A Killing Rain

by P J Parrish

  Vargas stared at his shoes.

  “What’s the matter now?” Ellis pressed.

  “I don’t know. Maybe we should just tell Uncle Leo we blew it. Maybe I shouldn’t lie to him. I owe him a lot.”

  “You owe him? Jesus, Adam, what did he ever give you?”

  “He took me in.”

  “Adam, you grew up alone, watching movies. That’s not how family treats family, don’t you understand?”

  Vargas was staring at the thread-bare green shag carpet. He had heard this before. They had argued about this before.

  Ellis put a hand behind Vargas’s neck and pulled him close, chest against chest, cheek against cheek. Byron’s fingers were icy against his neck.

  “You can do this, Adam. I know you can do this.”

  Vargas leaned into him. Ellis’s arms were around him, strong, like that first night in Raiford. He’d been terrified then but it had been all right. He was terrified now. But he knew it would be all right this time, too.

  “Okay,” Vargas whispered.

  “Good boy,” Ellis said. “Tomorrow at this time, we’ll be sitting on a beach somewhere.”

  “How are we going to get out?” Vargas asked.

  “We’ll head straight to Everglades City. We can get a boat down there. When you got money, you can get anything you want.”

  Vargas went to the small bedroom to get his jacket, grabbing it off the doorknob. He started to leave, but stopped. His eyes moving slowly across the tiny room. There was no furniture left, except for the mattress they had dragged in from the other bedroom. Just the mattress and that small broken headboard.

  Vargas’s eyes locked on the broken headboard.

  They had come here late last night after they had seen the TV report. That had been his idea, too, because he had known the trailer was empty from other times he had snuck back. Times when he wanted to remember things that had happened before Uncle Leo. Before Raiford. Before Byron.

  But he had never been back inside until now.

  As his eyes wandered over the thin bleached paneling, the dirty green shag rug, and the broken headboard, he thought about the cowboy bedroom at the old people’s house.

  There had been no cowboys here. No good guys. There had been shadows and shame. Footsteps in the hall. The creak of the bedroom door. And his stepfather’s drunken grunts as Adam’s small hands worked to satisfy him.

  You tell anybody, boy, I’ll hang you on a hook just like them hogs.

  But it stopped one hot day when Vargas was twelve. His mother was gone and he had been alone in the trailer with his stepfather. It was the first time he had come at him in the daytime. It was the first time he told him to drop his pants.

  Vargas’s eyes came back to the broken headboard.

  He had been bent over his own bed, his jeans at his knees, his stepfather’s thick fingers digging into his hips. The knife was in a sheath, hanging on a belt that was looped over the headboard. It was a boar skinning knife his stepfather had given to him only a week before. He was planning to take him out the next day to learn how to use it.

  Gonna teach you how to be a man, boy, gonna teach you how to kill.

  The knife had gone into his stepfather’s belly so smoothly at first Vargas hadn’t been sure he’d really stabbed him. So he twisted it before he pulled it out. And when he still didn’t fall, he had slit his throat.

  Vargas’s gaze moved from the headboard to the window and the land beyond.

  He had buried him out there somewhere. After he used the knife to practice the skinning his stepfather had so badly wanted him to learn.

  When Mama asked about the big stain in the carpet, he told her what he had done. She wiped his tears and said, “Some things just need killing.” And she’d been right.

  “Adam,” Ellis called. “What the hell’s taking you so long?”

  Vargas turned and left the bedroom. Ellis was standing at the kitchen counter.

  “Be careful,” Ellis said.

  “It’s just Uncle Leo.”

  Byron was standing there in the empty room, shivering. “Like I said, be careful.”

  CHAPTER 32

  It was only a photocopy, but it was clear and detailed. The man’s hair was light, just long enough to part and comb. His boyish mouth tipped up at the edges and his eyes held a playfulness that would have been out of place in a police sketch, except for the fact that the artist had been trying to capture what Jewell had struggled to describe as friendliness.

