Vernon’s last conscious memory before being pulled under and inhaling saltwater was the biologist speaking into his ear, saying, “Cross me again, I’ll kill you.”
Not mad, no longer curious. The slicker meant it.
19
By nine, Ford and Detective Janos Werner were on a guarded first-name basis. Not buddies, still playing the question-answer game, but enough trust established to stray into off-the-record areas, like now, Werner saying, “A marine biologist who carries a compact Sig with custom Truglo sights . . . I’m curious.” He shucked the pistol’s slide to reveal an empty chamber. “Some might think it’s almost as unusual as owning thermal imaging gear.”
“If they’ve got perfect vision, maybe.” Ford’s attention was on a squad car, where Vernon Crow, from the backseat, was giving him the death stare. Those crazy eyes hadn’t wavered since three burly cops had wrestled the giant inside and slammed the door.
Werner released the slide, and asked, “Do you mind?” before testing the crispness of the trigger. “Nice. You had it dehorned, too. Smooth as a bar of soap. Which gunsmith did you use?”
Ford said, “The guy’s crazy, you know that, right? He’s amped up on something. As strong as he is, I wouldn’t trust handcuffs to do the job. Same with the Plexiglas barrier. I’m thinking about the uniforms driving him.” After a beat, he added, “The longer we wait, the more likely it is the girl will change her mind.”
It was something he had suggested: allow Gracie to eyeball Vernon without him knowing it. This was after Werner had said they couldn’t hold the guy for more than a day or two on an assault charge. Ford, because he’d assumed they were awaiting an official okay, was surprised when Werner replied, “You’re right. Let’s go get her.”
“Just like that? You could have done it an hour ago.”
“Sure, and had my ass handed to me because I didn’t wait for all the info from the national data banks. We ran his prints, license, the VIN number off his truck, everything. Even some piss-poor photos for facial recognition I shot with my phone. I just got the results. The truck is registered to Walter B. Lambeth. Ring a bell?”
Ford looked through the shadows of cypress trees in the direction of the foundry. “Only because a friend of mine is a history buff. Walter Lambeth owned the place. He was an old-time outlaw, probably a murderer. It doesn’t surprise me they’re related.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. Vernon Crow, or whoever he is, doesn’t exist.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, either. What’s his real name?”
“You didn’t hear what I said. Vernon—let’s call him that for now—he doesn’t exist, as far as the public records go. Unless he came into the country illegally within the last few years, something in the data banks would’ve popped. With his shit-kicker accent? He’s lived here all his life, which he admits. In this nation, you can’t live off the grid without leaving tracks, but he, by god, managed to do it.”
Ford said, “He’s got to be related to Slaten Lambeth somehow. I bet they tag-teamed Gracie. If not her, at least some of the victims in Gainesville. The woman who lived here—his mother, maybe his aunt—she was giant-sized, too. In fact, there is a possibility that—”
“Save the theories for later,” the detective said, motioning him to follow. “Officially, I’m taking you back to your truck. Unofficially, I want you along to keep the girl calm. How well do you know her?”
“Not as well as my friend. If it’s okay, Gracie would probably prefer—”
“Nope, just you or not at all. You realize she might lie just to get her boyfriend off? If she does, he’ll walk on Friday, depending on DNA evidence, and there’s not much. Like I told you, whoever it is, he’s a pro when it comes to cleaning up a crime scene. Still think this is a good idea?”
They stayed on topic, risk versus gain, until they were on the shell road to the Barlow cabin. Werner pulled over, put his unmarked car in park, and made a show of switching off the radio and dash cameras. “Here’s the thing. I believe your story—up to a point. Now I want you to do us both a favor by telling me the truth about one little detail. Something you left out.”
Ford’s mind transitioned to the behavioral coaching programmed years ago somewhere in Maine. “If I can help, Janos, I will. Ask me anything.”
“You do know what I’m talking about?”
“I’m not sure.”
