He frowns. “The family? Wait…Khoury’s children are here?”
“They’re not children.” A pause. “Maybe you’d better come out here.”
“Where’s Willis?”
“He went back out to the scene. You’re the only one here knows anything.”
What he finds in the waiting area is something he’d never expected to see in his county: three women, wearing headscarves and veils that show only their dark eyes. He stops short. “Ah, hey. Can I help you ladies?”
One of the women stands up and steps forward. “Yes. We came as soon as we heard about our cousin.”
Childress is nonplussed. “Your cousin.”
“Yes, Adnan Khoury. My name is Fatima Al-Saddiq.”
“Hey. I’m Deputy Childress.” He holds out his hand. She doesn’t take it.
He looks at her, then and the other two. They regard him in a way he finds unsettling, their gazes flat, without expression or emotion. “Maybe you ladies better come with me.”
He leads them to a conference room and motions them to the chairs around the table. They take their seats and the woman who spoke first continues. “We understand that someone killed our cousin. Do you have any suspects?”
He hesitates. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude, and I’m, ah, sorry for your loss. But I have to see some proof that you’re actually relatives of Mr. Khoury. Preferably next of kin.” The three women don’t answer, just stare at him. He rushes to fill the silence. “It’s just policy. Even more so now that there’ve been some people contacting us who, ah, well, let’s just say they weren’t who they said they were.”
That gets a reaction. The three women look at one another, and something unspoken seems to pass between them. The spokeswoman says, “What sort of proof would you need?”
“Photo ID, for one. And I’d have to clear it with the lead detective, anyway.”
She shakes her head. “We cannot do photo ID. We cannot appear unveiled in public. It is against our faith.”
He shrugs. “Well, then I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am.”
The woman’s voice doesn’t change in tone. “Perhaps we should contact an attorney. This is religious discrimination.”
Now he’s annoyed. He stands up. “You do what you need to do, ma’am. In the meantime, I need to get back to work.”
The three women don’t move until he walks to the door and opens it. Then, they rise at the same time and file out, with the spokeswoman last. “You’ll hear from us again, Officer…”
“Childress.” He spells it carefully for her to show he’s not intimidated. “C-H-I-L-D-R-E-S-S.”
She just nods curtly and walks past.
He shows them to the door without further words. “Spooky,” he mutters as the door closes behind them. He figures he needs to let Fletcher know about the visit, but the call goes to voicemail. He looks at the clock at the same time he feels his belly rumble. “Hey, Carla,” he calls over to the deputy working the front desk. “I’m gonna run to Subway an’ get some dinner. You want me to bring anything back?”
She waves him off. “Nah, I’m good. Brought a salad from home.”
He rubs at his stomach absent-mindedly. He thinks maybe a salad wouldn’t be such a bad idea for himself. He’s getting a little thick around the middle.
In the parking lot, he’s getting into his cruiser when he hears a soft footstep behind him. As he starts to turn, he sees something pass quickly before his eyes, and suddenly he can’t breathe. He reaches up to claw at the cord that’s been wrapped around his neck, fighting for a breath he can’t catch. Something’s pulling him backward like a riptide, and before everything goes dark, he can hear the sound of a large engine.
When Seth Childress comes to, he’s looking up at a metal ceiling. He tries to get up and realizes that he can’t. He looks around as best he can and realizes that he’s lying on the metal floor of what looks like a delivery van, his wrists and ankles bound to the cargo tie-downs. To his further dismay, he realizes that he’s dressed only in his boxer shorts. He pulls against the restraints, but he’s held fast. The door to the van slides open with a rumble and a figure climbs in, followed by two more. They crouch around him in the crowded space like vultures over a carcass. He realizes with a cold shock of fear in his stomach that they’re all women. Women with dark eyes. One of them has a scar down one side of her face, another had some kind of scarring around her mouth. It’s the third one who speaks to him, and he recognizes the voice as the woman from the station.
