The Survivor

by DiAnn Mills

  “It does raise its head now and then.”

  Vicki dabbed at her eyes. “Sit down before we start behaving like hormonal teenagers again. This all started when I asked about your meeting with Amy Garrett.”

  Kariss formed words to respond intelligently without alarming her sister. “Not well. There’s enough dysfunction in her family to start a reality show.” She told Vicki about Baxter Garrett’s crazy behavior, leaving out the threat.

  “Odd … she’s the victim, and he’s the one who hasn’t dealt with the tragedy.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Strange how tragedy affects people differently. Puzzling.”

  “Maybe God wants you to be her friend and write her story.”

  Kariss was glad her sister’s suggestion matched her own beliefs. “I agree. Amy doesn’t have any close friends. After all, who would she confide in? With her education and experience, she probably wouldn’t want to bother anyone with personal problems and wind up looking inept. And she must trust me, because she gave me her personal contact information.”

  After eating Mom’s fried chicken leftovers, Kariss opened her Kindle and read a few more chapters of In Cold Blood. Ever since Amy mentioned that her assailant had quoted lines from the novel, Kariss had wanted to reread it.

  When the creepiness of the psychological narrative got the best of her, she powered off the Kindle and decided to call Amy. Didn’t make much sense switching from a fictional nightmare to a real one, but at least here she might be able to offer a listening ear.

  Amy answered on the second ring. “Kariss?”

  “Yes. I’m checking on you.”

  Amy laughed, but it sounded forced. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Good news. My parents promised to keep Baxter away from both of us.”

  As though their son were in grade school? “You’re sure?”

  “I assure you, it’s handled. He came by my office again after you left, so I called the police,” Amy said. “Then he arrived at my front door. Called the police again. Sorry. That’s more info than you need.”

  “No problem. Tell me, what kind of vehicle does Baxter drive?”

  “Hmm. Usually one of my dad’s company-owned vans. He does the maintenance on various commercial and privately owned office buildings. Why?”

  “I thought I saw him, but I must be mistaken. This guy was in a black pickup.”

  “Oh … Baxter has a black pickup.”

  Kariss’s throat constricted. “Special-order rims?”

  “Just a plain truck. He couldn’t afford anything else.”

  Kariss didn’t know whether to be relieved or continue speculating. Amy could be wrong about the rims. And why hadn’t she or her parents tried stopping Baxter in the past?

  “Kariss, I’m concerned. You’ve seen behavior in my brother that no one in my office has a clue about. Please promise this stays between us. My practice could be severely handicapped if any of Baxter’s issues leak out.”

  “Promise. I’m blessed with a sister who not only listens but gives wise counsel. I value my relationship with her, and I hope you can have the same trust in me.”

  “I do,” Amy whispered. “You’re an answer to prayer. Strange, but I knew it the moment we met in the coffee shop and split the oatmeal-raisin cookie.”

  A veil of peace draped over Kariss. “Will you be able to sleep tonight?”

  “My door is quadruple-locked.” She laughed, but Kariss didn’t think it was funny. “And I have a German shepherd, Apollo, who is fiercely devoted.”

  “I’ll start working on transcribing our conversation and get back to you, then.”

  “Great. You know, in our professions we both have to be cautious. I’m wondering if the woman befriending me wants free counseling, and you’re wondering if your new friend wants a free book.”

  “Or worse yet”—Kariss laughed—“you’re wondering whether the woman you’ve asked to write the next bestseller has a clue how to write.”

  “I once knew a tarot reader who wanted to offer her services to my clients. Said we could team up and handle all of their issues.”

  “I was in the bathroom at a writer’s conference, and a woman shoved her manuscript under the stall door,” Kariss said. “She attached a note written on a piece of toilet paper that said, ‘I dreamed I was supposed to give this to you, and you’d help me get it published.’”

