Devil's Cut

by J. R. Ward

  "See, Edward lied to the police. He hurt his ankle right in front of me."

  "I'm not following, I'm sorry?"

  "Remember when he told the police that he'd hurt his ankle down by the river when he was movin' the...ah, the remains? He said that he had to call the doctor 'cuz he hurt hisself then--but that wasn't what happened. I called Dr. Qalbi because Edward fell downstairs here in the barn before the murder. I was there, and I had to help him back to the cottage."

  Lane took a sip from the glass just to give himself something to do. "But couldn't he have hurt the ankle again? Down by the river that night?"

  "But he was walking just fine when I read about the death in the paper. And again, I know when that doctor came out because I was the one who phoned him. Edward hurt himself after the killing."

  As Lane's mind raced, he blinked. A couple of times. "I, ah, so, this is a surprise."

  Was Edward lying to protect someone? Or was Shelby's timeline off?

  "There's another thing that don't make no sense," the woman interjected. "That truck Edward said he took to Easterly and put the body into? The winch was broke--the one he told them he used to get your all's pappy up onto the bed, it's broke."

  Lane got to his feet and paced around, ending up in the cold blast coming from the AC unit. He thought back to everything that Edward had said to Detective Merrimack and the other policemen...and also the evidence the CMPD had on him, namely, that he had destroyed the footage from the cameras on Easterly's garage side from that night. If only there was--

  He pivoted back to his hostess. "Shelby, are there security cameras here on the property?"

  "Yessir. And I asked Moe how to work them. There's a computer in the downstairs office that runs it all, and that was the next thing I was gonna tell you."

  "Did the police ask to see anything? Any footage, I mean, from here."

  "Not that I know of."

  What the hell, Lane thought. Then again, the CMPD was short-staffed and they had a confession along with evidence of Edward's having tampered with the security monitoring files. Why would they need to go any further?

  "Can you take me to the office?"

  Ten minutes later, he was seated at a beat-up pine desk in a room that was about the size of a shoe box. The laptop was new, though, and the camera system was easily navigated, the six zones offering images of the entrance gates, each of the three barns, both front and back, and the two other exits on the farm. There was nothing on the caretaker's cottage; then again, the value of the enterprise was in the horse flesh, not anything inside that little house.

  "He didn't leave the premises," Shelby said as she leaned back against the rough wall. "I checked the footage. The night that the newspapers say that your pappy was...he died? Edward dint leave this farm. There ain't no camera on the cottage, but that truck he says he used? It was parked behind this barn all night. And no one came in or left in any other kinda vehicle."

  Lane sat back in the chair. "Well...shit."

  Shelby cleared her throat. "No offense, Mr. Baldwine, but I don't care for cussing."

  --

  It took almost two hours to go through all the files thoroughly, and in the end, Lane agreed with Shelby's assessment. That truck with the winch that was evidently broken had stayed put behind Barn B all night long. And there were no comings or goings of any other cars or trucks. No one even walked around the property.

  What was he missing, though? He wanted to get all excited, but the cottage wasn't on a camera feed. Edward could have...oh, hell, he didn't know.

  "Thank you," Lane said as he took out the USB drive that he'd saved all the files on.

  "Your brother ain't no murderer." Shelby shook her head. "I don't know what happened between him and your all's pappy, but he didn't kill that man."

  "I hope you're right." Lane got to his feet and cracked his neck. "Regardless, I'm going to take this to the right place and we're going to get to the bottom of it."

  "He's a good man, your brother."

  Lane had an urge to hug the young woman, and he gave into it, wrapping his arms around her quick. "I'm going to take care of this."

  "Your brother gave me a job when I dint have anywhere to go. I owe him--even though he'll not be appreciatin' how I'm paying him back like this. But I gotta do what's right."

  "Amen to that."

  On the way back to Easterly, Lane tried Lizzie's cell phone again. Twice. When he got voicemail both times, he cursed and would have texted her something, but he was driving and decided a car wreck was not going to help any one of the nightmares he was stuck in.