“Now, Mister C-H-I-L-D-R-E-S-S, you will tell us what we want to know.” She gestures at the woman with the scarred mouth. “My sister will ensure that what you tell us is the truth.” She smiles, and that bright, beautiful smile is enough to make a dribble of piss run down his thigh. She nods at her sister, and Childress is screaming before the knife comes down.
ONE HUNDRED-
FIVE
The drive is only a couple of hours, but it seems to take years. Meadow provides terse directions through the country roads and small towns leading to their destination: Barbecue, Johnsonville, Cameron, Carthage, Robbins, Biscoe. The already rolling and heavily wooded landscape is broken from time to time by corn and tobacco fields, cinderblock convenience stores, tiny country churches with plastic signs, and wood or brick houses with cluttered yards.
In the little town of Troy, she guides them off the main road down a series of ever more winding country lanes. Ben finally speaks up. “Where the fuck are we going?”
“It’s called Ebenezer,” Meadow says. “That’s the nearest town at least. It’s kind of a town, anyway.”
“Wow,” Bassim says. “I thought we lived in the sticks before.”
Alia chews at her thumbnail and doesn’t speak.
Ben looks back at her. “You okay?”
The only answer is a terse nod.
Soon they see brown and white signs telling them they’re entering the Uwharrie National Forest. One sign with a dial on it in front of a ranger station lets them know the fire risk is MODERATE today. The houses, farms, and stores are gone now, and the pine woods seem to close in on either side. Meadow leans forward, straining her eyes to look through the gathering gloom for some familiar landmark. A small green sign on a short post by the side of the road says EBENEZER. The only sign of habitation is a wooden building set back a little way off the road, festooned with a collection of faded metal signs advertising RC Cola and Red Man chewing tobacco. The old store looks like it was last open in the 1960s.
“Pull over here,” Meadow says.
Ben complies, but there’s a dubious look on his face. “Is this the place?”
Meadow shakes her head. “In about a mile, there’s a parking lot. We’ll need to leave the truck there and walk in.”
That startles Alia out of her reverie. “Walk?”
Meadow nods. “The first half mile or so is in the National Forest.”
“Half. Mile,” Bassim says.
“Yeah. Then we take the path off the main trail. Where the No Trespassing signs are.”
“Meadow,” Alia says. “Are we supposed to make this hike in the woods with two heavy footlockers of money and jewels?”
“No,” Meadow says, a little impatiently, “that’s why I said stop here. Wait a minute.” She opens the door and slips out. In a moment, she’s disappeared around the back of the store.
“Where the hell is she going?” Bassim demands.
“I don’t know,” Ben answers. “Just shut up a minute, okay?”
“Hey, don’t tell me to shut up.”
“Look, asshole—”
“Both of you shut up!” Alia’s voice cracks as she blurts it out.
Bassim puts a hand on her shoulder. “Okay. Sorry. It’s going to be okay.”
She looks as if she’s about to retort, but Meadow appears back at the passenger side door, holding a shiny key in one hand. “Found it. Come on.” Then she’s gone again.
/>
The three of them look at each other.
Ben shrugs. “Might as well.”
Meadow’s standing at the edge of the parking lot. They can see a steep drop-off behind her. “This way.”
The ground behind and beneath the ramshackle building falls off precipitously into a deep ravine. The back of the building rests on a foundation of heavy timbers and columns made of native stone that hold up the corners of the structure. Beneath that overhang is a narrow space and a storage area that’s walled off by what looks like railroad ties. They pick their way carefully along the edge of the precipice, to a heavy oak door in the center of that formidable wood wall. Meadow’s fitting the key she showed them earlier into a padlock securing the door. She struggles for a moment, then the lock gives way with a soft snap and she pulls it off. The door doesn’t give way to her first tug, and Ben steps up to help pull it aside. It drags a bit on the ground before they swing it open.
Beyond is only darkness. Meadow steps inside and flips a switch. A dim orange light spills out. Ben looks inside.
