by Dan Padavona
An access road whipped past. She hit the brakes and backed up, glaring down the long, gloomy path. Branches lay strewn across the road, as if nature conspired to keep her from entering. Aguilar yanked the wheel and took the cruiser down the access road. The tires jounced over fallen limbs, and a leafless elm tree hung suspended above the cruiser. One sudden gust of wind, and the tree would crush her. The roof clipped the tree, followed by the fingernails-on-chalkboard screech of bark ripping metal. Thomas wouldn’t be pleased. If she found the sheriff alive, she’d gladly listen to him complain about caring for their vehicles.
She eyed the GPS. The cruiser followed the winding road between the marina and the cliffs. There were no cabins, no mailboxes, no evidence of human life. With the windows lowered, she could hear the river. A branch poked through the opening and scratched her neck. She pulled the wheel to the right just as a shadowed form lurched into the road and flopped down in a puddle.
Aguilar stomped the brakes. The tires slid across the silt and mud, the full weight of the vehicle bearing down on the prone figure.
The cruiser thumped over an obstruction and came down, shocks bouncing.
“Please, let that be a tree limb I hit.”
She was too sickened to look over the dashboard. But she had to. Duty pulled her out of the cruiser. As she pushed the door open, a bloody hand reached over the hood and grabbed hold of the grille.
And Aguilar thought, “My God, I ran over Shawn Massey.”
But when she spied the waterlogged mop of hair, she hissed.
“Sheriff!”
She dropped to her knees and supported Thomas, who clung to the grille like a lifeline. A broken log lay beneath the wheels. Thankfully, she’d stopped an inch short of the sheriff’s body. Scrapes drew blood from his temples and arms. His legs trembled as though he’d lost control of his lower body.
“What happened?”
“Neal.” Thomas turned his head and hacked out a broken-glass cough. On his hands and knees, the sheriff hung his head. Red-tinged spittle dangled off his lips. “He’s going after Shawn Massey.”
Aguilar slung his arm over her shoulder and hoisted him to his feet. He slumped over, and she used the cruiser to brace his body and keep him upright.
“I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No. Get me into the passenger seat. We need to stop Neal.”
Realization struck Aguilar like ice water. Officer Neal had killed Megan Massey and Hanley Stokes. No wonder Neal pinned the murders on Kemp and Shawn. Was Barber involved too?
Ignoring the sheriff’s protests, she radioed for an ambulance and told dispatch she’d bring Thomas to the search party tent. The tents were a ten-minute drive away, and she doubted an ambulance could traverse the access road.
“Move your feet, Sheriff,” she said, hauling him around the cruiser.
She didn’t like the way his legs dragged, sometimes finding purchase before falling limp and useless. What had happened to Thomas in the forest? Sweat pouring off her brow, her body straining under his weight, she grunted and shoved him into the passenger seat. He lolled over and draped over the center console. And she kept thinking, “Please, let this be exhaustion. Don’t take Thomas yet. This isn’t his time, not yet.”
Aguilar threw the cruiser into reverse and completed a three-point turn. Heedless of the obstructions covering the road, she gunned the motor and rushed forward, wary of the elm tree she’d seen hanging over the road. When she encountered it again, the tree inched lower like the gates at a madman’s railroad crossing. The trunk ripped another gouge through the roof. She glanced over at Thomas, hoping for a flippant complaint. None came. The sheriff muttered something indecipherable, his eyelids fluttering as he slouched against the seat.
“Hold on, Thomas. Just a little longer. I’ll get you help.”
He didn’t respond.
It occurred to her Officer Neal must have planted evidence at the murder scene. He’d taken Shawn Massey’s comb before CSI discovered the boy’s hair on his dead mother’s clothing. Then there was the water bottle in Megan Massey’s kitchen with Kemp’s fingerprints on the plastic. The bastard. Neal might have offered Kemp a bottle of water when he brought him to the station for questioning. Then Neal placed the bottle inside the kitchen and made it appear Kemp had visited the house on the night of the murder.
She lifted the radio as she gave Thomas one last glance. Someone had to stop Officer Neal.