  But as Louis looked at the sketch now, he didn’t see friendliness. He saw the same look his cat had when she had cornered a bird.

  Joe was driving the Bronco. Under her leather jacket, she wore a cinnamon-colored sweater. Her hair was yanked back in a messy ponytail and her cheeks were brushed with a hint of pink that Louis knew had to have come from the wind. She had abandoned makeup days ago.

  Louis looked back at the road. The sky was a blend of grays and purples, claw-like clouds scratching their way over the scrub lands. He wasn’t sure why they were going back to Copeland. Even with a sketch of a new suspect, a man they believed to be from this area, they would likely be met with more closed doors. But it was better than sitting back at Susan’s, waiting while Wainwright, the sheriff, and now the state guys waged their battle of power and blame.

  Joe slowed as they made the turn off 29 into Copeland.

  “Did you tell the chief we were coming back out here?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Probably just as well.”

  Joe parked the Bronco near a trio of trailers and they got out. Even with the wind, it was incredibly quiet out here. Louis remembered hearing somewhere that Copeland had once been a thriving town, built on cypress logging. Now it seemed lifeless and forgotten.

  “You’d think there’d be a store or something out here,” Joe said. “How do these people survive?”

  Louis didn’t know and didn’t care. He folded the sketch and followed Joe to the first trailer, waiting while she knocked. There was no answer, even though they could see movement beyond the blue curtain. No one answered at the second trailer, and at the third trailer the old man they had talked to on their first trip didn’t recognize the sketch.

  They walked on, across the asphalt street to a cluster of Kleenex-box houses. Rusted bicycles, dented trash cans, and old furniture cluttered the yards. A child’s face peered at them from behind a cracked window. Joe tried that house first.

  Louis waited out near the gate while she talked to the owner, a middle-aged guy with a ragged beard, bulbous eyes, and baggy blue jeans. His eyes stayed on the sketch a long time, but when he looked up at Joe, he was shaking his head. It was the same at the other houses they tried.

  They came to the house at the end of the street, this time Louis taking the lead up the plywood porch. Joe waited at the bottom, her gaze moving out across the landscape.

  “We didn’t hit that place over there the first time,” she said, pointing.

  Louis followed her finger to a rusted green and white trailer listing in waist-high weeds. It was set apart from the others at the far end of the street.

  “It looks abandoned,” Louis said, knocking on the door of the house.

  The aluminum door opened and a woman peered out. She was old, her face leathered and lined, her eyes strangely unfocused. She wore a man’s cardigan over her nightgown. “Who's there?” she asked.

  “My name is Kincaid and we’re police officers,” he said, lying for simplicity. “We’re looking for a man.”

  “Who’d you say you are?”

  “Police officers. We’re looking for a man. Can you take a look at this picture --?”

  “I can’t take a look at anything. I’m blind. Go away.”

  She started to close the door but Louis put up a hand. “Ma’am, that trailer at the end of the street...anyone living there?”

  “The green one? Nah. Ain’t nobody been there for years.” She slammed the door.

  Back in the Bronco, Jo
e started to turn around so they could head back to 29.

  “Wait,” Louis said. “Let’s check out that abandoned trailer while we’re here.”

  Joe pulled the Bronco up and killed the engine. They trudged through the weeds up to the trailer. The rusted mail-box had fallen off its post and was lying in the weeds. Louis kicked it over. It read: Raif & Janice Fletcher. Joe had gone on ahead and had mounted the cement blocks that served as steps. As she pounded on the door, Louis went to the side of the trailer, straining to see in the high window. It was covered with aluminum foil.

  Joe was still pounding on the door. Louis waited, leaning against the trailer. He felt the trailer shift, but he knew it was more likely from the wind rather than from the weight of someone moving around inside.

  “It’s empty,” Joe called out “Let’s get out of here.”

  She jumped off the cement blocks and started back through the weeds to the Bronco. Louis looked back at the front window of the trailer, half-expecting to see some curious face peering back at him through the blinds. There was no one there.

  But something else had caught his eye – a flash of color. On the inside window sill stood four small plastic figurines.

