Avengers of Blood (Cass Elliot Crime Series - Book 2)

by Woods, Gae-Lynn

  Kado nodded and yawned as a big black man in scrubs hurried through the emergency room doors. He spotted the small group. “I heard Detective Elliot got shot,” Jerome said, concern in his dark chocolate eyes. “How is she?”

  “She’ll be fine,” Mitch said.

  “And you found Emmet? Is he okay?”

  “A few shotgun pellets in his hide, but he’ll recover. See for yourself.”

  Jerome turned and spotted Emmet and Celia at the billing desk. “Thanks,” he said, and joined the other couple.

  “Are we just going to let Emmet leave?” Kado whispered. “What about the murders around the country? What about Whitehead’s murder?”

  “Truman,” Mitch said. “Very quietly, tell Emmet not to leave the county. We’ll have more questions for him. Don’t tell him about what.”

  They watched as Truman waited for Emmet to sign the last of the hospital’s paperwork, then pulled him aside. Truman leaned in close and Emmet made eye contact with Mitch, then nodded.

  Kado drew a deep breath. “I might as well get to the station and start pulling the data together for Hoffner. He told me to stay away from Cass until the Firearm Discharge Board hearing is over. Tell her I’ll be thinking about her.”

  “That is such nonsense. Why don’t you tell her yourself?” Darla asked. She lifted a chin in Jerome’s direction. “I’ll bet he’s up for a little undercover work.”

  ____________

  JEROME WHISTLED SOFTLY AND nodded at the young officer standing guard outside Cass’s room. Truman checked the hall and then pushed the door open and stood aside. With a grunt, Jerome pulled the laundry cart inside but then jumped as a woman’s voice said, “Clean sheets? At almost ten-thirty?”

  Jerome’s breath caught in his throat. “Wrong room,” he mumbled, preparing to wheel the cart back out.

  “Jerome?” a soft voice called. “Is that you?”

  He turned to find Detective Elliot flashing him a tired smile. A skinny dark-headed woman sat beside the bed. “It is. How you feeling?”

  “Not bad, considering. Are you moonlighting for the hospital?”

  “Not exactly. Is this a friend?”

  “My best friend. Jerome, meet Maxine. We’ve known each other forever.”

  Maxine wiggled her fingers at Jerome. He relaxed and jostled the cart. “It’s clear.”

  Kado popped up from beneath the sheets and towels. Cass and Maxine started to giggle.

  “Men have done wild things for me, Cass,” Maxine said. “But none ever snuck into my hospital room in a cart full of laundry.”

  Kado plucked a wash cloth from his head and tossed it in the bin, then leaned in and grabbed a paper bag. “Thanks for throwing clean stuff in here. I’m not sure I could’ve handled riding with bodily fluids.”

  “My pleasure. If you don’t need anything else, I’ll take my cart and be going.” Jerome smiled over at the women. “Glad to see you’re okay, Detective. And thanks for getting Emmet out alive.”

  “I’m not sure how helpful I was, but I’m glad he’s okay.”

  Maxine stood. “I think I’d better head out.” She bent and kissed Cass’s forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning, if you haven’t convinced Kado to break you out by then.”

  She followed Jerome from the room, asking about his marital status.

  Kado pulled pudding cups and plastic spoons from the brown bag. “I promised you dinner,” he said, ripping the foil from one cup and handing it over. He sat in the chair next to her, opened another cup, and took a bite. “I hate hospitals.”

  Cass licked her spoon. “Me, too. My brother Bobby had leukemia. We spent a lot of time in doctor’s offices and waiting rooms. The smell…”

  “And the sounds. How can they expect anybody to get well while all this equipment beeps and staff are in and out of the rooms at all hours?” He finished his pudding and sat back, watching her.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he clarified. “Whitman’s dead. So is Joseph Franklin. What do you remember about the shooting?”

  She told him.

  “That ties with the evidence. Joseph’s shot killed Whitman, not yours.”

  “Where did I hit her? I mean, him?”

  “Shoulder. Almost the same place as where he wounded you. If Joseph hadn’t been there and fired, your shot would’ve incapacitated him.”