“The guy, Vernon, he might be a psycho, but he’s not stupid. Half an hour, I questioned him, and I think he only told me the truth twice, maybe three times. He claims you had someone with you. A shooter stationed on the roof of the old house. Maybe true, maybe not, but someone put a laser dot on his chest. I’d bet on it. Was it you?”
“I remember him saying that, yeah. Something about a gun laser, and was he going to be shot for doing his job? It was a way to make me turn around. That’s the way I took it.”
“You’re saying he made it up?”
“Until now, I haven’t given it much thought. What’s the distance they teach law enforcement? A guy twenty-one feet away, if he has a knife, can cut your throat before you have time to draw your weapon and fire. With Vernon, that’s what happened: he was at least ten strides away and he was on me before I could do a damn thing about it. Three hundred–plus pounds of muscle. I’m surprised I remember anything after he hit me. Somehow, we ended up in the water, and—”
“Doc,” the detective said, “be straight here. You’re telling me you didn’t notice a laser dot on the guy’s chest, him, like you said, only thirty feet away?”
In an interrogation, the most dangerous questions are those that can be answered honestly. The unschooled leap at the truth, which sets off alarm bells. Ford gave it some thought. “I tracked him using night vision, and, you’re right, a laser would have lit up the place. It would depend on the timing, I suppose, but I . . .” He shook his head. “No, I didn’t see it. You have my pistol. If it had laser sights, damn right I would’ve—”
“A green laser dot,” Werner said, his eyes shadowed and watching for a reaction. “You’ve got all the toys. Green, not the standard red laser. That might mean something to you.”
It did—a precision laser shooting system he’d tried recently, thanks to a wealthy friend. Ford evaded by asking, “You’re convinced he’s telling the truth?”
“That’s why I believe him. He gave me all the standard baloney—you jumped him for no reason. Poor country boy, out here communing with nature, when a supposedly mild-mannered citizen blindsides him. Sure. But when a perp, even a psycho perp, lies about being painted up, he’s going to say it was a red laser, just like in the movies.”
Ford, for the first time, considered the possibility it was true.
“There’s no law against having a friend cover your ass,” the detective said. “It would have no bearing on this case. Personally, I’d like to know what the hell’s really going on around here . . . Doc. Trust me, or not, that’s up to you.”
The biologist looked at his phone. No signal. “Damn it.”
“Someone you have to call? Ask permission, maybe?”
The person Ford wanted to consult was Charles Beckett of Flamingo Cay, Bahamas. He pocketed the phone and shrugged.
“Fine. Let’s skip the official crap and you tell me what you’re thinking. Hypothetically, of course.” Werner opened a tin of Skoal, offered it, then tucked a pinch between cheek and gum to show he was patient and willing to listen.
“If there was a third person,” Ford said, “I didn’t know he was there. A laser doesn’t necessarily mean a gun. Laser pointers are cheap.”
“Already defending a total stranger, huh? Is that the way this is gonna go?”
“Okay. Hypothetically.” The biologist sat forward, unsure how far to take this. “It would have been a shooter with a long gun. A pistol—a laser sight’s too shaky from a distance. If Vernon’s telling
the truth, the shooter had him dialed in but didn’t pull the trigger.”
“That’s what I’m asking you,” Werner said. “Why? I can only think of two reasons, but I’d rather hear it from you.”
Ford, sensing a trap, took a preemptory risk. “Four possibilities would be more like it. The shooter wasn’t a shooter, just some jerk playing games. Or it was a practice run. And some guys, even with a lot of training, can’t do it—or so I’ve read. They can’t pull the trigger on a real person. The fourth possibility is obvious.”
“That’s the first thing I thought of. Vernon wasn’t the target.”
There was actually a fifth possibility, but Ford responded, “Could be.”
“Does someone want you dead, Dr. Ford?”
“Are you kidding? One’s in jail and the other’s back there in the car, handcuffed. At least, I hope he is. When I told you Vernon’s strong, I mean he’s like an animal. I hope you passed that along to the other officers.” To ingratiate himself, he referenced the news media, saying their definition of the word unarmed was naïve and dangerously inaccurate.