  He was about a mile away from home, heading along River Road in the direction of Charlemont's downtown, when the shore made a turn and he could look up at his family's estate on its hill. In the gloaming, the great white house was bathed in the last of daylight, as if it were being illuminated for a movie shoot.

  Quite an impression, even to the jaded, and it was clear why one of his ancestors, he wasn't sure which, had decided to take that famous pen-and-ink drawing of Easterly and slap it on the front of every bottle of No. 15.

  The best of the best. No compromises, no exceptions.

  Would they even have a bourbon company after all this?

  Instead of tangling with the press who were at the main gates, Lane took an early left onto the service and staff road that ran up the back of the estate's acreage. As he passed by the greenhouses where Lizzie and Greta cultivated plant material for the gardens and the terraces, he pictured his woman in and among the ivy sprouts and the flowers and the nascent shrubs, happily doing the job she loved. And then there were the fields that would be planted with corn and other crops soon. She loved being out on a tractor or a mower in the fresh air.

  His outdoor tom girl. Whom his momma had approved of.

  As a hot spear of pain shafted his heart, he focused on the lineup of 1950s-era houses that were cookie-cutter close in style and now, following the dismissal of the staff, all abandoned--except for Gary McAdams's cottage and then the one his brother was staying in.

  As Max's motorcycle was gone, it was clear he wasn't around, and hopefully, the reckless bastard wasn't getting arrested.

  One Baldwine behind bars was more than sufficient.

  Easterly's service and delivery area was concentrated in the broad gravel courtyard in the back of the house, a sprawling vacant expanse which was bracketed on one side by the ten-car garage and the other by the business center. Lane parked the Phantom undercover in its slot and then walked over to the lineup of cars sitting grille-first against the converted stables. Miss Aurora's red Mercedes was showing a fine covering of dust and pollen that had been pockmarked by raindrops, and Lizzie's truck had a bed full of mulch. Gone were the Lexuses and the Audis of the senior executives who had worked on site with his father--and good riddance.

  Lane pivoted and looked at the back kitchen door. Then he glanced up to the security camera mounted under the eaves.

  What if Edward hadn't done it, but was covering for someone else?

  Then there was only one other person it could be. And unfortunately, that suspect wasn't much more reassuring, on a family scale, than the one who was currently putting his feet up in jail.

  Taking out his phone, Lane bit the bullet.

  And called Detective Merrimack.

  As the phone started to ring through the connection, Lane had to wonder if he was going to get one of his brothers out of prison...just so he could put the other one in it.

  The best thing about doing eighty on a motorcycle was the blur in your peripheral vision. Everything took on a comforting haze, the landscape becoming only stripes of color: gray for the pavement, green for the shoulders of the road, velvet purple and blue for the twilighting sky overhead. And then there was also the heaven of the physical demands of controlling the bike. Leaning into the curves of the farm road, crossing the yellow line to get a better pull around tight corners, curling over the tank like it was an extension of your body...you
could almost believe you'd left your demons behind.

  You could almost believe that you found peace.

  Maxwell Baldwine knew by the gathering darkness that it had to be about eight thirty, but he didn't care about the time. He was going to stay out all night. Find a bar, find a woman or two, get drunk, and wake up somewhere he didn't recognize.

  In the three years since he'd been gone from Kentucky, he had seen more of the country than he had learned about at that fancy private school he and his brothers and sister had gone to in town. More even than from his four years at Yale. On his travels, he had been through the high and dry of Colorado, the low and humid of Louisiana, the flat and monotonous of Kansas, the salted humidity of California, and the drenching gray of Washington State.

  He couldn't say he had found a home anywhere in his explorations. But that didn't mean he had one here in Charlemont.

  Easterly was precisely that which he had been, and was still, trying to get rid of. And as he had traveled, with no goals or itinerary, he had been hoping that with each mile on the road, with every rootless week spent somewhere new and different, through all the odd jobs and strange people he'd done and met, he could somehow shed his ties to that mansion and all the people under its roof.