  “It’s funny, but I can’t help but think of him as Junie Archer.”

  “He created an excellent illusion. The makeup, the clothes. Whitman even wore this contraption that squeezed his pecs together to make cleavage.”

  “A bra?”

  “Kind of, but with a bunch of other parts. Bernie can tell you about it.” His tired gray eyes twinkled. “Apparently he’s seen one before.” His smiled faded and his voice was quiet when he spoke. “I saw the scar, Cass.”

  Her eyes closed. “Secrets. They have a way of coming out, don’t they?”

  “You were raped?”

  She nodded.

  “The note. Is it related to the scar?”

  She slowly opened her eyes. “Yes. But not mine.”

  “He did this to someone else?”

  “At least two other women. He left the note for Maxine.”

  “I guess I understand why she didn’t report her rape, but you didn’t report yours?”

  “No, I didn’t. I was young and dumb and thought it was my fault. I was careless and gave him the chance to roofie me.”

  “It doesn’t matter how careless you were, it wasn’t your fault.” He took her hand and glanced at the clock. “I have to finish some reports tonight for Hoffner. But we’ll talk more about this later, okay?”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  Kado looked at her. “About what you’ll do when we find him.”

  “If we find him.”

  “We will. And then you, and probably Maxine, will have some decisions to make.”

  CHAPTER 157

  MOONLIGHT PLAYED ON THE low, drowsy waters of the Sabine River. It was early May, and the mercury was already well above normal levels and the rainfall well below. The old timers who gossiped in the shade of the great trees around the courthouse projected that this would be East Texas’ driest summer in nearly a century. Celia drove across the bridge with the windows down, listening to the soothing snick of the tires over the concrete seams. She promised herself that they would put Emmet’s little black pickup in the shop next week to have the air conditioner fixed. Then she corrected herself: they’d put his truck in the shop once the police were finished with her green Camry.

  She looked over at her husband and wondered how they would put their marriage back together. He was a murderer, no two ways about it, but she understood why he had done what he had done. She wasn’t sure whether she could release the hurt of the last several years, but she intended to give it a try. Emmet had taken a huge step by telling her about the murders and his role in them, and Celia honored him for that. She only wished he’d placed his trust in her sooner.

  Celia checked for headlights and did a u-turn, heading back across the bridge. Stopping near its middle, she touched Emmet’s shoulder. “We’re here.”

  He woke slowly, groggy from the pain medication she’d demanded he take before leaving the hospital. “Anyone around?”

  Celia shook her head. Emmet reached for the door handle, but she stopped him. “I’ll do it.”

  “Asking you to take the bags from the trunk of your car was enough. That’s tampering with evidence. Destroying it is mine to do. For Moses and Donna. For Joseph.” He looked across the truck at her. “And for me and you.”

  He slid out of the car and Celia pushed the two duffel bags across the seat to him. With difficulty, Emmet unzipped each and dumped their contents into the lazy current. Bloody towels, new and used medical supplies, changes of clothes. He thumbed the ammunition from two spare magazines and then tossed it and the duffels over the bridge. Their guns were with
the police, evidence taken from Junie Archer’s house. The only thing he kept from the bags was the cash.

  Emmet let Celia buckle him back in, then sat with his head leaning toward the open window, breathing in the wash of muggy night air as she drove away.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “It’s the best I can do. There are no records to prove that we killed those men. Or that we were together at the times they were murdered. No physical evidence to tie us to those crime scenes.”

  “It’s over?”

  “As over as I can make it. I figure the cops will poke around for a while and try to link us to those killings. But they can’t.”

  She sighed then, a soft sound that was whisked away by the wind. He held out his good hand and she took it. “Home?” she asked.

  Emmet nodded, his eyes tired but at peace. “Home.”

  CHAPTER 158

  “WHO KNOWS?” KADO ASKED.

  Truman, Munk, and Martinez exchanged glances. They were seated around the square evidence table in the forensics room, faces grim. Paperwork was scattered across the table, the scant evidence linking Moses Franklin, Donna Moore, and Emmet Hedder to the murders of three men around the country and Calvin Whitehead in Forney County.