But Thomas was thirty minutes from the nearest emergency room.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Sunday, 3:25 p.m.
Officer Barber steered his SUV with one hand as the other hand pressed the hankie against his nose. The fever had worsened since morning. Probably because every time he put his head on the pillow, the idiot chief called and demanded he return to duty. Over the last ten minutes, the crackle of voices had boomed through the radio and amplified his headache. It was the same old crap—yes, we’re checking this set of coordinates. No, there’s no sign of Shawn Massey. Blah. Sick of the banter, he turned off the radio. As far as Barber was concerned, he wasn’t on duty until he reached the search tent and accepted his orders. Until then, he was on his own time. And if the chief didn’t like it, the dinosaur could pound salt.
This case needed to end.
Why were the officers so concerned with finding Shawn Massey? The teenager partnered with his father and murdered Megan Massey. Neal had seen the truth from the beginning, and though Barber had expressed doubt, all his misgivings vanished after he saw Kemp Massey’s bathroom sink full of blood. Afterword, CSI matched hairs on the victim to Shawn Massey, and Kemp Massey’s fingerprints were inside the kitchen.
An open and shut case. The kid was a dangerous fugitive. If he drowned in the Wells River, so be it. That was God’s way of serving justice.
Still, there was one puzzle piece that didn’t fit. The Hanley Stokes murder. It didn’t feel right. The murder kept worming around in the back of Barber’s brain. Why would Kemp Massey murder a drug dealer?
He coughed into the cloth and spat phlegm through the open window. County Route 7 was a mess of puddles and potholes, murder on his suspension, but this was the most direct route to the search tents outside Wells Ferry. Though the temperature was in the seventies, his teeth chattered from the chills crawling beneath his skin. He should be in bed, not chasing ghosts.
His gaze moved to Avery Neal’s ranch house, a half-mile up the road. After they caught Shawn Massey, Barber’s partner would be a shoo-in for the detective position. Jealousy burned a hole in Barber’s chest. He had five years of experience on Neal. But Neal solved more cases than anyone on station. The guy just had a nose for ferreting out criminals and finding evidence.
Barber almost passed Neal’s house before he spotted the officer’s BMW in the driveway. He never understood how Neal afforded a pricey car on a cop’s salary. Neal claimed he’d purchased a used model, but Barber read the odometer the last time Neal picked him up, and the car only had twelve-thousand miles on it. Barber slowed the SUV to a crawl and parked along the road. Neal was supposed to be in the forest.
The officer turned off the motor and monitored the house. Dark windows, closed doors. The engine ticked. A gusting wind blew cloying humidity through the SUV.
Maybe Neal got a ride from one of the boys. That would explain why his car sat in the driveway. But there was something piled in the backseat, a black, bulky silhouette visible through the windows.
Barber edged the door open and stepped into the road. Eyed the BMW, then the house again. No movement inside. What the hell?
He swallowed and instinctively moved his hand toward the holstered gun. He wanted to get a good look inside that car, though he couldn’t say why. Just a hunch.
Barber was two steps from the rear bumper when the front door of Neal’s ranch opened. He pulled to a stop when he spied his partner with a gym bag thrown over his shoulder and a pair of car keys dangling off his finger, as if Neal had a pressing workout session to ge
t to. Neal strode with purpose down the steps before he noticed Barber in the driveway. A stunned expression froze Neal’s face. Then the shock faded behind a smile that appeared faulty to Barber. Contrived. Even dangerous.
“You lost, Barber?”
Barber nodded at the gym bag.
“You’re not in uniform. Why aren’t you with the search teams?”
“I was. All morning, in fact. Chief gave me the afternoon off.”
Barber hacked and wheezed.
“Doesn’t seem right. Here I am, sick as a dog, and the department calls me in.” Barber took another step forward, and as he moved closer to the BMW, Neal circled the vehicle and cut him off. Neal’s eyes flicked to the backseat before returning to Barber. This time Barber peered into the windows. Neal had packed the BMW with boxes, bags, even his hunting rifle. “You headed on vacation, Neal?”
Neal glanced back at the house and pushed his fingers through his hair.
