by Bob Avey
She glanced around, the clothes scattered across the furniture catching her attention. “It’s not that bad.”
She was being kind. “Yes it is,” Elliot said, straightening the pillows on the couch. “But have a seat anyway.”
Carmen looked away, dropping her gaze to the floor as she sat. “How long have you lived here?”
Elliot sat in an adjacent chair. “About three years. I hadn’t really planned on buying a house, but one of the guys I work with, his wife’s into real estate. She showed it to me. It was some sort of corporate-owned property. I guess they needed a loss and wanted to get rid of it. Anyway, I got a pretty good deal on it.”
She nodded. “It’s very nice.”
Elliot considered asking Carmen what it was she’d come to talk to him about, but before he could, another notion came along and pushed everything else to the side. Here, sitting in front of him, was the person he’d been with that night. Most people go through life thinking that somewhere down deep they have the right stuff, and that no matter what the circumstances or conditions, honor and wisdom would prevail in guiding their actions. But the truth is few people even have a clue as to the real scenario, because not many ever find occasion to have their mettle truly tested. The bottom line was, Elliot had to know for sure about that night and how he fit into it. He had no choice but to ask, though as it came out it was more of a release than a question. “I need to know, Carmen. I have to know what happened that night.”
A concerned look crossed her face. “What are you talking about?”
“Johnnie and Marcia. I had something to do with it. I see it in my dreams.”
Carmen’s eyes grew wet, her face contorted. “I’ve been wondering when you would put me through this.” She paused then continued. “Nick called me to pick you up at the party. You were drunk. I shouldn’t have let you drive, but you insisted. I begged you not to go to the Point, but you wouldn’t listen. You were out of your head, you were crazy. I had no choice but to go with you. Driving fast and all over the road, it would have been better if we’d just crashed. I prayed Johnnie wouldn’t be there, but in my heart I knew that he would be.” She paused and pulled a tissue from her purse to wipe the tears that had started to roll down her face. “You jumped out of the car, leaving it running and parked in the middle of the road. I came after you. I didn’t know what you would do.”
“Then it’s true,” Elliot said. “I read the old papers. There wasn’t enough there for me to have picked it up that way, not the way I remember it. What did I do? You have to tell me.”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t your fault. When you saw them like that, you went into some kind of shock or something. I had to drag you back to the car. Everyone would think that it was you. I knew that. I had to get you out of there. You didn’t have anything to do with it. Yes, we were there, but Johnnie and Marcia were already dead. We found them that way. You know I wouldn’t lie to you, especially about something like this.”
Elliot sank back into his chair. He felt as though someone had given him a painkiller, relieving the pressure of a nine-year migraine. He felt the words, “thank you,” escape his lips.
“There’s more,” Carmen said, her words trailing off as she spoke. “It’s about Wayne.”
Elliot sat forward. “Is he all right?”
“Yes. He tries to be strong. I couldn’t have made it through all that’s happened without him.”
“Where is he?”
“I left him with a friend,” she said, looking away. When she spoke again, she talked quickly, as if she wanted to get the words out before she changed her mind. “I have something to tell you. I promised myself it would be my secret, but I don’t have the right to keep it from you.” She paused.
When he could wait no longer, Elliot asked, “What is it?”
Carmen’s eyes filled with tears. “Wayne is your son, Kenny. You are his father. I know you were drunk and don’t remember, but there it is.”
Carmen’s words hit Elliot like a load of buckshot and for a moment the room spun. He got up from the chair and stepped closer to her. “My God, Carmen.”
She buried her face in her hands and began to cry. Elliot sat next to her, pulling her close, his heart throbbing in his chest. He had destroyed her, the most beautiful person he’d ever known. But that wasn’t enough. He’d also created a child with her, only to leave him fatherless.
“I haven’t told Wayne,” she said. “I don’t know how.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t.”
She pulled away. “Why not?”
“Look around you. Look at me. I’m not the same person you remember, Carmen. Hell, I’m not even sure I’m the same person I remember.”
She looked up, not to speak, but to stare into Elliot’s eyes for what seemed an eternity. Finally she said, “Yes you are, Kenny.”
Elliot shook his head. “Wayne has enough to worry about without having my weight strapped around his shoulders.”
Carmen jumped to her feet then drew her hand back and slapped Elliot across his face. It stung, but what hurt was the fact that she would do it. “You are pathetic. I hoped you would change, but still you have no respect, for yourself or anything else. Always with you it was Johnnie and Marcia, Johnnie and Marcia. Well, I hate to disappoint you, Kenny, but they were not the angels you thought they were. You had them on a damned pedestal so high nobody could reach it.”
Elliot had never heard her swear before. In fact, he couldn’t recall seeing her angry. It hurt. He was to blame.
“You’re a good man, Kenneth Wayne Elliot. I’m not sorry I met you. And I’m not sorry I love you. I’m just sorry that you can’t see past your own self-doubt.”
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she said, turning away. “I’ll let myself out.”
Elliot followed her, though he knew it would do no good. He wanted her to stay, but he figured it was best if she didn’t. She got in her car, and without another word she backed out of the drive and sped away, the rubber of the tires burning against the pavement.