Werner liked that. But, being a cop, had to consider motives before risking an opinion. Was the biologist kissing up or intentionally evading?
It didn’t matter. The guy was right.
“I’ve arrested monster-sized guys so wired on crank, you could put three rounds in their chest and they’d still rip your head off, give ’em the chance. Not that I’ve shot anyone. But I’ve been on calls, we used Tasers, batons—everything—the whole non-lethal list, and it doesn’t faze them. Just once, I’d love to hand a loaded .45 to a newscaster and lock him in a room with a killer twice his size, later ask him, ‘The dude was unarmed, why’d you shit your pants before you pulled the trigger?’ Now, back to this mysterious third person. Who was it?”
The lies flowed easily. “No idea. If I had to guess, I’d say it was some jerk playing games. When Vernon turned psycho, whoever it was probably ran off.”
The detective opened the door and spit, amused. “Yeah, sure. All right, let’s go talk to the girl.”
—
When the detective said to Gracie, “Are you ready?” she said, “Yes,” but wasn’t prepared for the massive gorilla-sized face illuminated by the spotlight. A man, sitting in the back of a police car, squinted with fire in his eyes, seeing her, only her, which is how the moment registered in her brain. She ducked behind the seat while Ford tried to comfort her, saying, “You’re safe, they’re taking him to jail. Gracie . . . what do you think?”
She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. “Jesus, oh Jesus, I just realized . . .”
“What?”
“He saw me.”
“That’s impossible, I promise. He has no idea who’s in this car or why the spotlight’s on him. Is he the man who assaulted you?”
The detective, at the wheel, said, “Have her take another look, then we’re out of here. Ms. Barlow, your attacker always wore a mask, you said. To make a case, you’re going to have to be absolutely certain. What about that tattoo on his neck? Recognize it?”
“Yes,” she whispered. There was no mistaking the Yantra artistry—a dragon shielded by what had to be a mosaic of overlapping flames, not scales.
“Even from here? I can pull a little closer, if you want, or I’ve got some photos on my—”
“No, he’ll see me, damn it.” She kept her head down and clung to Ford, digging fingernails into his knee. “You don’t understand. Not with his eyes, maybe, but he knows I’m here. You didn’t see the way he looked at me? It’s coming back, some of the details. What he . . . how he knows things.”
The man who’d rescued her asked, “What about the mask, Gracie? How about just another quick peek?”
“It’s him. Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to say it? Now please get me out of here.”
The detective said, “I’m convinced,” and waited for uniformed cops to screen Vernon’s view before pulling away. “Ms. Barlow?”
Ford said, “Let her calm down first.”
Gracie, on the floor, sensed the biologist’s awkwardness as he patted her back or stroked her hair. His hands were tentative, as if she wore a cloak that might rip. This, more than his touch, helped her rally after a few minutes. “Thanks, I know what you’re doing. Sorry I lost it there for a minute.”
“You did fine,” the detective said. “You’ll have to go through it again, I’m afraid. It’ll be easier, now that you know you’re safe.”
“That’s what I want,” she said. “Him locked behind bars. I’m not getting out until I’m sure.”
“Out of the car?”
“Not as long as he’s in the area. You don’t understand the way he is. Can you have someone call you on the radio when he’s in jail?”
The detective’s response: okay, humor her. He made phone calls and drove; took the long way. The cabin porch appeared in the side window, but it was another ten minutes before he put down his phone. “The guy’s going through the booking processing now on the assault charge. That should put your mind at ease.”
“He’s locked up?”
“Even better. There are armed cops watching him every step of the way, and the building’s like a fortress. Really, you’ve got nothing to—”
“Is he at the county detention center? I was there today.” Gracie, thinking about Slaten, pictured high, drab walls and rolls of razor-wire fencing.