  And yes, in his bid for personal peace, he had been prepared to let his relationships with his siblings go, leaving Edward, Lane, and Gin as collateral damage in the war to reclaim himself.

  Or maybe it was more like to find himself in the first place.

  In the end, however, he had been forced to recognize that everywhere he went, there he was--and the reality was that he could no more change what he had learned before he had left than he could alter his own flesh.

  Destiny was a bitch with a bad sense of humor--

  The sudden sound of a siren behind him was harmonized by a pair of screeching tires that he heard even over the din of his bike.

  With a curse, he straightened and looked behind himself.

  The Ogden County cop car was jumping out from behind a stand of trees, its joe-blow suspension causing it to lurch like a drunk as the officer at the wheel punched the accelerator.

  "Motherfucker."

  Max doubled down on his tuck and cranked his grip on the accelerator, sending the Harley to light-speed. The fact that the sunset's glow was draining from the sky helped as most cars and trucks were going to have their headlights on--so he was likely to see them.

  Hopefully see them.

  Like all adrenaline junkies, he entered a strange zone of calmness as he pushed the bike to the very edge of its function and structural integrity. The air rushing at him streaked his hair back flat as the helmet that he might have put on had he been required to by law, and the vibration veining its way through his tight palms into the locks of his forearms was like the rush of a drug. Soon, his crouch became not just desirable but necessary, the force of the speed he was going sufficient to peel him off the motorcycle if he tried to sit up.

  Faster, and faster still, until the world became a video game with no consequences, the cop and the reality of him getting caught and losing his license, if not more, disappearing, left in his wake.

  He wasn't scared of being apprehended. He didn't care if he crashed.

  Nothing mattered at all.

  The old rural road twisted and curved, dodging thick trees that had been preserved not out of a respect for their arboreal splendor, but because it was cheaper and easier to run the road around them. Farm pastures with buffalo in them and cropland that would have soybeans and corn on it soon provided the straightaways. And then there were more hairpins. And another straight section.

  Max duck-checked under his arm. Well, well, it appeared that he had the Jeff Gordon of local cops on his ass, the guy right on his tail and closing in--

  As Max refocused in front, he cursed, cranked the brake and leaned hard to the left.

  It was either that or he mounted the back end of a horse trailer that was going about four miles an hour.

  The bike heaved in the direction he asked it to go in and he went nearly parallel with the pavement, the tires just barely hanging on to purchase.

  At the very moment, a car came around the corner in the opposite lane.

  Horns. Tires. An indelible vision of the two people in the front seat of the Honda screaming as they braced themselves for impact.

  In that moment, Max's life did not pass in front of his eyes. He didn't think of anyone or God or himself, even.

  It was only emptiness, just like his soul.

  And yet his body reacted instinctually, his heavy shoulders yanking the bike out of a free fall, his thick thighs grabbing on to the sides of the engine, every molecule in him staying in the saddle. If he fell off? He was going to end up with scrambled eggs for brains and maybe only half his arms and legs still attached.

  Except, even as he confronted death and dismemberment, even as the motorcycle inched by the front bumper of the sedan and popped back in front of the truck and trailer, he felt nothing within himself. He was a void with a heartbeat, and shouldn't he find that depressing?

  Max screeched around another turn and glanced over his shoulder. The cop had gone off the road, the squad car embedded in the brambles at the shoulder. No one was hurt, the truck rolling to a stop, the Honda pulling over, the policeman getting out...the near-miss and almost-awful slowing everyone but him down.

  As the last of the light left the sky, Max roared off into the night.

  Regrets stung his eyes with tears...but he blamed his wet cheeks on the wind.

  --

  Back at Easterly, Lane was in the front parlor pouring some Family Reserve into a rocks glass. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?"