  The tension between Amy and Kariss had eased. A few moments later, they ended the call with a decision to announce the writing project on Facebook and other social media. Kariss would also contact her agent and ask her to pitch the story to potential publishers. Amy was taking a risk, and she knew it. But courage took many forms, and Dr. Amy Garrett wanted her story written.

  Kariss brewed a pot of coffee and headed to her office. She couldn’t rest until the conversation she’d recorded was transcribed. In the morning she’d work on deepening characterization and toying with plot.

  She glanced at the clock. Would Tigo call? She thought about the lily-covered funeral wreath and the card … No point involving him. He might misunderstand.

  CHAPTER 26

  7:00 P.M. SUNDAY

  When Tigo attended the Yeats’ funeral, Jonathan’s church had been a sea of different faces, ages, and races. Everyone had been dressed in somber, muted colors, and the soft murmurs reflected two tragic deaths. But tonight men, women, and children were dressed in bright colors as though they were a part of a celebration. These were the members of Taylor Yeat’s African-American congregation. Ladies with wide-brimmed hats and fashionable dresses, men in exquisite suits and silk ties, and children who looked as if they’d stepped out of a magazine cover.

  Not what Tigo expected, but then he hadn’t known what to expect. He glanced at his jeans and sports jacket, as well as Ryan’s, and realized they were out of place for more reasons than just the color of their skin.

  The large crowd hummed with excitement.

  “Welcome, brother.”

  “Good to see you, sister.”

  Hugs and laughter rose. Tigo had no time to evaluate the mood, because his job came first.

  “Ever visit an African-American church?” Ryan said.

  “No. Just your church, which has a mix of every race out there and some in between.”

  “You’re in for a spiritual treat. Our church could take notes and double our attendance.”

  Tigo nodded as though he understood Ryan’s comment. But as far as he was concerned, the service tonight was only a way to round up everyone he wanted to talk to in one place.

  Tigo and Ryan slid into a pew at the rear of the sanctuary. Linc, who had full knowledge of the agents’ purpose, sat with his wife and son in the middle of the sanctuary. Tigo spotted Angela and Darena standing near the front of the sanctuary, behind Taylor Yeat’s wife, a short, round woman who had a solid alibi for the day of the bombing. What was her name? He searched his mind’s data bank … Wanda. Sympathy for what she probably didn’t know swept through him, especially when Darena took Wanda’s hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek. What a Judas moment.

  Joanna’s sisters were good-looking women, similar in appearance, with large eyes and high cheekbones. Joanna had been the most beautiful, but was that a motive for murder? After the conversation Tigo had overheard yesterday between the sisters, seeing the two women in church pretend to be devoted family made him question why he was attempting to find God at all. Too bad he didn’t have a key to unlock Darena’s mind—or Taylor’s. Bedroom conversation could be helpful in solving this case.

  Vanessa Whitcom belonged to this church as well, but she wasn’t here. Maybe ill … or guilt-ridden. His critical views of suspects would raise the brows of a few innocent-until-proven-guilty die-hards, but Tigo had seen the result of depraved minds. He didn’t trust anyone linked to this case until evidence proved otherwise.

  From the moment Taylor Yeat, whom Tigo could no longer refer to as a pastor, stepped up to the pulpit until the final amen an hour later, the charismatic man delive
red a resounding message smelling of sulfur. The lively music was entertaining, and Taylor used it to his advantage to highlight strategic points. Oddly enough, the sermon topic was about securing the family unit, a topic Yeat obviously hadn’t researched or experienced.

  At the close of the service, Tigo and Ryan stepped to one side of the center aisle to wait for Angela and Darena. Linc joined them, but his wife and son exited the church. When the sisters approached, Tigo blocked their path with his ID in full view.

  “Excuse me. I’m FBI Special Agent Santiago Harris, and this is Special Agent Ryan Steadman. We’re investigating the death of Joanna and Alexia Yeat. We need to talk to Darena Willis and Angela Bronston.”