“Gotta crash at a hotel for a few nights. The roof is leaking again. You know how it is.”
“And you’re taking the rifle?”
“I’m not leaving it unattended.”
The corner of Neal’s mouth twitched. Almost imperceptible, but Barber saw. What was Neal hiding?
Barber coughed into the crook of his arm and cleared his hazy eyes.
“I suppose I’ll head to work. Still seems like bullshit the department gave you the afternoon off and called me in after I requested sick leave.”
Neal lifted his palms.
“Wish I could help, but that’s Wintringham for you. Chief doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground, and he doesn’t care about your health, as long as you get the job done and make him look good.” Neal cleared his throat. “But don’t repeat that. I still need the old bastard to hire me for the next detective position. Right, buddy?”
As Barber stood his ground, Neal inched closer to the BMW. His hand drifted toward a bulge in his front pocket. If Barber wasn’t crazy, he’d suspect his partner hid a weapon in the pocket of his jeans. But not Neal. Barber had partnered with the man for three years and trusted him.
“Mum’s the word,” Barber said, pantomiming a zipper across his lips. “I’d better go before the chief has my ass.”
Neal’s shoulders relaxed. Another oddity that pulled Barber’s eye. Barber turned when the phone buzzed inside his pocket.
“I’ll let you get that,” Neal said. “Catch you at the tents after eight, all right?”
“Sure thing.”
Barber swiped the phone. A text arrived from Deputy Aguilar from the Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department. Barber didn’t like the damn sheriff, and he’d learned not to trust the deputies after years of conflict between the two sides. Yet Aguilar seemed okay. Tough for a broad. He respected her. Barber wouldn’t mess with Aguilar on her worst day.
He read the message and didn’t comprehend the words. It seemed like a cruel prank.
A hot wire of electricity pulsed through his veins. Neal murdered Megan Massey and Hanley Stokes, and shoved Sheriff Shepherd over the cliffs outside Wells Ferry. Impossible.
But as Barber’s eyes flicked to his partner, understanding crossed Neal’s face. Barber reached for his gun. Too slow. Neal retrieved the knife and closed on Barber before the officer reacted. The blade jammed into Barber’s abdomen. A strangled cry pushed out of his throat. As he slumped against Neal, the murderer whispered in his ear.
“Sorry it had to be this way, old buddy. But for the record, I never liked you.”
Barber’s eyes widened when Neal gave the knife a cruel twist.
Officer Avery Neal watched Barber slump to one knee. Once the officer hit the driveway, Barber would be too heavy to lift. And Neal couldn’t leave the fat uniformed officer in his driveway. People tended to notice dead cops beside the road.
Neal tossed the knife aside and supported Barber beneath his armpits, holding him steady as he worked him toward the back of the BMW. The afternoon wasn’t going as planned. Sheriff Shepherd knew too much, came too close to the truth. He’d believed Barber the killer, an idea that struck Neal as hilarious. Barber couldn’t orchestrate two murders, plant evidence, and get away with it. Neal’s partner was too dull and pigheaded. In time, Shepherd would have discovered the truth. So Neal did what he needed to do. He attacked the sheriff and tossed him into the gorge. By the time the authorities fished his dead body out of the river, Neal would be long gone.
Except he never found Shawn Massey. Last summer, he’d chased the punk kid and his friends after raiding their party. Shawn was an ingrate, a product of his power-hungry mother. And Megan Massey had built a case against Neal. Neal didn’t wish to leave a loose end. But the damn teenager had eluded him until Neal ran out of time. Neal had smelled the wood smoke in the forest and come so close to catching the teen.
With a groan, Neal popped the trunk and shifted Barber toward the opening. As the overweight officer muttered something in between death throes, Neal hauled him over the bumper and dropped him into the trunk. The BMW bounced from the dying man’s weight.
The trunk slammed shut, like the jaws of a monstrous devil consuming its prey.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sunday, 4:00 p.m.
The doors swung shut on the ambulance. Lights whirled, and a siren shrieked as the emergency vehicle drove away from the tent with Sheriff Shepherd in the back. Chelsey Byrd’s green Honda Civic hung close to the ambulance’s bumper with LeVar Hopkins behind the wheel and Chelsey inconsolable in the passenger seat.