  He stepped closer. Cowboys.

  Louis felt a kick in his gut. Someone was inside, someone now watching them. He suddenly had a feeling that if he didn’t keep walking, they could be shot where they stood.

  Joe had paused by the mailbox.

  “Joe,” Louis said, “get in the truck.”

  She didn’t question him.

  “Drive,” he said, once inside.

  She put the truck in gear. “What did you see?” she asked.

  “Toy cowboys,” Louis said. “Just like the one in the old people’s house. Find a place to pull in, some place we can’t be seen from the trailer.”

  She headed back to the main road. She stopped the Bronco behind an empty cinder block building and turned to face him.

  “That Gene Autry cowboy in the McAllister place? Ben didn’t leave it,” Louis said, jabbing a finger at the sketch. “He did.”

  He sat, hand at his brow, staring at the green and white trailer.

  “We need to call this in,” Joe said. “My radio is no good here. How far back was that pay phone?”

  “Ben could be in there. I’m not leaving,” Louis said tightly.

  “Then I will. I can run back to the phone in a few minutes.”

  “They’ll see you.”

  “We can’t just sit here. We have no choice.”

  She rummaged in her console for change and got out, sprinting away from the car.

  A sudden varoom-varoom split the silence, the clamor of an unmufflered car engine. Louis’s head shot up.

  He looked out the open window of the Bronco in time to see a spray of gravel and dirt coming from around the back of the green and white trailer. Then what looked like a Jeep with no top and huge tires took off down the road, moving away from them fast.

  “Joe!” Louis shouted out the window. But she was already running back to the Bronco.

  She jumped in, slammed the Bronco into drive, and took off, flattening Louis against the passenger seat.

  CHAPTER 33

  The swamp buggy was about a hundred yards ahead, careening down the road, its heavy tires spitting gravel and dirt. Suddenly, it straightened and shot off, heading down the scenic drive toward the quarry.

  Joe punched the accelerator.

  Louis could see there was only one man in the open front seat of the buggy. Dark hair. Had to be Ellis.

  “There’s no other way out,” he said.

  “And no way can he outrun us in that thing.”

  They were gaining on the buggy. Suddenly, the Bronco took a hard jolt and Louis threw out a hand to brace himself against the dash.

  “Shit!” Joe said.

  The hard-packed gravel was gone, the road turning rough and rutted, pitted from the hard rains. Louis caught sight of a sign marking the entrance of the Fakahatchee Strand. The Bronco hit a deep hole, and Joe had to jerk the wheel hard to keep it on the narrowing road. Louis felt the shock penetrate the still tender bruise on his chest.

  Joe was silent, gripping the wheel, trying to steer the Bronco around the holes and ruts, keeping it from spinning off into the cypress trees and swamps bordering the road. Louis gritted his teeth at every swerve and jolt.

  The Bronco bounced into a deep hole, sending up a spray of mud. The windshield went opaque brown.

  “Damn it!” Joe yelled. She had to ease off as she flipped on the wipers. It was a couple of seconds before the washers cleared enough for them to see again.

  The buggy was pulling away. With its giant tires and open windowless carriage, it now had the advantage. Joe hit the gas heavy again but with every bone-jarring slam, she had to back off.

  “You’re losing him!” Louis yelled, squinting through the mud-smeared windshield.

  “I know, damn it!”

  Suddenly, there was a spin of mud ahead of them. The buggy had come to a stop. A second later, it took a sharp veer to the left.

  “It’s the turn south,” Louis said. “I remember it from the drop. There’s a stretch of good road ahead. Stay with him.”

  Joe followed, hitting the turn at a reckless speed, but then maneuvering out of a spin. A few seconds later, Louis felt the road smooth out some and the Bronco’s tires found their grip. The swamp buggy was maybe fifty yards ahead now, and the Bronco was closing in.

  Louis pulled his Glock out of his holster and looked down for a split second as he chambered a round.

  “Shit!” Joe yelled.

  Louis looked up to see the buggy disappear off the road.