  Angela startled. Darena stiffened.

  “Excuse me, Special Agent Santiago Harris. I’m Francis Willis. Darena’s husband.” The man spat each word. “You have no right conducting this business in the house of our Lord.”

  “Sir, we apologize for the inconvenience,” Tigo said, holding back a string of sarcasm. “We can talk here once the church clears, or we can go outside. We can also drive to the FBI office if that suits you. Won’t take long.”

  “Not on Sunday.” Francis puffed up his gym-sculpted frame.

  “You can bring your Bible.” Tigo steadied his gaze.

  Linc cleared his throat. “As Agent Harris stated, we don’t have to conduct the interviews here.”

  “I can’t believe you approve of this interrogation on a Sunday.” Darena tilted her head and glared at Linc. “Of course you do. This is all in the line of duty. Our sister isn’t cold in the grave, and you’re groping for information we don’t have. Is this part of our tax dollars at work?”

  “I hope you understand this jeopardizes your position as deacon,” Francis said. “Approaching a grieving family as though they’re criminals is morally and spiritually wrong.”

  “Oh, really?” Linc said. “Church is about truth, don’t you agree?”

  “Pastor Yeat should join us,” Francis said. He walked away and soon returned with Taylor, who’d been greeting exiting parishioners. How appropriate to include the righteous pastor. The group followed Tigo, Ryan, and Linc to the front pew.

  “Will the interview be conducted separately or together?” Angela’s voice quivered.

  “Your choice,” Linc said. “Agent Harris will lead the interview, and Agent Steadman will take notes. I’m here in support of my agents.”

  “Let’s do it together.” Darena swung her attention to Angela. “You can handle this, honey. We’re right here beside you. Did you take a Valium before church?”

  Angela nodded. “Just half because I was driving.”

  Darena handed her a tissue. “We have to stick together.”

  Not exactly the way she’d spoken to her sister the previous day.

  “If you feel at any time that you’d prefer responding privately, let us know.” Linc spoke softly but with authority, one of his admirable traits.

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason for Linc to initiate this questioning on the day of our Lord.” Taylor’s face was devoid of emotion. “And there’s probably safety in numbers.”

  Tigo would remember the comment. “Do any of you have information about Jonathan’s family that you have not yet revealed to the authorities?”

  Tigo observed body language—Angela’s eyes narrowed for a second before she lifted her chin. Darena gave a wave of denial. Taylor remained stoic.

  “Where were you ladies the morning of Wednesday, January sixteenth?” Tigo said.

  “I was at my job,” Angela said. “I’m a buyer at Macy’s, and we were in a staff meeting.” She reached into her purse and handed him a card. “I’ll call you with those who were in the meeting with me.”

  Tigo nodded his approval. “Mrs. Willis?” The woman reminded him of a banty rooster, complete with feathers.

  “I was at my job, and that can be verified. You, Agent Harris, will hear from my lawyer.”

  Tigo slid her a smile. “Go for it.”

  “And I was praying at the park across from my church. Wednesday, you know, and a sermon to give.”

  “Thanks, Pastor Yeat, for volunteering your whereabouts.” Criminals often offered unasked-for information to cover their rears.

  Tigo formed his next question. “How were your relationships with Joanna? Were you close?”

  Angela’s body language displayed grief. “I wish we’d been closer. I could have been a better sister. She never refused me anything.”

  “We were so close we could tell what the other was thinking,” Darena said, and pulled a tissue from her purse.

  Francis stepped in front of her. “Can’t you tell this is upsetting my wife?”

  Tigo ignored him, feeling sorry for what the man didn’t know. “Was Joanna the type of woman in whom others confided?”

  “Always.” Angela cleared her throat. “She had a gift for listening and not condemning. Pastor Taylor said the same at the funeral.”

  Darena wrapped her arm around Angela’s waist and glared at Tigo. “If you’d have listened at the service, you’d have heard how Joanna ministered to others.”

