by Cari Hunter
“Jesus, Caleb. I don’t think I can do that.” The raw fear in the man’s voice made the flesh on Leah’s bare arms ripple with goose bumps. She tucked herself close to the wall again, wondering what she had missed.
“I think you can,” Caleb said. His voice was level and reasonable and made Leah want to curl up into a ball.
The man was starting to panic, obviously sensing a trap. “They’ll find out; they’ll find out and I’ll lose my fucking job. God, they’ll lock me up as an accessory. I can’t go to prison. They’d tear me apart in there.”
“You won’t go to prison. I won’t let that happen. You gotta trust me here.”
Leah shook her head, but she already knew the man was lost. Either he helped of his own volition or Caleb would resort to violence or blackmail.
“I trust you,” the man said. “I trust you.”
Even though she couldn’t see Caleb, she could picture his smile, and any remaining hope that he might decide to give up and run was finally snuffed out.
“They’ll never see it coming,” he told the man. There were two distinct hisses as he opened bottles of beer. Glass clinked against glass, the sound incongruous, as if they were friends sharing a drink at a backyard barbecue. The way Caleb laughed made her shiver.
“Be like taking candy from a baby,” he said.
*
Alex pushed the sheets of paper aside, folded her arms on the table, and laid her head on them. She was so worn out that the interview room spun every time she moved, while the cover sheet she had just completed for her statement contained more corrections of simple spelling errors than useful information. She had seen Quinn utilize this tactic before, most recently with Sarah: if your suspects were disoriented from exhaustion or terror or grief, they were far more likely to make mistakes or confessions during interrogation. Quinn’s only problem was that Alex—unlike Sarah—understood exactly how the game was played, and, though her coversheet might be shoddy, the statement itself was not only cogent but airtight. It would also make uncomfortable reading for him and for ADA Kryger, whom Alex had seen lurking at the front desk as she was brought into the station, but she was long past caring about Quinn’s sensibilities, and she had never cared about Kryger’s.
The familiar sounds of the shift handover faded out as she drifted into a light sleep. She heard a door open and the approach of footsteps, and for a long, surreal moment, she thought she was still dreaming, until she raised her head to see Quinn and Kryger in front of her. In no hurry to assume an air of composure, she smacked her dry lips together and grimaced at the sticky patch of drool on her forearm. Kryger’s moue of distaste was well worth the crick Alex could feel at the back of her neck.
“Emerson dotted all his i’s and crossed all his t’s for you?” Ignoring Kryger, she directed the question at Quinn. They had kept her separate from Emerson throughout the search of the cottage, and then driven them straight to the station for questioning.
“He’s already gone home,” Quinn said.
The lack of subterfuge and the profound weariness in his voice took Alex aback. She collected the pages of her statement together and held them out to him, studying him obliquely as he stepped closer. He looked haggard, as if the night had aged him twenty years. Despite everything he had done and all the chances he had missed to make amends, she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.
He tucked her statement into the bulging case file he had brought with him. “Esther just got off her shift. She offered to drive you home,” he said, and held up a hand as Kryger drew a breath to protest. “Alex can come back in when she’s gotten some sleep,” he told her.
He turned back to Alex, effectively ending Kryger’s contribution to the conversation. “Agent Castillo acknowledged receipt of the samples a half-hour ago. They’ll be in the lab by now.”
With an effort, she kept her expression neutral. “Thank you, sir.”
He opened the file again and passed her a plastic evidence bag. “Sergeant Emerson said you would recognize this.”
She squinted at it. “Yes, sir, I know what this is.” It was the original order docket for Lyssa’s gate key, well thumbed and tattered but still legible. She passed it back to him, wondering what point he was trying to make. The answer came when he exchanged the docket for a Polaroid.
“A tech found this key in the pocket of one of the shirts he dug out of the fire.”
Dizziness hit her again and she dropped the photograph onto the table. The small gate key stood out prominently in the center of the image, a splash of silver on a jet-black background.
“Do you need one for comparison?” she asked, once she was certain she could speak without embarrassing herself.
“Later,” Quinn said. He did not explain his reasons for showing her the photo, but she knew the locked gate had formed the crux of his theory against Sarah. She suspected this was as close to an admission of error as he could make at this stage, something he confirmed when he spoke again.
“Two of the guys we arrested at the warehouse made bail yesterday, freeing up a cell in Ruby. I’m going to request that Sarah be transferred back across here, make things a little easier for you both.”
Torn between wanting to thank him and slap him, Alex merely picked up the photograph and handed it back. She dared not look again at Kryger, whose face had been reddening throughout the exchange, and who now appeared to be on the verge of dragging Quinn bodily from the room before he made any more concessions. The ADA rarely found herself on the losing side and was not about to admit defeat prematurely on this case.
Alex didn’t have the energy to care. Four days, she thought, four days for the forensics to come back, and in the meantime, Sarah would be closer for her to visit. She stood and straightened her rumpled clothing, determined not to walk through the station looking like a suspect.
“Can I go home now, sir?”
“Can you be back here by four?”
She checked the time. He was giving her nine hours to sleep, feed herself and the animals, and phone Sarah. “Sure,” she said.