  “Us,” Munk said. “Cass and Mitch. Darla.”

  “Porky, probably,” Truman piped up. “I heard him telling Mitch that Moses was singing bass at the church service, and that Joseph was the one with the lower voice. Moses sang tenor.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Porky might’ve told Grey. And Bernie.”

  “Petchard,” Munk added. “Although nobody would believe him.”

  “He’s got no family left. Why does it matter?” Kado asked.

  Martinez stirred. His brown eyes were bloodshot, his steely crew cut wilting. “There’s a lot of money at stake. Moses’ will leaves everything to a little girl named Amelia. For her college.”

  “Technically,” Kado said, “that will was forged.”

  Martinez glared. “What is it with you?”

  “I think the kid should get the money, Carlos, but this is serious business. Let’s walk through it. When Moses and his mother were killed, their estates passed to Joseph. So legally, he would’ve received Moses’ death benefits, right? Then Joseph could leave them to whoever he wanted. Since he died without a will, the state decides how his estate is distributed.”

  The men nodded.

  Kado’s tone turned reflective. “If Moses died Wednesday night, he wasn’t killed in the line of duty, so Joseph wouldn’t receive any extra benefits. But if Joseph died Wednesday and Moses died today…”

  “Then his heir gets the extra benefits and he’s a hero,” Munk said. He yawned until his jaw popped. “I can see the headline in the Forney Cater, ‘Hero Cop Sacrifices Self to Save Others’. We could use a little of that around here.”

  “Any objections to leaving things as they are? With Joseph dead on Wednesday and Moses dying today? Will Cass or Mitch have a problem with it? Grey or Porky?”

  “I can’t imagine they will,” Munk said. “They loved Moses as much as we did.”

  “Okay, how about pursuing Emmet Hedder for the murders in those other states?” Kado asked. “And for Whitehead’s lynching?”

  “There’s no real evidence that he was involved. And do you think anybody cares?” Martinez asked. “Child abuse? Prostitution of a child? Sounds like every one of them needed killing.”

  “I hear you, Carlos, but we’ve got Whitehead’s murder to clear.”

  Truman leaned forward, his hazel eyes sharp. “That gas plant explosion in Watuga County was lucky for us, because the press hasn’t put any time into these crimes. But the Forney Cater will run more stories. What if we helped Wally Pugh with a few anonymous details?”

  “What are you talking about?” Munk asked.

  “Not lying, exactly, but leading him in the wrong direction. This is some juicy stuff. A man living in Forney County for over thirty years is really a violent, corrupt cop from Alabama? And his son shows up in Arcadia, dressed like a woman? All that’s true. What if we nudged Wally a little?”

  Munk snorted a laugh. “In the direction of thinking that Junie Archer, a.k.a. Calvin Whitman Jr., killed his father?”

  Truman nodded. “Why not? He did shoot Donna, Mrs. Franklin, and both the Mojos. And he tried to kill Emmet.”

  Kado rubbed his temples and looked around the wide forensics table, his face grim. “You realize what we’re doing, guys? We’re talking about committing fraud and condoning vigilante justice.”

  Munk shifted in his chair. “Who would know?”

  “We would,” Kado said. “But I don’t think anybody else would dig into the Moses-Joseph thing, or try to link Emmet, Donna, or Moses to those murders.”

  Martinez sighed. “Of all of us, I’ve got the most to lose. I’m closest to my pension. But I don’t have a problem with leaving the Mojo situation as it is. As for the vigilante stuff, I’ve got enough cases to work in Forney County. Hoffner won’t care about helping other jurisdictions, that’s for sure. Anybody got a problem with dropping it?”

  “No,” said Munk.

  “I don’t, but what about the food mashed in Moses’ shoes? And the gas on his clothes?” Truman asked.

  Martinez snorted and looked at the equipment on the counters. “I guess you and Hazel the sniffing machine were right. One of the Franklin twins was involved in Whitehead’s murder. Good work.”

  Kado dipped his head.