Seeing Chelsey’s reaction had been the worst. Aguilar almost had her emotions under control before Chelsey broke down, frantic and helpless as the paramedics loaded the man she loved into the ambulance. Chelsey held his hand until they wheeled him inside the ambulance, then called his name as the troopers moved her away from the vehicle.
Deputy Aguilar’s lips quivered. She shook off her anxiousness, convincing herself the sheriff would want her to catch Officer Neal, not waste time grieving over him. But she couldn’t exorcise the memory of Thomas’s pallid skin, the way his legs flopped uselessly behind him as she hauled him into the cruiser. He hadn’t spoken a word after he warned her about Neal. How the sheriff crawled out of the ravine, she’d never comprehend.
Lambert met her eyes across the tent, and a silent understanding passed between them. She’d never seen Lambert worry. Not until now. Lambert swiped an arm across his eyes, pretending to wipe away sweat.
All around them, the troopers and police officers scrambled to gather their belongings. Aguilar didn’t like everyone abandoning Shawn Massey. But catching Neal was the priority, and they needed as many vehicles as they could gather to shut down his escape routes and prevent the killer from fleeing the county.
Her phone rang. She read Raven’s name on the screen.
“Where are you?”
“A mile west of the tent,” Raven said. “How’s Thomas?”
Aguilar bit her lip. She didn’t want to upset Raven, but now wasn’t the time to mince words.
“There’s something wrong with him. He couldn’t control his legs, and he stopped responding after I got him into the vehicle.”
Raven relayed the information to Darren.
“He’ll be okay, right?”
Aguilar squeezed her eyes shut. A tear trickled out.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Please let him live, she thought.
“We just heard about Officer Neal,” Raven said. “Is it true? He killed Massey and Stokes?”
“And attacked Thomas, yes. Every law enforcement officer in Nightshade County is looking for Neal. We’ll catch him. Just find Shawn Massey. He’s still out there.”
“We will, Aguilar. Let us know the minute you hear from the hospital.”
Aguilar ended the call and checked her messages. Still nothing from Officer Barber. She’d chosen to send a direct message to the officer because he partnered with Neal. Better to learn the truth from a fellow law enforcemen
t officer than from a news reporter. But Barber hadn’t responded, and he was due to arrive for work ten minutes ago.
Lambert came to her side as Trooper Fitzgerald strode up to them. Fitzgerald knew Darren Holt, and the trooper had organized the sonar search for Shawn Massey.
A dark thought popped into Aguilar’s head. She pictured Barber running into Neal on his way to work and trusting his partner. The possibility also existed Barber was involved and had helped Neal kill Massey and Stokes. It was Barber who caught Raven and Darren inside Megan Massey’s home office, so he might be working with Neal.
“Let’s run a trace on Barber’s phone,” Aguilar said.
Fitzgerald squinted his eyes.
“You think Neal went after Barber?”
“Or Barber aided Neal. Either way, Barber should be here by now. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“I’ll contact the cell company.”
Aguilar and Lambert followed Fitzgerald to his cruiser, where the state trooper requested an emergency trace on Barber’s phone. While he pressed the phone to his ear, he reached across the cab and retrieved his laptop bag. After booting up the computer and logging in, he handed the laptop to Aguilar. She popped the trunk and set the laptop down. After she loaded the tracking software, a triangulated approximation of Barber’s position appeared on the screen. And it was moving.
“He’s on County Route 7,” Lambert said, tapping the screen. “He’s heading away from the search tents.”
Fitzgerald pocketed his phone.
“Wells Ferry PD received a report of a black BMW driving at high speed along CR-7 about four miles from here.”
Aguilar pictured the road map in her head.
“CR-7 links up with the highway near Barton Falls.”
Fitzgerald gave them a grim nod.
“And once Neal hits the highway, he’ll have multiple routes to choose from,” Lambert said. “He might reach Pennsylvania or Ohio before we zero in on him again.”
Aguilar pulled the keys from her pocket.