  “He went into the fucking trees!”

  Joe hit the gas and the Bronco bounced up to the spot where the buggy had gone off the road. Joe slammed on the brakes, throwing Louis into the dashboard. The Bronco spun to a stop at the edge of the brush.

  Louis couldn’t see anything through the muddy windows. He pushed open the door and jumped out, gun raised.

  Nothing. Just a stand of squat palms and reeds and two deep tracks running off through the mud into the far brush. He could hear the growl of the buggy moving away.

  Joe was at his side, gun drawn, breath coming hard and fast. She saw the tracks and swung back to Louis.

  “We’ll never make it in there! Shit! He’s --”

  “Joe, quiet!” Louis said.

  She stared at him.

  “Turn off the engine!”

  “What?”

  “Just do it! Now!”

  She ran back and switched off the engine.

  Louis raised the Glock, turning his head.

  Joe came up, gun raised.

  “Wait. Listen,” Louis said.

  Joe didn’t move. Louis strained to hear.

  “What?” she said.

  “No engine.” He was staring into the brush in the direction of the tire tracks. “I swear I heard something, like water, like a splash.”

  He darted into the trees, his feet hitting hard mud, the broken trees and branches scraping at his ankles. With each step, the ground grew soggier, and he could feel water seeping into his shoes.

  He smelled gasoline. A thin cloud of steam rose from beyond the bushes ahead of him. He moved closer, feeling water swirl up around his ankles, then to his knees. He parted the bushes cautiously.

  The buggy was nose-down in the inky black water, the back wheels still spinning slowly. He couldn’t see the seats, couldn’t see the man. But he could see the metal box on the back of the buggy, locked with a pad lock.

  On the other side of the buggy he heard movement. A thrashing in the water. Branches snapping. His eyes swung back to the locked box.

  He heard panting behind him. He knew it was Joe.

  “Go, go,” she said. “I’ll check out the buggy.”

  Louis moved around the buggy, mud sucking at his shoes. The water was cold and black, with sharp broken cypress stumps breaking the
surface like spikes.

  He heard a groan and another splash and he swung the Glock to his left. He saw the man trudging through the water, arms flailing for balance.

  Louis tried to run, but couldn’t. The water pulled at his thighs, his shoes stuck in the mucky bottom. His chest felt ready to explode. But he was getting closer and could hear the man gasping for breath.

  “Stop!” Louis yelled.

  The man glanced over his shoulder but kept going.

  Louis got his first good look at him. He was covered with mud but Louis could tell it was Byron Ellis.

  Louis pushed through the water, almost close enough to take him down. Ellis came to a stop, and started to look back again as Louis lunged at him, wrapping his arms around Ellis’s shoulders.

  They crashed sideways into the water. Ellis started throwing wild punches and it was all Louis could do to hold his head above water and keep hold of Ellis’s shirt. Louis tried to hit him with the butt of the Glock.

  A fist landed, hard and solid, into Louis’s chest sending an explosion of pain through his upper body so strong he stumbled backward, grabbing his right shoulder. He couldn’t back pedal fast enough to keep his balance.

  The muddy water rushed over his face. And for a second, he was under, Ellis a blur coming back to him.

  As his head came out of the water, he saw Ellis’s arm stretch out at him, saw something black glistening in his hand.

  A gun.

  Louis tried to bring his Glock from under the water, but it was heavy, caked with mud.

  A shot cracked above his head. Then another.

  It took Louis a second to realize it was not Ellis who was shooting. The shots had come from somewhere else.

  Louis turned and saw Joe standing a few feet away, knee-deep in water, her gun leveled.

  Ellis let out a moan and staggered, falling face first into the water. Louis struggled to his feet and stumbled to him, turning him over.

  Ellis’s eyes were open and moving, but he was limp, his hands empty. Louis grabbed him under the arms and started dragging him to dry ground.

  Louis collapsed onto the dirt, letting go of Ellis as he tried to catch his breath. Ellis was just lying there, his shoulders and head resting against a cypress stump.