The space is empty, with a dirt floor. There are cobwebs in the corners, and a rusty hand truck leaning against the far wall.
“What is this place?” Alia’s stepped up beside Ben to peer into the space.
“Dead drop,” Meadow says.
Alia looks confused. “What?”
Meadow steps out and looks away from her into the ravine. “I told you. My dad grows weed.”
“Marijuana.” The judgment is obvious in Alia’s voice.
Meadow rolls her eyes. “Yes, marijuana. When he’s ready to ship it out, he brings it down here and leaves it. Whoever picks it up leaves him the money.”
Bassim peers into the dimly lit space. “What happens if the guy takes the weed and just doesn’t leave any money?”
Meadow shrugs. “He doesn’t get any more weed. Dad says that’s how people were meant to deal with one another. Based on what he calls ‘enlightened self-interest.’ Not coerced by governments.” She looks around at the looks she’s getting and shrugs. “Whatever. This is a place to hide the money for the time being. Until we figure out what we’re going to do.”
“What happens if the buyer shows up?” Ben asks.
Meadow holds up the key. “I’m taking this with me.”
Bassim looks doubtful. “Won’t this just piss everybody off?”
“Of course it will.” Alia’s voice is biting. She shakes her head. “Don’t we have any other alternative than dealing with criminals?”
Meadow bristles. “If you’ve got one, Alia, I’d love to hear it. And before you get all high and mighty, you might want to think about where all that money came from. You know, the money and gems buried in your backyard? I don’t know how they do things where you come from, but most people I know who make honest money don’t need to bury it.”
Alia stares at Meadow furiously for a moment, hands on her hips, looking as if she’s about to charge. Then her face crumples and she looks down. A sob escapes her.
Meadow looks stunned, then her own face collapses into tears. She holds out her arms and runs to Alia. The two girls embrace, tears running down their faces, murmuring apologies to one another. The young men stand aside, looking awkwardly at one another. Finally, Alia and Meadow break the hug and look at them.
“Come on,” Alia says. “Let’s get this stuff hidden.”
ONE HUNDRED-
SIX
“I’m going to quote your boyfriend, Ms. Jones. You need to pick a side.”
Marie glares at Fletcher, who’s standing on her porch. “So we’ve dropped ‘Officer’ Jones now?”
“Maybe we should.”
“If I knew where Jack Keller was, Detective, I’d tell you. But I don’t. I know he’s going after those kids. That’s all.”
“And you didn’t try to stop him.”
“No. I didn’t.” Francis has appeared beside his mother in the doorway, clutching at her leg and looking fearfully past her at the officers. She puts a reassuring hand on his head as she goes on. “You know why? Because I know he can get the job done. He can find and bring back my son. Alive.”
Fletcher grimaces in frustration. “Look at his history. He’s unstable and dangerous.”
That gets a sharp laugh. “Oh, believe me, Detective. I know his history. Remember who you’re talking to. And yes, he’s dangerous. But unstable? No. Right now, he is completely focused, completely committed, and probably as calm as he ever gets. Because he’s hunting. That’s what he does. And he’s only dangerous to people who’d threaten those children.”
Cameron speaks up. “Can you just tell us where he might have gone to look for them? Where he might start? Officer Jones, you may not believe it, but we want to protect those kids as much as you and Keller do. We just want to do it the right way.”
She sighs. “That’s part of the problem. What you call the right way doesn’t always do the job, does it?” Fletcher starts to say something, but she silences him with a raised hand. “He asked for the address of Melissa Troutman’s mother. Melissa’s the one with them who goes by Meadow. He thought that might be a place to start.”
Fletcher nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Now, will that be all?”
“For the moment, yes. If you hear from Keller, let him know he needs to come back in.”
She inclines her head curiously. “And why is that?”
“We just have some more questions about the explosion at his house. So ask him to come by the station, will you?”
“You know,” she says, “I don’t think I will.”