26
The rifle salute shattered the morning silence, contrasting with the haunting sound of bagpipes that had come before. Beneath a cool and endlessly blue sky, Elliot tried to be a part of the ceremony, but he felt removed from it, as if he were someplace else seeing the event broadcast over closed-circuit television. He hadn’t heard from Carmen since she’d stormed out of his house.
Folding chairs had been placed on the cemetery lawn in neat rows, a quasi theater of the dead. The mourners watched as pallbearers carried the casket past then they all sat down in unison, acting on the minister’s instructions. Elliot looked across the sea of dark clothing: friends, relatives, and cops. A sharply dressed cadet approached Conley’s wife, and when he saluted and handed her the neatly folded flag, she began to cry. Elliot closed his eyes and prayed for God to allow him to trade places with her husband, but of course when he opened them again it hadn’t happened. The gravesite service dragged on forever and Elliot concluded the minister didn’t have any real knowledge about the life and nature of the man whose misfortune he was trying to exploit to save a few souls. It angered and disgusted him, and he thought that God must see through this charade and know the hearts of the true sinners in his presence.
Later, as the cars were pulling away, Elliot walked over to where Dombrowski was standing. They shook hands then collapsed into an embrace, hugging each other tightly for a few seconds. Elliot’s mind raced, trying to come up with a way to express how he felt, but all that came out was, “I’m sorry.” Then, for reasons he didn’t understand, he added, “I will get this guy. He’s going down.”
Dombrowski glanced at the others then back to Elliot. “If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t. You better watch yourself, Detective.” Again he looked away, and after a brief silence he said, “I’ll tell you what would make me feel better. It would make me feel better if everyone in the department, especially me, wasn’t worried about you.”
Elliot turned and walked away.
“Stop being such a renegade, Elliot,” Dombrowski called after him. “That act is wearing thin.”
Elliot didn’t answer. He knew he’d regret it if he did. Carmen was right. It was time he stopped rolling in defeat. A mental reprimand was in order and he wasn’t about to show himself any mercy. He had to get a line on things and focus on the facts, throw up the blinders and go forward, and to hell with the rest of the world. He wondered about the message the killer had scribbled on the wall above the body of Michelle Baker—In your stead, I take the heat of moist breath against my neck. The thought conjured up images of the killer’s other messages. This one was different. It didn’t mention silence as the others had. Apparently the idea of silencing his victims held some fascination for the killer.
Elliot drove out of the cemetery and pulled onto the street. He’d only gone a few blocks when his cell phone rang. It was Eddie York from the forensic department. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ve finally run down the vehicle identification number you gave me.”
Elliot pushed the phone closer to his ear. Maybe things were looking up. “What do you have?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to three,” he said. “Was it a 1985 Buick LeSabre?”
“No.”
“1987 Oldsmobile?”
“Nope.”
“How about a 1989 Cadillac Seville?”
Elliot squeezed the receiver, an eerie sensation crawling across his skin. “That’s the one.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. The latest record I could find on the vehicle is about ten years old. It was last registered to a Terrance Henry Kincaid.”
Elliot gripped the steering wheel, the phone heavy in his hand, as Eddie York rattled off the last known address for the owner of the car Elliot had found covered with tree limbs at the bottom of a dry creek bed in Porter, Oklahoma. It was Rachael Johnson’s address.
Elliot pulled to a stop in front of Rachael’s house. He climbed out of his car and started toward the door, but he’d only managed a few steps before he saw Rachael’s neighbor, John Eagon, leaning on the fence between the houses.
Elliot walked over to where Eagon was standing. “Have you seen Rachael?”
“Don’t reckon I have, not for a few days. That don’t mean much, though. Rachael’s funny like that, she’ll be around for a few weeks then disappear and you don’t see her for awhile. If you ask me, the whole family’s a bit touched. Small wonder the old man took off like he did, leaving it all behind.” He gave Elliot a sly look. “That’s the story anyway.”
“I need to talk to Mrs. Johnson Do you think you could get her to come to the door?”
“That won’t be necessary. She’s on the other side of the house, working in the flowerbeds. I reckon you’ll find her there.”
Elliot glanced around. “Thanks.”
“Wait a second,” Eagon said, motioning for Elliot to come closer. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. The wife tells me I should keep my mouth shut concerning things that, as she puts it, I’m not sure about. But the way I see it, I am sure.”
“What is it?”
“When Rachael was just a youngster, I used to see two children playing in that backyard. Yep, I’m sure all right. I saw them with my own eyes.”
“Why would something like that trouble you?”
John Eagon leaned closer. “’Cause Rachael’s an only child. That’s the story they gave everybody, anyway.”
Elliot thought about that for a moment. “Maybe it was just a friend.”
“Maybe, but they looked an awful lot alike.”
“It could have been a relative, a cousin perhaps.”
“I guess that’s possible. But every time it comes to mind, I get a bad feeling about it. Anyway, I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks,” Elliot said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Elliot found Rachael’s mother working in the yard, just like John Eagon said he would. She didn’t see him at first, and when he spoke it startled her. “Good morning.”