“That’ll be his next stop, yeah. Then, hopefully, a state prison. Look, I need to get to the office. Ms. Barlow?” The detective turned in his seat. “I believe you, so I’m going to book him, but if you don’t feel right about it, I’m not going to leave you here. Or if you’re still upset and need someone to talk to, I’m obligated to advise you regarding your options. We have professionals who can . . .”
Gracie let the man’s voice blur while the cabin took on a fresh identity before her eyes. She noticed details that had gone unappreciated on previous visits: starlight and Spanish moss; a sleepy umbrella of oaks embracing the little house with its chimney and tin roof, which appeared waxen at night. Windows the color of butter; oil lanterns inside, impervious to storms and the failure of modern utilities. For water, there was a well with a hand pump. For cooking, there was a woodstove. Plant a small garden and she’d be free of all her mother’s whining insults, independent for the first time in her life.
Tomlinson appeared in the doorway, which added a homey, welcoming touch.
“Gracie? Did you hear what Detective Werner said about a facility for women?” The biologist’s concern was evident.
She answered, “This is where I live. My family’s property. Of course I’m staying. You told me the truth about those . . . about him going to the county detention center, right?”
The detective began to reassure her until Ford interrupted. “Janos, wait, that wasn’t a slip-up, was it Gracie? You meant Slaten, too. Both of them. You saw something, or remembered some detail. What?”
The oddest feeling came over the girl, a territorial sense of being on family land and in control. So she responded by thanking the men for their concern, which was the adult thing to do, then said, “For now, I’m glad they’re both locked up because, you’re right, I need to work out a few details in my head. I’m not sure exactly what, but, when I’m ready, I’ll tell you everything I remember.”
20
Tomlinson sensed a change in Gracie even before Ford had done a security lap around the property, then drove away, presumably to his hotel. With him, you could never be sure. Since returning from the Bahamas, he had been edgy. There was a reason, as the man had finally explained, the two of them sitting alone in the biologist’s truck.
It had to do with the British woman, Gillian Cobourg, and some secret she’d shared with him. Blackmail was at the heart of it, and a politician brother whose computer had been hacked by an international p
orn syndicate. Ford had the proof—whatever it was—in his possession, so anticipated visitors. No other details had been provided, other than the warning “Keep your eyes open for anything strange.”
Strange? Christ, in a ghost town inhabited by a Chinese demon, and the monster kin of Walter Lambeth?
“You’d need a scorecard,” Tomlinson had responded.
As to Gracie, she was in full nesting mode when he joined her in the cabin. She tidied up while asking his opinion on colors of paint, whether an extra room or two could be added, and how much it would cost to update the bathroom? Later, after changing into jeans and a white sleeved blouse, she said, “How about some herbal tea and those cookies you brought? I made a pie once, a girlfriend and me, but you’ll have to wait until I get some recipes to try that. I will, though. Until now, I never had a reason to learn to bake.”
Her eagerness was touching, but it was getting late.
“It’s almost eleven, dear. Try to get some sleep. I’ll hang out on the porch for a while, then bunk in my van.”
Her mood shifted to accommodate. “If you want to smoke a joint, that’s fine with me. I can’t because of—” Her hand moved to her tummy. “You know. But I won’t have a guest sleeping outside when there’s a perfectly good couch in here.” Then, facing him, she said, “Besides, there’s something I want to talk about . . . and, I’ll just admit it—I don’t want to be alone.”
Tomlinson recognized the warning signs, an involuntary moistening of lips that was a precursor to any conscious consideration of right or wrong. It wasn’t intentional. The decision could go either way, not that he would allow it to happen. “Sure, whatever you want. Let’s sit on the porch.”
He lit a PIC coil to discourage mosquitoes and carried it outside. There were two cane chairs and a rocker. The girl needed to pace, so he rocked and listened. What she wanted to talk about had to do with a tattoo on Slaten’s chest. “He told me I would never see another one like it, but I did. Tonight. It was on him . . . on his neck.”
Mangrove Lightning Page 19