probably keeps the raccoon population down.”

  He swerved off the road, and Tara braced her hand against the dash as he stopped abruptly.

  “Here we are.”

  She glanced around and didn’t see a hint of human habitation, not even a fence post.

  Icy fear slithered down her spine, and she looked at the sheriff.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Where is ‘here,’ exactly?” she asked, sliding her right hand under the windbreaker she’d foolishly zipped over her holster.

  “Joe’s.” Ingram shoved open his door. “This is where the road runs out.”

  He hopped out, and Tara watched him, changing her mind again about whether this joint expedition was a good idea.

  Liam’s words came back to her about warning signals. She’d been lulled into comfort by friendly conversation and a warm truck cab. Be in the moment, every moment. She darted her gaze around and unzipped her jacket to provide easier access to her weapon.

  Where the hell were they?

  Tara saw no sign of a house or a cabin, let alone a person. She slipped her phone from her pocket and checked the bars. Reception looked okay, at least.

  “You coming?” Ingram called out.

  “Yeah.”

  He waited a second, frowning, and then turned his back on her and tromped into the woods.

  Tara surveyed the area. Her gaze landed on something jutting out from the trees—a truck bed. It was an old blue-and-white Chevy pickup, as Liam had described.

  She got out, tucking her hand under her jacket and resting it on her gun. If Ingram thought it was an odd way to walk around, she didn’t give a damn. As a backup measure, she dialed M.J. No answer, but she left a long message in a voice loud enough for Ingram to hear as she followed him down a path.

  “. . . So that’s my update. I’m here with the sheriff off Tupelo Road, interviewing Joe Giroux. Call you when I’m done.”

  Ingram seemed too distracted to notice her conversation as he picked his way through some mulberry trees. “It gets swampy back here,” he called over his shoulder. “That’s why he parks there by the road.”

  Before coming out here, Ingram had stopped by the motel so Tara could change clothes, and now she was glad she’d traded her business attire for jeans and all-terrain boots. As she walked past the Chevy, the pine trees gave way to sycamores and swamp hickor
ies, and the red-clay soil of the forest turned to gray sludge that sucked at her feet.

  Through the trees she caught a glimpse of something wooden. Too small to be a cabin of any kind.

  She stopped in her tracks. It was an outhouse. Complete with the crescent-moon cutout for a window.

  “No electric out here. Or running water,” Ingram said.

  “I can see that.”

  A squeak of metal had Tara turning. Through some scrub bushes she saw a somewhat larger wooden structure. A short, stocky man with a long gray beard stood in the doorway.

  “What y’all want?” he yelled.

  “Hey there, Joe.” Ingram held up a hand in greeting. “Give us a minute, would you? We got some business to talk about.”

  Joe scowled at the sheriff, then turned and spit a stream of tobacco juice at the ground. There was indeed something bootlike about him, and it wasn’t just his leathery skin. His brown-eyed gaze homed in on Tara. “Who’re you?”

  “Tara Rushing.” She walked over and shook his hand. It was dry and callused. “I’m one of the investigators looking into the recent murders in the area.”

  “That right?” He squinted up at her.

  He wore a canvas jacket over dirty jeans and chunky black boots caked with mud. A layer of brown grit covered him, gathering in the wrinkles around his eyes. Tara guessed him to be five-one, one-twenty, and he seemed accustomed to squinting up at people from beneath the brim of his faded Astros cap. It was the old team logo, from back in the Nolan Ryan days.

  Ingram stepped over. “You heard about the bodies dumped out here.”

  Tara shot him a look. Not women or even victims but bodies.

  “What about ’em?”

  “We’re talking to people who live in the area,” Tara said. “I just have a few questions.”

  He swished his chaw a moment and seemed to consider it. Then he looked her in the eye. “Y’all come on in.” He turned around and disappeared into the cabin.

  Tara gestured for the sheriff to go in first, and he did, ducking his head under the low doorframe.

  It was a one-room structure made of roughly hewn logs, not much warmer than the air outside. The place had a dirt floor. At a glance, Tara estimated it was two hundred square feet, the size of her studio apartment when she’d been a rookie with Houston PD.

  A camping lantern hung from a pole in the center. In a corner was a wooden table with a bench tucked under it. In the opposite corner was a narrow cot. The place smelled like bacon and . . . something chemical. She glanced around and spotted a plastic clothes rack, the sort some women used to dry lingerie. This one was draped with animal hides.

  “Got you some squirrels, looks like,” Ingram said.

  “Skinny ones.” Joe picked up a wooden stool and set it down beside Tara. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Thank you.” She wasn’t ready to sit yet, so she nodded at a set of antlers mounted on the wall. “Nice buck. Is that a twelve-pointer?”

  “Fourteen.” Joe’s voice was tinged with pride. “Got him by Flathead Creek down near the dam. Last buck I’ll ever shoot.”

  “Why’s that?” Ingram asked.

  “Reached the age. Had my fill of killing things.” He looked at Tara. “Nothin’ against hunters, though.”

  She nodded, wondering at the recently tanned animal skins.

  Ingram lowered himself onto the picnic bench as Joe dragged over an old ice chest and sat down. Tara took the stool. Her anxiety was lessening now that this seemed to be evolving into a normal interview—as normal as possible given that their host was a cranky survivalist who lived in a swamp.