  When his invited guest didn't answer, he looked across the formal room. Homicide Detective Merrimack from the Charlemont Metro Police Department was over on an antique silk sofa, his lanky body bent toward a laptop that had been put on the coffee table. During the course of the murder investigation, Lane had learned to dislike the guy, not because the detective was evil, but more because of his annoying habit of smiling like a kid who had just put the cat in a mud puddle and was attempting to reassure Mom and Dad that there were no problems, none whatsoever, to report.

  "Well?" Lane said as he sat down in a bergere chair. "I mean, clearly my brother was at the Red and Black all night. So he couldn't have done it."

  More waiting as the detective moved a finger over the mouse pad like he was reversing the footage.

  After Lane had called, the detective had come right over, even though it was dinnertime. Or past it, actually. And Merrimack was dressed in what was clearly his standard work uniform of a white polo with the CMPD crest on the chest, dark slacks, and a loose windbreaker. With his military haircut, his dark skin, and his black eyes, he looked like the by-the-book operator he acted as, and Lane decided that that smile thing was a technique the guy had maybe been trained to do in a course entitled "How to Put Suspects at Ease."

  Lane focused hard on that face, as if he could read what was going through the man's head as those eyes bounced around the screen. When that didn't work, Lane distracted himself by thinking about the dynamics in his family. Max was the only person who hated their father as much as, or maybe more than, Edward did. Yes, Edward's motive might have been a little more clear, but his personality had never been violent or explosive: Edward was more a tactician--and then there was the reality that he lacked the physical strength and coordination to move his own body around, much less anyone else's.

  Max, on the other hand? Fights at Charlemont Country Day, in college, afterward. It was as if their father's temper had skipped all of the other kids and focused on Max exclusively. And Max truly didn't care about offending people, which if you extrapolated, could be generalized into something sociopathic.

  Like the kind of distemper that could make somebody kill their own father.

  "Well?" Lane prompted again.

  Merrimack took his damn time before sitting back and
looking up, and--yup, oh, there it was, that condescending smile.

  "I'm not sure what you think you're seeing here, Mr. Baldwine."

  Lane resisted the urge to speak slowly, as if the guy was a moron. "No one took the truck. Left the property. Drove off."

  "And you take this to mean what?"

  Are you fricking kidding me, Lane thought. "That my brother Edward could not have killed our father."

  Merrimack steepled his fingertips and rested an elbow on a tasseled throw pillow. "The cottage is not covered by a camera."

  "The exits to the property all are. And what about the truck?"

  "There are a number of trucks."

  "Including the one you impounded. As evidence," Lane snapped.

  "Again, I'm not clear on what you think this proves, in light of everything else."

  "My brother is a cripple. You think he snuck out under cover of darkness and jogged all the way here from Ogden County?"

  "Look"--the detective motioned to the laptop--"I'm happy to take this downtown to the station and add it to the file. But this case is closed as far as we're concerned. We've already sent it to the D.A.--with your brother's confession."

  Lane jabbed a finger at the computer. "My brother didn't leave the farm and those recordings prove it."

  "I'm not convinced the footage goes that far." Merrimack popped the USB drive out of its slot. "But I'll take this to the D.A."

  "Oh, come on, did we not look at the same thing?"

  "What I saw was that nothing unusual happened within the sight of six cameras on a farm that's a thousand acres in size. The Red and Black has seven trucks of the same year, make, and model, with the same paint jobs, with winches on the back--and from the camera angle shown here, you can't tell the license plates of those three parked at the barn." The detective held up his palm as Lane tried to cut him off. "And before you tell me there are only three exits, I'll caution you that I've walked the property and identified at least a dozen cut throughs, lanes, and trails that will take you out to the county roads. You think your brother doesn't know all of them? Couldn't have taken one of the trucks from an outbuilding? He tried to get away with the murder by erasing the footage at Easterly. You're going to tell me that he didn't think about how he could leave the farm without being seen?"

  "Edward said that it wasn't premeditated. That he came here just to talk to my father--if that were true, why didn't he simply leave the farm through one of the main gates? He had nothing to hide."