As they walk back to their car, Cameron says, “I think I’d look both ways before crossing that one.”
“Agreed.” Fletcher opens the car door and looks back at the house and its closed front door. “I hear she was a good cop once. I wonder what happened?”
When they arrive at the address Marie gave them, there’s a light on inside, but no one comes to the door when Cameron knocks. He frowns and knocks again. “Sheriff’s Department.” Still no answer. He makes a fist and pounds forcefully on the door. “Open up, ma’am. We know you’re in there. It’s about your daughter.”
There’s a rustling behind the closed door, then it opens a crack and half a face looks out at them. The one eye they can see is tinted pale red, as if the woman is stoned or crying or both. “She ain’t here,” the woman slurs.
“Yes, ma’am. May we come in?”
A pause, and the eye looks from one officer to the other. “She ain’t here.”
Fletcher speaks in a low, measured voice. “Ma’am, we have reason to believe your daughter’s involved in a motor vehicle theft, for starters. She may also be a witness to at least one homicide, and that might put her in danger. Now, if we can come in and ask you some questions, we’ll go away and leave you alone. But if I have to come back with a warrant, we’re bringing deputies with us who’ll search the house. You want that?”
The woman mutters something that Fletcher can’t make out, but it doesn’t sound friendly. The door opens wide and the woman inside steps back to let them in.
“Thanks,” Fletcher says.
“She didn’t steal no truck,” the woman says. “That was those Arab kids. And the Jones boy.”
Fletcher takes out his notebook. “First things first. Are you Debra Troutman?”
The woman just nods without looking at them.
“And Melissa’s your daughter?”
Another nod. She wipes her running nose with the back of her hand.
Cameron looks around, locates a roll of paper towels on the living room table and tears one off for her. She nods her thanks and blows her nose.
“So, do you know where she and the others may have gone?”
Another silent nod. Her eyelids droop and she looks as if she may pass out in front of them.
“Hey. Hey.” Fletcher snaps his fingers and she jerks awake. “Where’d she go, Ms. Tro
utman?”
“Her daddy,” she mumbles.
“Right. Okay. And where does her daddy live?”
“Woods.”
“Wood?”
“Woods. He lives in the woods.”
Cameron puts his hand to his head. “Damn.” He leans forward. “Ma’am, is her father John-Robert Troutman?”
She nods again, but she’s clearly fading.
“Who’s John-Robert Troutman?” Fletcher asks.
“Tell you later.” Cameron turns back to her. “Ma’am, can you tell us how to find where John-Robert is?”
“Had a map,” she mumbles. “Gave it to Keller.”
The two detectives look at each other. “Jack Keller? He was here?”
The name gets her attention. Her head snaps up and her eyes are narrowed with anger this time. “That son of a bitch!”
“He was here, all right. You gave him the map to John-Robert’s place?”
“Yeah. And then he wouldn’t take me to the store.” The idea seems to wake her up. “Can you take me? I need beer and cigarettes.”
“We’re a little tied up right now, ma’am.” Fletcher stands up. “You know where this guy is?” he asks Cameron.
Cameron sighs. “I know where he might be. I was kind of hoping I’d never have to deal with that particular pain in the ass again.”
“You’re not taking me to the store?” she’s beginning to fade again. “Assholes,” she mumbles.
Outside the trailer, Cameron fills Fletcher in. “John-Robert Troutman’s one of those Sovereign Citizens. When I was a road deputy, we locked him up for thirty days one time because he showed up for court and wouldn’t acknowledge that his name was John-Robert Troutman. Kept blabbering on about how that name on his birth certificate ‘created a corporate shell’ or some such bullshit and it wasn’t his real identity, till the judge got tired of it and held him in contempt.”
Fletcher sighs. “Great. And don’t tell me, let me guess. He has lots of guns.”
“Last time we checked. But no felonies, and they all seemed like legit purchases.”
“So where can we find this whack job?”
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