by David Banner
“Who was—”
“Quiet!” he interrupted his frightened wife.
As it was, all of the knowledge Virginia had about the killer couple came from papers and trace evidence. But she still found herself surprised by Connie’s shot at her. There just seemed to be something about the woman, something that spoke to another side of her. Was she just tired, was she reserved, or had the weight of her actions finally taken their toll?
Not that it happened all that often, but there had been times in the detective’s career when she’d seen criminals suddenly turn a corner, suddenly regret their decisions or ask for forgiveness. To her, they were the most puzzling of cases. After all, why begin a life of crime only to come clean?
“Come out, now,” Michael steadied his voice. “Show yourself.”
“Drop the weapon,” Vee said from behind the large boiler.
“Not gonna happen,” Michael replied. “Come out or I’ll shoot.”
“If a bullet hits this thing, we’re all dead,” Virginia reasoned.
“Doesn’t matter. We’re dead, anyway.”
It was the reasoning of a man who saw himself with nothing to lose. It was among the worst responses the man could have had. Negotiations were always a weak spot for Vee. Especially when the person behind the weapon spoke of things like that. She’d just never figured out how to convince someone with nothing to gain that turning themselves in would help.
“Drop the weapon,” she said again. “Maybe the law will go easy on one of you. Maybe Connie will be out in a few years. Kill a detective, though, and you’re a goner.”
“We’re in this together.”
“Doesn’t seem like it,” Virginia said, peeking around the corner of the boiler.
A bullet tore through the air, barely missing her forehead.
“Be quiet!” Connie snapped as she fired the gun.
“What is she talking about?” Michael asked, the knife in his hand now a little further from Patrick Maynor’s face. “What did you do? Have you been talking to someone behind my back?”
“What? No.” Connie gave a confused headshake.
The detective’s instincts had been right. The discourse she’d sensed turned out to be real. There seemed to be more than just spilled blood between the couple. It wasn’t much to go on so far, but it was all she had, and Virginia was willing to work any angle she could if it meant keeping the attention off Maynor.
“Connie . . .” the detective began. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to keep going down this road. You can leave, just walk out the door.”
“She’s not going anywhere,” Michael snapped, his voice heavy with a mix of anger and frustration.
Virginia wondered if he’d really been so blind as to not see the torment in his wife’s eyes, if he’d really been so blinded by his trail of revenge that he’d lost sight of the woman he’d once loved so much. She pulled a crumpled photo from her pocket, and quickly smoothing it out, she tossed it on the floor at Connie’s feet.
White flowers lined the long driveway, disappearing out of focus in the gorgeous plantation background as Connie and Michael Miller smiled for the camera. He wore a tailored black suit and she a flowing white gown. It had been the happiest day of their lives, the start of a brand-new beginning together, one a million miles away from where they were now.
“Where did you get this?” Connie picked the photo up from the floor and held it high in the air.
“Your wedding was big news for Blacksville,” she answered. “The girl from the prettiest house in the county finally found her Romeo. Is it true they used to call you Juliet?”
“What is she talking about?” Michael was becoming more and more angry by the minute.
“That big balcony around back,” Vee said, trying her best to distract the couple. “I read in one of the society pages that Connie used to stand up there and sing. Boys would throw flowers up there. That’s where she picked a date for the Sadie Hawkins dance, right?”
It was silly, of course, the kind of thing you only see in the South, and even less so these days. But there’d been a time when the world basically kneeled at the feet of pretty young girls with flowing dresses and flowers in their hair.
“What is she talking about?” Michael looked at his wife.
“It was a long time ago,” she answered, her voice cracking and her body shaking. “Shut up!” she fired another shot toward the boiler.
“Why does she know more about you than I do?” Michael snapped, taking yet another step further from Mr. Maynor.
“I . . . it’s old Southern crap. Cotillions and things. It doesn’t matter now.”
“Then why didn’t I know? Standing up there, picking up roses . . . I’ve never even heard you sing!”
“Maybe that’s because you didn’t listen! Maybe that’s because you didn’t ask.” Connie raised her gun, this time pointing it at her husband.
Taking the opportunity, Virginia leapt out from behind the large boiler and dove toward Patrick Maynor. Her body collided with his and sent them both crashing to the floor like a ton of bricks. Shots rang out, tearing through the room as Virginia pulled a knife from her pocket and cut through Patrick’s ties. His hands were free. All she needed to do now was get him out alive before anything happened.
“Go . . .” she whispered, nodding her head toward a small storm door near the back of the room. “I’ll distract them.”
Virginia leapt to her feet. She was surrounded. Connie and Clyde, the killer couple, stood at either side of her. Michael held a knife in front of his chest while Connie kept her gun aimed squarely at Virginia.
“Connie,” Vee began. “I can help you.”
“I don’t need your help.” Connie took aim and squeezed the trigger.
Chapter Forty-Six
SUNDAY, 9:45 PM
TAYLOR
“Come on!” Taylor tugged at his handcuffs, trying desperately to squeeze his large hands through the metal ring. It was no use, though. His muscular arms left little room for wiggle, much less for escape.