  “But the evidence,” Truman protested. “The tomatoes and strawberries and gas.”

  “What tomatoes and strawberries? What gas?” Kado asked.

  “The food from the storeroom and Mojo’s clothes,” Truman said, then stopped. “You never loaded that in the system, did you?”

  “What tomatoes and strawberries? What gas?” Kado asked again.

  Martinez nodded. “There’s hope for you yet, hombre.”

  CHAPTER 159

  THE QUIET MAN IN the cowboy hat walked down the hospital’s corridor, nose twitching at the stinging antiseptic scent. A janitor pushing a floor buffer moved the whirring machine from his path. Hitch carried on, golden eyes watchful.

  It was nearing midnight. Visiting hours were long over. The nurses were updating reports and watching the late news. The guard stationed outside the detective’s room had either been reassigned or was on a break. Either way, Hitch was grateful. He peered in the window of one room; the bed was empty. In the next, a man put his fishing magazine down and struggled to reposition himself, fighting his leg cast and the apparatus that held it suspended.

  Hitch moved on, seeking the flame-headed woman. The old man had sent him to the emergency room to hear firsthand what had happened out at the little farmhouse. It had taken several hours for an accurate picture to emerge of who was alive and who was dead. Hitch had stayed in and around the ER waiting room eavesdropping, trading one tattered magazine for another, drifting through the clusters of officers and the few reporters, and sipping dreadful coffee until the information flow stabilized and repeated itself.

  Once people began drifting away, Hitch stepped outside and called the old man. After Hitch delivered his update, the old man’s pipe clacked against his teeth in a way that Hitch had come to recognize as satisfaction. He allowed himself a brief moment to wonder why the old man was so interested in these people, and then pushed the thought away. The old man told him to head home, that his work was done for the night.

  But Hitch hadn’t left. Instead, he’d waited and watched until the last of them had gone. A nurse stopped by occasionally to ask if he needed anything, and he would shake his head with a smile. It was only now, when the hospital was as silent as hospitals ever got, that he looked for her. It was a compulsion he didn’t understand or question. Hitch simply needed to find her.

  He checked the last two rooms, then turned and walked back along his path on the opposite side of the hall. He found her three doors down. A lamp shone f
rom one corner, its outer edges providing scant illumination. But it was enough. She was sleeping, deeply from the look of her breathing. Hitch checked the hall and then pushed into her room, crossing silently to the bed.

  Her red hair was a dark mass against the white pillowcase, lustrous in the low light. Her skin was pale but her features were peaceful despite the bandage near her eye, and her long lashes lay like soft wings against her cheeks. A corner of gauze was visible from beneath the sheet and Hitch was filled with an intense longing, an emotion he had never felt before. It made him want to cradle this woman, this stranger, in his arms. To offer healing, protection. Reaching out a finger, he stroked her cheek. She frowned and her mouth twitched.

  Squeaking footsteps hurried past and Hitch stole to the door, peeking through the window and checking the corridor. It was empty. He turned back to the beautiful detective and wondered why she attracted him so. He allowed his gaze to travel over her features one last time, then Hitch settled his hat on his head and trod quietly to the exit.

  His thoughts were troubled as he moved across the quiet parking lot. She was the one who had uncovered the old man’s cult back in the spring, and she had enough tenacity that without the break due to her suspension, he suspected she would have found him. The old man wasn’t done with Hitch and his unique gifts, and therefore he would cross paths with this woman again.

  As adversaries.

  The old pickup’s engine purred to life and Hitched slipped onto Forney County’s dark back roads. He gazed through the windshield up at the sparkling sky, and wished upon a star that he wouldn’t have to kill her.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  They say that writing is a solitary endeavor, and to a great extent, I’d agree. But the inspiration and ideas that underlie my books spring from a variety of sources, and the support I’ve received while writing Avengers of Blood has been invaluable. Martyn, thanks once again for your faith in me. You waited with infinite patience while I worked my way through the plot for this story, then chuckled and said ‘a-ha!’ at all the right places while you read that first rough draft. You are a gift, and I treasure you more every day.