  Joe peeled his hat off and took out a can of Skoal. “What’s your questions?” He looked directly at Tara instead of Ingram.

  “How long have you been living out here?” she asked.

  “Forty-three years.”

  “And have you always lived alone?”

  “Yep.”

  “Joe, you seen anyone around lately?” Ingram asked. “Anyone who didn’t belong?”

  He slid the sheriff a look. “Besides y’all?”

  “Yeah.”

  He dug out a lump of tobacco with his finger and tucked it under his lip. “No.”

  “What about poachers?” Ingram asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How about tracks of poachers?” Tara asked. “Or any tracks that looked out of place to you? Even as far back as, say, September or October?”

  “Nope.”

  Tara watched him. In the lamplight she noticed the threads of silver in his dark gray beard.

  She scooted forward on her stool. “Okay, let’s talk about more recently. Anything suspicious happen?”

  “Not until all you cops showed up—last Thursday, I think it was, when they found that dead gal out there.”

  “You don’t remember anyone unusual before that?” Tara asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure, Joe? Think it over, now.”

  “What about vehicles or noises?” Tara asked.

  Joe looked at her. “Well, now that you mention it. A while back I saw a truck what didn’t belong.”

  “What kind of truck?” Tara asked, thinking about the tire tracks.

  “Black Chevy pickup.”

  Ingram looked at her. “Wolfe drives a truck like that.”

  Joe shook his head. “No, this one was black head to toe. Nothing shiny anywhere, even the wheel caps.”

  Tara watched him, soaking up the details. Cops called that kind of paint job murdered out. It was flat and black and dead-looking.

  “When was this?” Tara asked. Her fingers itched to start taking notes, but she worried he’d clam up.

  He sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. “First time . . . it was back before that last blue norther. When was that?”

  Ingram frowned. “Early October, maybe?”

  Tara leaned closer, getting excited. “You saw it more than once?” she asked.

  “Couple times. In November, too. Few times lately.” He picked up a coffee can and spit tobacco juice into it. “He was through here the other morning. Thursday. I was checking my traps.”

  “Thursday morning? You’re sure?” Tara asked.

  “I remember ’cause it was right around sunup. Most folks ain’t out yet.”

  Tara glanced at Ingram.

  “And you’re sure it was a Chevy?” he asked.

  “Two thousand five or thereabouts. Regular cab.”

  “You get a look at the driver?” Tara asked.

  “Nope.”

  “How about the folks around here, up and down Tupelo Road?” Ingram asked. “Anyone drive a truck like that?”

  “Nope.”

  Tara looked at the sheriff, and she could tell he was excited, too. The timing fit.

  Ingram leaned closer. “Listen, Joe, this truck may be important. If you see him again, you give us a call.”

  Joe spit into the coffee can. “Sure would if I had a phone.”

  INGRAM GOT BACK on the road but turned in the opposite direction from the route they’d taken before.

  “Keep going down this way, you’ll get to the fork,” he said. “That’s where they found the tire tracks off-road, by the path leading to the dump site.”

  Tara stared out the window, taking in details. Dense tree cover obscured much of the sun. She rested her elbow on the door.

  Ingram looked at her. “What’d you think of Joe?”

  “His memory seems a little spotty, but it might be a good lead.”

  “Maybe. Black pickups are a dime a dozen, but a paint job like that narrows it down some.”

  Tara looked at the mailboxes along the road. They were starting to get to a more inhabited area. Through the trees she saw a few double-wide trailers. They passed a house with several battered-looking pickups out front. Tin foil covered the windows. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence with a sign tacked to it: BEWARE OF DOG.

  “Here’s the turn,” Ingram said, tapping the brak
es.

  “Pull over where they found the tire track.”

  Ingram shot her a look.

  “Please.”

  He turned off the road and drove a short distance, then stopped and shifted into park. Tara climbed out. She’d been here once before, but it was during the dead of night. She and M.J. had stood in the drizzle and watched a pair of CSIs crouched beneath a tarp, hurrying to get a plaster cast of the tire impression.

  “It’s gone now,” Tara observed.

  “What’s that?”

  “The tire track.”

  “Well, we’ve had some good rain.”

  Tara walked off the road into the nearby trees. She glanced up at the leafy green canopy. The air smelled of pinesap, and the staccato tap of a woodpecker echoed through the forest.

  “It’s pretty here.”

  Ingram frowned.

  She picked her way deeper into the woods. Her gaze caught on something white flapping in the breeze. “Is that—”

  “Just a clothesline.”

  Tara looked at him. “There’s a house back here?”

  “Jason was there already.”

  “That wasn’t in his report.”

  “She said she didn’t see anything.”

  “She?”

  He sighed heavily. “It’s a woman and her kid. Becky Lee Bower. She’s been in and out of the system, not the most reliable witness you ever come across.”

  “Why was she in the system?”

  “She was in a meth house we raided back last fall. We collared up six people. The judge let her off with probation so she could keep her kid.”

  Tara walked through the trees until the structure came into view. It was a small shotgun house, pier-and-beam foundation, chipping white paint.

  “Where you going?” Ingram called after her.

  Tara ducked under the clothesline, and barks erupted inside the house. The screen door rattled as a big black dog scraped frantically with his paws.

  “Earl! Get back here!”

  A woman dragged the dog away. She looked gray behind the screen.

  “Can I help you?” she called out. The friendly words didn’t match her blatantly suspicious tone.