by Kyla Stone
Jackson patted Bear’s fuzzy head, rubbed behind his ears, then rose to his feet. He frowned, looking her over. “Your skin is pale. You feeling dizzy? Do you need to eat? We’ve got an unopened can of frosting inside. And apple juice. Still your favorite?”
Lena couldn’t repress a smile. More than anyone, Jackson had been attentive to her illness, checking in on her, always with a juice box in his backpack if she needed it.
She had forgotten how wonderful it felt to be known so well. “Still my favorite. Thank you.”
They were just-in-case people, natural caretakers. The ones who ran toward danger head-on and never blinked. Jackson wanted justice, to catch the bad guy, while Lena wanted to save everyone, even the unsavable.
“We have so much to catch up on,” Jackson said.
“I want to know everything,” Lena said.
Neither of them mentioned Eli Pope. The wound was still raw and tender to the touch. That would come later.
On the porch, the front door opened.
Jackson went rigid as his mother wheeled his sister onto the porch. “Well, hello dear,” Dolores said with a smile that appeared genuine. “It’s been so long. Come in, come in. I was just making dinner.”
Astrid eyed her. She was as pretty as Lena remembered, with her long silky blond hair and bright green eyes. “Another mouth to feed. I thought we were rationing our food, Jackson.”
“I can leave,” Lena said quickly.
“She’s staying.” Jackson didn’t turn around, didn’t bother to look at his family. “She’s come a long way.”
Astrid pursed her lips and smoothed her shiny blonde hair. Then she smiled brightly. “I guess you’ll just make yourself at home, Lena. You always did.”
Astrid had never been anything but polite, and yet Lena had always felt that Jackson’s little sister disliked her. She had the same slippery sensation now, but she forced a smile in return. “Thank you for your hospitality. It’ll only be tonight.”
Lena turned to Jackson. “Do you have electricity? I’ve been powering the mini-fridge with the car adaptor, but the fuel tank is on empty.”
“We have the generator. Bring your insulin inside.” Jackson squeezed her arm like he could read her mind, could sense her anxiety ratcheting up. “I promise. We’ll figure it out.”
The tension released inside her, like a closed fist opening. The stress and pressure and heartache. The trials and struggles to get here.
The rest of the world fell away. For the first time in four days, she felt at peace.
Lena Easton was finally home.
47
JACKSON CROSS
DAY SEVEN
“We got him,” Devon said.
“Tell me,” Jackson said.
After work yesterday, Jackson had stayed up far too late reminiscing with Lena. He was thankful she was back home and safe. Now, it was time to get to work.
It was time to catch a killer.
Devon smiled and shoved her braids behind her shoulder. “He’s right here, sitting in an interrogation room.”
Jackson didn’t breathe. “Who is it?”
“You’re never gonna believe it.”
The county courthouse had closed yesterday. It had taken hours to physically track down a judge at a bar in Grand Marias, at the far corner of Alger County.
The courts were a mess. Everything was a mess.
The president had finally declared a national emergency. All systems were down across the country—internet, cell service, GPS. FEMA had been deployed to dozens of large cities to provide food and water to a populace that was fast running out of basic needs.
Despite the chaos, they’d caught a break. Once the warrant had been served, Fred Combs gave up the information they needed.
The specific shade of blue paint color was Velocity Blue. It belonged to Ford Motor Company, starting with model year 2018.
Fred Combs had three customers who owned a Ford F150 in Velocity Blue built between 2018 and the current year model: Darryl Harlow, a mailman in Shingleton and Susan Ashton-Hutch, a married accountant in Chatham, and Calvin Fitch.
Fitch was the proud owner of a Velocity Blue 2019 Ford F150 Lariat outfitted with a bull bar. According to Combs’ handwritten records, Fitch brought the truck in for regular oil changes and tire rotations.
Combs had scribbled in an appointment for this afternoon at 3 p.m.: fender damage and paint match repair. Calvin Fitch would not make that appointment.