He nodded, suddenly more his familiar, authoritative self. “Good. Let’s not keep Esther waiting any longer, then.”
*
“Exercise is good for back pain.”
Sarah mouthed the mantra as she jogged toward the scorched area of grass she used as a lap marker and forced herself to continue past it for the fourth time. Her prison-issue sneakers hit the ground flat and hard, making pain jolt through the twin areas of bruising where Barrett had hit her. The muscles in her back seemed to have seized up overnight. After struggling to get out of her bunk that morning, she had limped down to the shower block, where a rare blast of hot water had alleviated some of the discomfort. She suspected Camille had subsequently had a quiet word with Kendall, because two Advil had been issued to her at breakfast and Kendall had waited, hands on hips, until she gave in and swallowed them.
She could see Kendall now, standing by the ruined grass, watching Sarah steadily close the gap between them. It was too hot and she was too sore to go any faster, but Kendall seemed content to let her finish in her own time.
“You’re keeping everyone busy today, Hayes,” Kendall said as Sarah stooped low, gasping for air.
“I am?” She straightened cautiously and used the bottom of her T-shirt to dry her face. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Apparently not,” Kendall said so quietly that Sarah barely caught the words. She hadn’t managed to discern their meaning before Kendall spoke again. “Your lawyer’s arranged a meeting with you at three this afternoon, the administrator is dealing with a request to transfer you back across to Ruby, and your partner is on the phone.”
Sarah pulled her T-shirt back down. “What the hell is going on?”
The expression on Kendall’s face suggested she knew more than she was saying. “Don’t look so worried,” she said. “Come and take your phone call. I think you’re better hearing this from Alex.”
*
By the time Kendall had escorted her into a private air-conditioned office and indicated the phone with its red call waiting light flashing, Sarah was almost in tears. Despite Kendall’s reassurance, the abrupt break from jail protocol, together with the unfamiliar surroundings and unexpected disruption, had convinced her that something terrible had occurred, and that Kendall was doing her utmost to soften the blow. Sarah snatched up the receiver, spoke before Kendall had pressed the button to connect the call, and had to start over again.
“Hello? Alex?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Sarah sat down suddenly, tipping the chair back so hard that Kendall had to put a hand out to right it. “Bloody hell, are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Did they not tell you that?”
“They haven’t told me much of anything, just that Bridie’s coming in and that I might be transferred and that you were on the phone and—”
“Sarah,” Alex cut across her rambling, “take a breath.”
“I’m breathing just fine.” She gripped the edge of the desk. “Actually, I feel a bit squiffy,” she conceded, and heard Alex chuckle.
“You’re sitting down, right?”
“Do I need to be sitting down for this?” she asked, scared once again.
“Might not be a bad idea.” Alex hesitated, obviously nervous, before continuing in a rush. “Emerson and I found where Caleb Deakin stayed. Sarah, I think we have enough to get you out of there.”
Sarah closed her eyes as lights danced in them. “What did you find?”
“Clothing from that night and the knife handle that they hadn’t quite managed to burn. Comparable tire treads, hair, semen on the bed sheets, and prints throughout the cottage. The labs are working on it all now, and Quinn’s going to get you moved back up here in the meantime.”
“Will I get bail, then?”
“You won’t need bail.” Alex spoke more slowly, ensuring that Sarah understood. “Once the lab work is back, it should be enough to make them drop the charge against you.”
“Really?”
“Cross my heart.” There was such certainty in Alex’s answer that Sarah finally allowed herself to believe what had happened.
“I’ll be able to come home.” She said it aloud, just to make absolutely sure.
“You’ll be able to come home,” Alex said. “Sweetheart, I’ve already put the kettle on for you.”
*
It was stuffy in the bedroom, but Alex pulled the blankets up to her chin and shivered until the sheets warmed up. She felt as if she’d worked a winter night shift: chilled to the bone and trying too hard to wind down into sleep. The cottage was silent, the animals all taking her lead and dozing with her on various parts of the bed. She had drawn thick drapes against the sunlight and foregone coffee for hours, and still her brain refused to let her rest.
Quinn would have read her statement by now. She wondered whether he had been shocked by her allegation that a local was aiding Caleb Deakin, or whether he had already drawn that conclusion himself. His demeanor earlier had been that of a man facing up to a potentially career-ending mistake, not that of one complicit in the crime. So if Quinn wasn’t involved, who was?
She kicked the blankets lower, making Tilly snuffle, which in turn startled Flossie. They both settled again before she did. Staring at the ceiling, she tried to picture each of the individuals on Emerson’s list of search volunteers, mentally cataloging them into “possible,” “maybe,” “unlikely,” and “don’t be stupid.” She would need to speak to Quinn about bringing each of them in for questioning…
An unexpected yawn interrupted her thoughts and made her jaw ache. She rubbed her chin and turned over, seeking a cool spot on the pillow. Castillo would need to speak to Quinn, she corrected herself. In terms of the investigation, her involvement was probably over. After Sarah’s release, the FBI would no doubt assume control of the case. They would have the resources and manpower necessary to end this, and she and Sarah could hide somewhere safe until Deakin and his accomplice were in custody.