Her expression said it all. She would’ve preferred being anywhere right then, other than where she was, caught without escape and forced to talk to Elliot.
“Are you Cynthia Johnson?”
Her eyes darted back and forth. “Do I know you?”
Elliot identified himself and showed his badge. “I have some information for you.”
She slowly got up from her squatting position and brushed the dirt from her pants. “Information?”
“Yes. It’s rather important.”
An undeniable mask of fear formed on Cynthia Johnson’s face, but she said nothing.
“It might be better if we went inside.”
She didn’t want to, but she realized she had no choice. She started toward the front of the house. Once there she opened the door and stepped inside, gesturing for Elliot to follow. As soon as Elliot crossed the threshold he was immediately struck with a feeling of despair and grief, as if fear and tension were woven into the house, permeating the fabric of its structure. The house resembled a museum in both smell and decor, with overstuffed chairs embellished with crocheted doilies and hand-carved shelves stuck into corners holding ceramic remembrances.
Nervously she sat down, folding her hands in her lap. “What’s this all about?”
It was a stuffy old house, smelling of mothballs and furniture polish. And Elliot feared, unexplainably, that if he stayed too long there, he too would become a part of it, understanding the meek lady in front of him, knowing how she felt as she sat alone in one of the overstuffed chairs playing with the starched white doilies that covered its arms and mumbling “Yes, dear,” to a disembodied source of scathing words and commands of obedience. He turned back, taking a moment to clear his head. “It’s rather bad news,” he said, though he didn’t believe she would take it that way. “It’s about Terrance Kincaid, your husband. I’m afraid he’s dead. We found him in his car at the bottom of a ravine in Porter, Oklahoma.”
A curious expression crossed her face. “Dead? Are you sure? You can’t be certain, can you?”
The words crossed her lips like a prayer, and at that moment Elliot knew that she was Cynthia Kincaid. After her husband disappeared, she and Rachael had used her maiden name. Elliot started to tell her that no definite answer as to the true identity of the remains in the car had been reached, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “We’re pretty sure it’s him.”
She leaned back in her chair, putting her hands to her mouth. “I thought he’d left us. All these years, that’s what I thought.” Her relief lasted only a few seconds then the worried look returned. “It’s Charlie, isn’t it? He’s done something. He never forgave me you know.”
Elliot knew Cynthia Kincaid was talking about Charlie Johnson, Porter’s chief of police. “Your brother is fine, Mrs. Kincaid. Whatever happened to your husband happened a long time ago.”
Cynthia Kincaid’s right hand started to clench but settled for twisting the chair doily instead. “Charlie said he wouldn’t bother us anymore. But he doesn’t know Terrance, not like he thinks he does. Rachael and I didn’t take any chances. We got out of here, stayed with my cousin Bernice in Stillwater for awhile. It was nice there. Rachael liked it, but later she wanted to come back here…to come home. I can’t imagine why.”
Elliot nurtured one of those gut feelings that—like it or not—solves more cases than all the computers and government agents combined. And that feeling was telling him Cynthia Kincaid was deeply concerned about his being there, as if his presence was a threat to her guarded way of life. A photograph on the fireplace mantel drew his attention. He stood and crossed the room for a closer look, recognizing young Rachael with a man whom he also recognized from a picture his mother had given him. He suspected the man was Terrance Kincaid. “Do you know where Rachael is, Mrs. Kincaid?”
Wrinkles creased her forehead. “She left a few days ago. She does that now and then
, not keeping in touch when she decides to disappear. I don’t blame her. I don’t blame her one bit.”
“Why do you say that?”
Cynthia Kincaid wadded the chair doily into a ball then tried to straighten it. “My husband was not a nice man, Detective. When he left, Rachael and I tried to get on with our lives but we just couldn’t. Too much had happened, too much damage. He abused her and I let it happen. She hates me for that.” She paused, taking a deep breath to regain her composure. “And now the bastard has managed to reach up from the grave and slap her one more time. Don’t you see? If you hadn’t found that old car, Rachael wouldn’t even be involved in this.”
Elliot wondered about that, Rachael’s involvement.
“Do I need to take precautions?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t know Terrance, not like you think you do.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” Elliot said, glancing around the room, a strong compulsion to search the house running through him. He noticed an odd looking door along the wall of the hallway. It was different from the others, thicker and heavier, but what caught his attention was the heavy padlock securing it. He turned to Mrs. Kincaid. “Would you open this room, please?”
She shook her head. “We mustn’t do that. He doesn’t allow it. You don’t know him.”
Elliot didn’t have a warrant, but his compulsion to see what lay beyond the locked door influenced him to ignore that. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
Cynthia Kincaid wrung her hands and looked around, as if her husband might suddenly appear, then she seemed to make up her mind. She stood and went to an antique desk in the corner of the room, where she searched through a drawer, pulling out an envelope. When she came back, she handed it to Elliot.
The envelope was sealed and when Elliot tore it open a key tumbled out, falling to the floor. Elliot stared at Mrs. Kincaid for a moment, then scooped the key from the floor and inserted it into the massive lock, twisting the key until the lock popped free. He hesitated for a split second, then removed the lock and pushed the door open.