Moreno and Hasting had picked him up from the middle school campus. Now, Fitch sat in an interrogation room, like a fish caught on the line.
A fish that could easily slip off the hook if they weren’t careful.
Sheriff Underwood stood next to Jackson, his hands behind his back, his features tense. “What do we have on him?”
Alexis Chilton pushed her black-framed glasses up the bridge of her nose and stared at her blank laptop screen like she wanted to beat it with a hammer. “I can’t access the state or federal databases, but Fitch is a janitor at an educational facility. He would’ve been fingerprinted and background checked for employment. A criminal history would’ve flagged him.”
“What else?” Jackson asked.
“Our internal server is still functional, for however long it lasts. A couple of speeding tickets in the last five years. He was picked up for loitering outside the Horseshoe Falls Gift Shop in 2019. The owner, Lydia Duncan, felt that he was watching her. It made her uncomfortable. She thought he was shoplifting, but the officers didn’t find anything on him.”
“That’s not much,” Hasting said.
“Any connection to the victim?” the sheriff asked.
“None known for Easton, but he works at the kids’ school,” Jackson said.
“You find his truck, yet?”
Devon shook his head. “It’s not at his listed address. Patrol visited the other two owners. Hastings laid eyes on both vehicles. No damage or scrapes, no sign of an accident.”
“It could belong a tourist,” Moreno said.
“It could,” Jackson allowed. They were on to something. He could feel it.
“What the hell is the motive?” Sheriff Underwood asked, glowering at Jackson.
“We suspect he killed the victim but didn’t know that Shiloh was present. Somehow, he found out and tracked her down. He ran her off the road in an attempt to cover his tracks. The truck will connect him to the hit-and-run, but we’ve got nothing that connects him to Easton. Yet.”
“You think this is him?” Moreno asked.
“It’s the best lead we have,” Jackson said.
“It’s weak,” Sheriff Underwood said dismissively. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. They were all haggard, exhausted, and stressed. “You’re grasping at straws.”
“He lawyered up yet?” Jackson asked.
“He didn’t ask,” Moreno said. “We said we needed his help, good citizen style.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”
Jackson glanced at Devon. “You ready to take a crack at him?”
She nodded. “Let’s do this.”
“Don’t screw this up, son,” Sheriff Underwood said darkly. “We need a win.”
Jackson bit back a sharp retort. Even now, the sheriff was as condescending as ever. “I’m well aware, sir.”
He ignored Sheriff Underwood’s glare and straightened his shoulders. Anxious energy buzzed in his veins. His heart thudded, his mind a whir of questions and answers as he prepared himself for a game of mental chess.
The stakes were high. A murderer on the loose. Two missing kids. The country balanced on the brink of disaster. Much as he resented it, Sheriff Underwood was right. They needed this win.
Jackson and Devon removed their gun belts. Jackson entered the room first. Devon came in behind him, carrying the scant case file folder.
The room was small, with white walls, a metal table bolted to the floor, and plastic folding chairs. There were no two-way mirrors, but microphones a
nd cameras were embedded in the wall.
The air smelled stale, like old coffee and body odor. The generator hummed. The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered overhead.
Fitch looked up with squinty eyes, fidgety and restless. Like the last time they’d seen him, he wore denim overalls with scuffed brown boots. His lanky, dun-colored hair looked unkempt; he hadn’t shaved in days.
Jackson scraped back the chair and took a seat. He leaned back, legs crossed, confident and calm. He faced Calvin Fitch.
48
JACKSON CROSS
DAY SEVEN
Devon took a seat beside Jackson. She set the file on the table and offered Fitch a disarming smile. “Good morning.”
“Should I have a lawyer?” he asked.
“You can if you’d like,” Jackson said easily. “It’ll take a while for a public defender to get here. With phones down and everything that’s going on, it could take hours.”