He was furious. How could she have left him out there like that? How could she not have trusted him to keep himself safe, or worse, to keep her safe? Did she really think he was so young and green that he wouldn’t be able to help? The thoughts did little to calm him down.
“Asshole . . .” he muttered, looking up at the large house.
He knew it was useless, but he couldn’t help himself. The young journalist kicked the car door and tugged against his handcuffs. Surely, there has to be a way out of this, he thought. Through a cloud of frustration, he leaned into the car, searching for anything that might help free him, anything that might break through the handcuffs.
He leaned in, laying his body across the seats. His finger grappled at the glovebox as he tried his best to grip the latch. Finally, it fell open and papers spilled out from inside. He quickly searched them using his free hand. A paperclip, a key, anything that might help. There was nothing, though, nothing that would help him out of the prison he’d found himself in.
“Shit!” he yelled, slamming his fist hard against the floor.
There it was, his solution. From beneath the seat fell a gun. Its black metal shone against the Georgia moonlight, reflecting like a perfect answer to his prayers.
“Okay . . .” he muttered, lifting the gun from the floor and climbing back out of the car.
“Hold it right there!” a voice called out through the dark.
Taylor turned to see an unfamiliar FBI agent pointing a gun directly at his head. His heart skipped a beat as he looked down to see the gun in his hand and blue lights flashing in the distance.
“Drop it!” said the agent.
“My name—”
“Drop it,” he repeated.
“Right.” Taylor let go of the gun. He watched it happen as though it weren’t real, as though he were having an out of body experience. The gun crashed to the dirt-covered ground, bouncing once before finally firing a shot into the night.
<
br /> “On your knees!” the agent said, firing a shot into Taylor’s shoulder.
It was like nothing he’d ever felt, a new kind of pain and one he wasn’t too keen on experiencing again. Through the darkness and confusion, the unfamiliar agent panicked at the sound of gunfire and retaliated, leaving the man wounded.
“I’m a journalist,” he said. “I’m here with Virginia Nixon.”
“Who handcuffed you?” the agent shouted through the darkness.
“She did. Vee—”
“Were you threatening someone?”
“No. She didn’t want me to follow her. She was trying to keep me safe. Fat lot of good it did, right?” Taylor said through the pain.
“Where is she now?”
“In the house,” Taylor replied. “I heard gunshots, but I couldn’t get free of the handcuffs. You shot me—”
“I was retaliating. A gun fired. But if you are who you claim to be, then we will get you help when my backup arrives.”
“Backup is here,” a familiar voice said, shining a flashlight on the journalist’s face. “And he is who he claims. Hello, Mr. Clarke.”
Jacob Hindle stared down at him with an unfamiliar look. It wasn’t the disgust he’d normally been met with, though it wasn’t concern or compassion either. This was something else entirely. It was like he’d seen a weed in his garden, the same one he’d plucked from the earth numerous times before. He was looking at Taylor and wondering what to do next.
“Virginia,” Taylor said. “She’s in the house. There’s gunfire. Go help her.”
“Gunfire? Are you sure?”
“That or the Fourth of July celebration came early.”
With that, Chief Hindle gathered a few extra men and headed for the house. Taylor leaned against the car and began taking slow breaths as a young officer carrying a medical kit kneeled next to him.
“It’s okay.” He pulled a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from his bag. “You’ll be okay.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
SUNDAY, 9:45 PM
VIRGINIA
Virginia’s eyes locked on to Connie’s as she held her gun high in the air and began slowly and carefully squeezing the trigger. Was this it? Would three shots end Virginia Nixon’s life in the basement of a massive plantation house? Not yet.
The sound of boots marching hurriedly above them echoed through the basement. Her backup was there. The FBI and local police had arrived, and if she could manage to stay alive for a few more seconds, she’d likely be in the clear.
As the door burst open, Connie dove forward. Grabbing the detective, she wrapped her arm around her waist and pressed the gun against the side of her head. Virginia was off her game. She had to be. That’s the only explanation she could come up with for letting Connie Miller use her as a human shield. If she were lucky enough to survive this day, she would make sure that never happened again.
“Hands down!” A loud, deep voice carried through the basement.
Through the broken door entered a flurry of armor-clad federal agents, each one packing enough firepower to take out an entire room full of people. Connie stepped back. Taking Virginia with her, she made her way toward the same door Patrick Maynor had used to escape only seconds before.
“Go to hell!” Michael snapped, lunging forward and flailing his blade through the air.
It only took one well-timed shot for the agent to end his life.
Connie yelled out in horror.
Perhaps it wasn’t the perfect marriage, but she’d once loved the man. She’d once planned to spend the rest of her life with him, to bear his children and watch him grow old. That would never again be an option. Her husband lay bleeding out on the floor in front of her. Blood gurgled up from his body and splashed from his mouth.
Connie roared again.
Michael Miller was gone.
“Connie,” Vee said, squeezing her hand softly.