She closed her eyes, her head sinking into the soft down of the pillow. Her hands curled into fists, her fingernails nipping at the flesh of her palm, because she was missing something obvious and she needed to wake up and work the answer out. One of the cats curled up in the crook of her legs. She reached a hand out to stroke its head, and the satisfied hum of purring was the last thing she knew.
*
Caleb’s cell rang as Leah lifted the cornbread from the oven. She pressed a finger to the top of the bread, testing its readiness, careful not to show that she was listening in on the call. Caleb didn’t bother leaving the kitchen, so she was able to watch his expression alter by degrees: irritation changing to interest, before segueing into a barely-contained excitement.
“Fucking perfect. No, if you’re sure that’ll work, use it.” He walked to the window and peered out onto the dirt road and mounds of putrid trash. “You’ll need to do it quick before anyone realizes it’s missing.”
Leah turned the bread out onto a cooling rack. It smelled like Sunday afternoons at home, stolen time with her mom while the men watched the game.
“Yeah, yeah, I know it.” Caleb’s voice broke through her reverie. He paced across the kitchen, his eagerness making the trailer sway and undulate. “Be dark by then. That won’t hurt none.”
She looked at the clock on the oven, calculating the remaining hours of daylight: only five. The rising steam made her face damp and hot as she wiped the counter and tried to glean more details of Caleb’s plan. He had already used his free hand to hoist his duffel bag onto the table and was checking its contents, making the odd noise of agreement as he listened to his contact. The one-sided conversation made it impossible for her to work out what was going to happen, but it was obviously imminent.
“Naw, man, you won’t need luck.” Weapons clacked together as he stacked them side by side. “Let me know when it’s done.” He ended the call, slapped a magazine into a 9 mm pistol, and screwed a silencer onto its muzzle.
“Pack everything.” He grinned at her. “We got places to go, baby.”
*
“You’ll miss the Kool-Aid.” Camille spoke through a mouthful of candy.
Sarah threw a Milk Dud at her head. “I won’t miss the bloody Kool-Aid,” she said. The drink accompanied every meal at the jail and it was always grape flavor. It tasted like disinfectant combined with evil. “If I never drink the stuff again, it’ll be too soon.”
She hadn’t told a soul about the developments in her case or her likely transfer, but the cellblock rumor mill was alive with gossip, and Camille had found out all the details. She had bought Sarah the box of Milk Duds to celebrate and was now busily eating her way through them.
“Be home with your girl before you know it.” Camille’s voice was muffled by caramel, but the thought made Sarah smile.
“Thanks, Camille. I won’t miss the Kool-Aid, but I’ll miss you.”
“You be sure and write me, then.”
“I will, I promise.” Sarah shook the candy box, heard the lone rattle of the last Milk Dud, and offered it to Camille. “You’ll probably be stuck with me for a few days yet, anyway.”
“Maybe, or they’ll maybe get you back across to Ruby in time for visiting tomorrow.”
“That’d be nice.” A flutter outside the window caught her eye as a scruffy-looking bird perched on the ledge and began to preen. “Hey, Albert’s back.” She ducked her head to the bunk below. “I think he lost a few more feathers, poor little bugger.” She made space for Camille to climb alongside her.
The bird cocked its head when Camille touched the glass, but it stayed where it was.
“I’ll keep you updated on his progress,” Camille said. She pressed her hands to the mattress as if evaluating what little spring it possessed. “I might move up here when you’re gone. Even that view’s better than my solid brick wall.”
Sarah pointed to the far corner of the yard where a hin
t of pink was just beginning to color the concrete. “Best view on the block, this,” she said seriously. “Look, it even comes with its own sunset.”
Chapter Seventeen
Showing uncharacteristic chivalry, Caleb offered his hand to Leah to help her negotiate the rusted metal steps leading down from the trailer. As she stepped onto the ground, he tipped his cap at her.
“How do I look?”
He had left the car engine running and the headlights cast enough light for her to see him wink. “You look good,” she said, and touched her fingers to his cheek when he kissed her.
In truth, she barely recognized him. His hair was long and straggly beneath his cap and he hadn’t shaved since the murder. She hated it, not because it made him unattractive—he had never been particularly handsome—but because the change in his appearance meant he was less likely to be identified and apprehended. He revved the engine, prompting her to take her seat in the car. She wanted to ask where they were heading and what he was going to do, but she didn’t dare risk ruining his good mood. Even more than that, she was afraid to learn the answer.
*
From dinner until lights-out, the cell doors were unlocked, leaving the inmates free to move around the block, but Sarah and Camille had both chosen to remain on their bunks.
“Wonder if they’ll have a copy of this in the Ruby jail.” Sarah waggled Pride and Prejudice over the side of the bed so that Camille could see it. She heard her shift and then tap the cover with her finger.
“Honey, you’ll be able to go into a store and buy your own copy, once you’re a free woman.”
“Yeah.” Sarah hugged the book to her chest, relishing the thought. She had taken so many basic rights for granted until they were stripped away from her. “That would be lovely.”