His expression darkened. “Principal Kepford wants me to disinfect the classrooms while the students are home because of the power outages. It’s a lot of work.”
“We’ll get you out of here as soon as possible, Mr. Fitch.” Devon spoke in a polite, soothing voice. “If you work with us, clear up a few questions we have, we can get you out of here even faster.”
Fitch glanced at her, unsmiling. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Oh, we know, but we’d really appreciate your help.” Jackson waved a hand absently. “I apologize for the state of things here. We’re conserving our fuel, so the air conditioner isn’t running.”
“You’re still going to work, even though school isn’t in session?” Devon asked.
“Always stuff to do. Those kids, they leave everything a mess. No one knows how to clean up after themselves no more.” He nodded to himself, stiff like his neck was attached to marionette strings.
“Did you see all those transformers fry last night?” Devon asked.
“Yeah.”
“Crazy, right?”
If there had been any doubt before, there was little doubt now that it would take a significant amount of time to repair thousands of transformers across the U.S. Not to mention the damage done in other countries.
“Yeah, crazy,” Fitch mumbled. His wary gaze ping-ponged between Jackson and Devon. He shifted uncomfortably. The chair legs scraped the floor.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the Easton homicide,” Jackson said.
Fitch folded his arms across his chest. He stared down at the table, frowning. “Of course. Everyone has. That convicted felon, the soldier. He done it, I heard.”
Devon offered an encouraging smile. “We’ve heard things, too. But we can’t arrest people based on hearsay. We’ve got to dot our I’s and cross our T’s, you know?”
Fitch stared at her. As when they’d interviewed him at the school about Cody, he seemed slow. He took his time to answer questions. That dullness in his eyes—was it a ploy? Plenty of calculated killers had hidden in plain sight.
“Maybe,” Jackson allowed. “We’re eliminating suspects. It’s arduous but it’s a necessary part of the process.”
“So… I’m not a suspect?”
“Why would you be a suspect?” Devon asked.
Fitch stared moodily at the table.
“What kind of truck do you own?” Devon asked.
He didn’t answer.
“A Velocity Blue Ford F150 truck is registered in your name,” she said. “Model year 2019.”
“That’s a nice truck,” Jackson said, acting impressed.
Fitch hesitated. He uncrossed his arms, drummed his fingers on the table. “What’s it to you? Don’t see how that’s any of your business, anyway.”
Jackson kept his expression nonchalant, fighting his impatience. “We’re just asking a few questions. That’s all.”
“And then you can be on your way, back to work,” Devon said. “We’re truly sorry for the inconvenience.”
The apology did the trick. He’d expected an interrogation, not contrite deputies with rueful smiles. He blinked. “Okay. Yeah, sure. I have a truck like that. But I didn’t do nothing with it.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. But can you tell us where it is?” Jackson asked.
“I don’t want no trouble.”
“No one said that you’re in trouble,” Jackson said. He wanted to keep him talking. The last thing they wanted was a request for a lawyer or for him to clam up. They had to be careful, too.
Fitch glanced at the clock enmeshed in wire on the far wall. It was frozen at 6:06 p.m.
“There was an accident,” Devon said.
“I don’t know anything about an accident.”
“A hit and run. An ATV was run off the road near County Road 552.”
“I didn’t do that.”
“Of course not,” Devon said. “But we have to ask the questions to help us figure out who did. Thing was, a little girl was riding that ATV. She got hurt.”
Fitch tensed. “I don’t know nothing about that. You’re mistaken. It wasn’t my truck.”
“It’s your truck,” Jackson said. “We have evidence.” There were rules against lying to suspects, but a ruse was permissible as long as they didn’t fabricate false evidence.
Fitch paled. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
“Okay, okay,” Jackson said. “We can work with that, if you tell us what happened.”
Fitch inhaled shallow breaths. He rubbed his hands together, blinking hard.
“Maybe you didn’t even see her,” Jackson said. “That road is dark. Or maybe a deer ran out in front of you. It’s understandable. Accidents happen.”