  Angela’s eyes glistened. “After my failed marriage, she counseled me on many occasions.”

  “Do either of you feel you could be in danger as well?”

  Both denied feeling unsafe.

  “Do you know anyone who may have wanted a member of the Yeat family dead? Were you aware Joanna had filed for divorce?”

  “I heard she was having an affair …” Darena adjusted her shoulder purse. “With one of the ex-cons who worked for Jonathan.” Tigo could practically see her fangs shining.

  “No, you didn’t.” Angela glared at her. “You’re making that up.”

  “Are you calling me a liar in God’s house?”

  “I am,” Angela said. “He would too.”

  “Why you—”

  “Enough,” Linc said. “Answer the agent’s question, then take your arguments outside. Or we can escort both of you to the FBI office.”

  “I have my rights,” Darena said. “I don’t appreciate being questioned as though I’m a lowlife suspect.”

  “Ma’am,” Tigo began, “I overheard everything you, the good pastor, and Angela said on Jonathan’s patio yesterday after the funeral. I could repeat it word for word to refresh your memory.” He showed her his phone. “I have it all right here, and I’m all about airing dirty laundry.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Darena clenched her jaw.

  “Nothing, unless you have something to hide.”

  She paled for a second. Then her face reddened. “How dare you eavesdrop on personal conversations and then accuse us of murder?”

  “We haven’t accused anyone. We’re asking questions. Be glad you have an alibi, or I’d have you arrested.” Tigo didn’t trust her. Taylor’s hard swallow clearly indicated fear, but Tigo would analyze it later. “Pastor Yeat, do you have anything to add? You were present during a portion of the patio conversation.”

  Not a muscle moved on Taylor’s face. “I do not. I believe anything you heard from me yesterday was a means of comforting a family member.”

  Tigo stared into his dark brown eyes. “Of course. What was the line from the hymn tonight? ‘Savior, like a Shepherd lead us’?”

  “I’m leaving,” Darena said. “If you have any further questions, you can contact my attorney.” She made a grand demonstration of leaving the group. Her stilettos tapped an angry message on the wood floor. Her husband followed.

  Did she have a leash for him? Tigo smiled at Angela. “Do you have anything to add to the interview?”

  Angela moistened her lips. “I’ll do anything to help. Since you heard our conversation yesterday, you understand Darena has her difficult moments. I’ll be praying you find my sister’s and niece’s killer soon.”

  “Thank you for your cooperation.” Tigo handed his business card to Angela and gave another to Taylor. “Please contact us with any concerns or
information.”

  Tigo stared at the back of the church, where Darena was shoving past a few lingering people.

  Definitely a woman who had something to hide. What else lay beneath her narcissism and her affair with the church’s pastor?

  CHAPTER 27

  JANUARY 21

  12:15 A.M. MONDAY

  Kariss lay in bed and wished she could sleep. Her body ached from an exhausting weekend, but her mind refused to stop spinning. How could so much occur in three days?

  Tigo had called after nine thirty.

  “Can I get back with you in the morning?” he’d said. “Not sure about my schedule until I get to work.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “Kariss, anything that connects you and me is important.

  I owe you an explanation.”

  “Yes. I need closure.”

  The ensuing silence had caused her to wonder if she’d made him angry. If he thought one conversation would make things right between them, he could forget it.

  “As in ‘resolve the problem’ closure or ‘no chance of us starting over’ closure?” he said.

  “Tigo, you demand truth in all your investigative work. When you don’t get it, you explode in sarcasm and daredevil exploits until you find it. Truth is important to you. And to me. I need you to explain why you kept your past from me.”

  “I didn’t want to deal with it. The situation was over.”

  “So are we, if that’s all you have to say.”

  He had sighed. “All right. I’ll dive into the whole mess.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you tomorrow then.” She had ended the call, wanting to scream at him for hurting her. Perhaps exhaustion had more to do with it than anger, though.