“Shut up!” Connie pressed the gun harder into Virginia’s head. “This is your fault. If you’d have let me talk to him, I could have stopped him. I could have saved him. He would have listened to me!”
“Connie, if you would just—”
“I told you to shut up!” The distraught woman pulled back then slammed the gun into the detective’s face.
A burning pain shot through her head as the gun ripped her flesh, its barrel gouging out a small piece of her cheek. She tried her best to steady herself as her heart slammed hard against her chest, beating harder than it ever had before.
“Please,” Virginia said breathlessly. “Just talk to me.”
“About what?” Connie cried. “What does it matter now? None of this means anything anymore. I lost my life, I lost my house, and I lost my husband!”
“You can recover from this.”
“Recover?” Connie scoffed, her words now coming faster and more frantic. She was losing her cool, going crazier and crazier by the second. “My husband is dead and it’s your fault. You and that asshole partner of his.”
Virginia’s feet struggled to grasp the old concrete floor as Connie dragged her backward, inching ever closer toward the door.
“Drop the weapon!” Another agent entered the room.
There were now six people crammed into the small basement, five of whom were still alive, though for how much longer was anyone’s guess. The three agents slowly began to fan out, each one keeping their guns aimed high at Connie Miller’s head. It was getting harder and harder for the detective to keep track of the woman’s thought process.
One minute, the former housewife seemed to love her husband, crying about his death and cutting her eyes toward his body. Other times, she spoke of his mistakes and how they’d brought her here. She talked about taking her own path, that she shouldn’t have so blindly followed him down a road of certain destruction. To put it simply, Connie Miller was losing it.
“Connie, just try and calm down,” Virginia said in her softest voice.
Connie kept silent.
“Go.” She nodded to the heavily armed agents.
“Go.” She calmly repeated again after being met with nothing but silence and still-aimed weapons.
It took a little longer and a little more convincing than she’d have hoped, but eventually, Virginia Nixon found herself alone with the killer couple once again. Only this time, the numbers were even.
“Just take a breath . . .” Vee stated calmly.
Connie’s eyes stayed glued to the lifeless and still body of her husband. She froze in place, her feet planted firmly to the floor. This is it, thought the detective. This was the best chance she was going to have at catching her off guard.
Using all the force she could muster, Virginia slammed her elbow into Connie Miller’s side, causing her to drop her weapon. The gun slid across the floor, stopping just short of Michael Miller’s lifeless body.
The detective leapt forward, and scooping it up in her hands, she turned to find herself alone in the room. Connie was gone.
Chapter Forty-Eight
SUNDAY, 9:55 PM
VIRGINIA
Thick, hot air rushed into Virginia’s lungs as she ran up the steps and out into the night. With little more than moonlight to guide her, she listened for any sound to guide her way to Connie Miller. The detective was sure that by that point, Patrick Maynor would have made it back to the safety of the police officers and federal agents near the front of the planation, though somewhere in the chaos of the basement, she’d managed to lose her radio. She would have to go this one alone.
“Connie!” she called out into the night.
In the beginning, there was nothing, no sound of footsteps, no cries for help, only the still silence of a Georgia night.
“I know you can hear me,” Vee said, taking a few steps further into the seemingly endless onion fields.
A single whimper carried through the air, one that sent the detective running further into the night. The sound of Connie’s fo
otsteps rang out, cutting through the silence as she ran further into the dark. Virginia followed closely behind her, stopping every few moments and listening for anything.
Inevitably, Connie would release a small cry or whimper, one that would once again send the two women running further and further into the night until finally, through the moonlight, Virginia noticed a small house. She stopped, almost certain she could see Connie’s shadow brushing through the door. The detective slowly made her way closer.
It was a ramshackle kind of thing, constructed entirely of wood. A rusted out metal roof covered the top, its corner flapping in the low breeze. It was ornate in a way, but time hadn’t been kind to the building. Virginia Nixon would be the first to admit she knew little about old Southern plantations. Those kinds of places always symbolized the kind of lifestyle she’d never been a part of. The kind with real money.
Sure, she’d been to a handful of dances in her youth, even going so far as to attend the sporadic social event, but it was no secret to anyone within spitting distance that the young girl just didn’t belong. Her momma never had much in the way of money, and with all the troubles she had staying true to one man, she’d never really carried the best name around town.
Those kinds of things aren’t lost in places like Savannah and its surrounding counties, especially during those days. It even seemed that Virginia herself carried the mark of her mother’s poor choices as a little girl. As a result, she’d never spent much time on the grounds of plantation homes. Her feet just didn’t seem to rest properly on the ground.
“What is this?” Virginia muttered, stepping into the small house.
“It’s a garconnière,” Connie whispered in perfect French, her voice travelling through the small house like a ghost.
“What?” Virginia said, having trouble pinpointing the source of the sound as it bounced from wall to wall in the darkness.
“A bachelor’s quarters,” she continued. “They were mostly built by the Louisiana Creole people, but my great-great-granddaddy decided his son needed one too. They used to house unmarried sons of plantation owners once they became young men.”