Fitch shook his head, faster and faster. “No. It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Do you know where your truck is, Fitch?”
“Maybe it was stolen.”
“Look, we want to help you,” Devon said. “But you’ve got to be straight with us. We’ll be honest with you if you can be honest with us.”
He licked his lips, eyes darting everywhere but at Devon and Jackson. “I don’t know. I don’t know where it is.”
“We just need your help to eliminate you, okay?” Jackson leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Can you tell us where you were on Thursday night?”
“I don’t know.”
“You can’t remember? Think about it.”
He wrung his hands. His eyes were glazed, dull and scared like a cornered animal. He was afraid and he hated them for his fear.
If he asked for a lawyer, the interview was over. “Let’s figure this out together,” Devon said. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”
“I was at the Northwoods Bar, okay? All night. I had four or five Jack Daniels. Maybe six. Played some pool with Cyrus Lee and Jay Addison. Tim Brook’s the bartender. You can ask him. He’ll remember me.”
Neither Jackson nor Devon made a move. Outside the room, an officer would be leaving right now, headed for the bar to verify Fitch’s story.
“You drove home intoxicated,” Devon said. “Is that right?”
He nodded, jaw clenched, angry at them for dragging it out of him. “I’ll lose my license for a year if I get another ticket, okay?”
“You drove your truck there and back?” Devon asked.
A hesitation. A tick of his right eye. “Yeah, of course.”
Jackson said, “Are you sure you drove your truck, Calvin?”
Fitch looked guilty, like the kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I took the Jeep. Wasn’t supposed to, but I get to go where I want, too.”
“What Jeep?” Devon opened the file, perused the scant paperwork. “You don’t have another vehicle registered in your name.”
Jackson closed his eyes. He recalled the Jeep Wrangler parked in the school parking lot. A blue F150 had been parked there, too. His heart began to pound.
“Why were you driving a Jeep instead of your truck?” Devon asked.
“I wasn’t driving the t
ruck that night. I didn’t do nothin’.”
Fitch stared at them, belligerent. He was about to clam up. He was about to demand a lawyer and they would lose him right when they were so close.
The pieces were falling together, a picture taking shape.
Jackson leaned in, hiding his desperation. “I believe you, Calvin. We believe you. You lent it to someone. You were being a good friend. You didn’t know what would happen.”
“Yeah, a friend. Okay? A friend had it.”
Devon’s eyes narrowed. “Then who? Who had it?”
Sweat beaded Fitch’s broad forehead. He scratched at his nails. “I’ll get in trouble.”
Devon offered him a sympathetic, doe-eyed look that could melt the hardest of hearts. “We’re trying to get you out of trouble, Calvin.”
“We just need a name,” Jackson said. A dull creeping dread spread through his limbs. He was afraid that he already knew.
Fitch shook his head. One nail was bleeding. He’d carved up his own skin. He sucked at his thumb, eyes wide and scared.
“A name, Fitch.” Jackson stood, scraped back his chair, and went to the door. Fitch’s eyes followed his every move. Jackson opened the door and gestured, as if Fitch could stand up and walk through it, easy as pie. “It’s that simple. You can go home. Right now. Today.”
Fitch’s posture collapsed. Whatever internal battle he’d had with himself, it was over. He lowered his head, hunched inward, and mumbled something indecipherable.
Devon frowned. “Say it again.”
“My cousin,” Fitch said in a defeated voice. “Walter Boone.”
49
SHILOH EASTON
DAY SEVEN
Shiloh’s ankle hurt like hell as she rode into town on Eli’s bike. Luckily, it wasn’t sprained. Eli had tended the worst of her wounds. She’d slept the whole next day and the next night.
Then, that morning, she’d stolen his mountain bike. Technically, she’d borrowed it. She planned to give it back. Eli had been awake when she’d left anyway; the man never slept.