by Lisa Jackson
“Calm down, Owen—”
“No! I’m not calming down. I can’t go any damned where without being dogged. I feel like I’m goin’ out of my fuckin’ mind!”
“Whoa—slow down. It’ll be all right.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because you didn’t do it. Right?”
“Right!”
“So just get through this. It’ll all be worth it.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m . . .” His throat clogged and he looked through the bug-spattered windshield to spy a cruiser for the county drive slowly past. “Oh, Jesus, there’s nowhere I can go.” He closed his eyes for a second, tried not to give in to the paranoia, the worries that plagued him every damn night. He wanted to remember his sisters as they were, remembering how sweet and innocent they’d been and then . . . then the unthinkable. And when he did finally go to sleep, the nightmares would come and he’d see them, all three as skeletons with rotting flesh, blond tufts of hair and jaws that opened and closed jaggedly as they forever repeated:
It’s your fault, Owen. All your fault.
Over and over again.
“I just don’t know how much of this I can take,” he said to the lawyer. “They found another body, you know. They think it could be Rose.”
“No one knows that for sure. If you need to, go to a hotel.”
“Won’t matter. They’ll camp out at the dealership.” He closed his eyes. Thought of the unending days of being pursued. Why had he ever thought he should come back here? To be closer to a mother who was now married to a pious, self-serving prick?
But she’s the only one who believes in you. The cops don’t trust you, the press has already tried, convicted, tarred and feathered you. Even this attorney on the other end of the phone call is just using you. For publicity. To parade you out to the public, to grandstand. For his own purposes.
Fleetingly he thought of Ashley. How completely he’d loved her. Trusted her. Had faith in her.
And she had dropped him to marry some rich dude she’d met in college. He’d half expected it, of course. It wasn’t as if she was all that true to him. She’d dated a ton of guys in high school, but he’d thought, no, probably fantasized that she’d see that he was a true heart and they’d end up together.
Happily ever after.
“Fuckin’ moron,” he said aloud.
“What?” Wells asked.
Oh, shit. He’d done it again. Lost track of where he was. “Sorry. Someone almost backed into me.”
“So take my advice. Take a few days off work. Hole up in a hotel. Go to Atlanta. Get lost. Clear your head.”
“That takes money.”
“I’ll advance it to you.”
“It also takes a pretty damned understanding boss.” He thought of Marv Thompson, the bulky ex special ops guy he worked for, a muscular black dude with a shaved head and thick moustache. Big and smart. Suffered no fools. Herb might understand, then again he might not, and the owner of the dealership wasn’t quite so lenient.
“Just hang tough,” Wells was saying, but Owen wasn’t listening as he saw the news van pull into the lot. Of all the dumbass luck! What were the chances? He slammed his hat lower on his head, made sure his wraparound sunglasses covered as much of his face as possible.
He would back out and ease into traffic because he was pretty damned sure the press had the make and model of his truck along with the license plate.
It would never end.
Hang tough, Wells had said. Oh, yeah, sure. That would solve the problem.
His cell phone buzzed and he checked the text:
Murderer.
You’re going to fry.
His stomach knotted. He’d already deleted his social media accounts, but somehow they’d found him, gotten his cell phone number.
He swallowed hard and shoved the gearshift into reverse.
The voice in his head that had gotten louder by the day reminded him that all the “hanging tough” in the world wouldn’t be enough.
They’re gonna find you.
They’re gonna hunt you down like a pack of wolves on a wounded stag and then, no matter what you do, they’re gonna pounce.
Face it, Duval. You’re doomed.
* * *
“I’m guessing preteen, maybe eleven or twelve,” the assistant medical examiner told Reed and Delacroix hours after the bones had been discovered by Mentos.
They were standing in the morgue, looking at the remains of the body discovered at Black Bear Lake, the sterile room with its gleaming saws and knives and hanging scales surrounding them. On the metal table, the skeleton was incomplete, but the bones were laid out meticulously as Dr. Hancott studied them.
“But this,” he was saying, indicating the partial skeleton lying upon the table, “is definitely not the remains of a five-year-old girl.” A rotund man, with a fringe of hair around a tanned, freckled pate, he looked over the tops of a pair of half-glasses perched upon a short nose. “The teeth are the first clue,” he admitted, examining the jaw. “Bicuspids and second molars have erupted, which, of course, wouldn’t show in a five-year-old. And then there’s the measurements to the skull and sole femur that was found at the scene, which suggest a prepubescent youth. If I were a betting man, and I’m not, mind you, I would guess a male due to the narrow hips, though that’s not assured. At least at this point. We’ll send out DNA samples and check dental records against any missing children.”
“Do that and keep us posted,” Reed said as he and Delacroix left the building, feeling the warmth of the Georgia sun as they stepped outside. Though the body didn’t belong to Rose Duval, it would prove to be the son or daughter of some other set of parents who were still holding out a thread of hope that their child would return unharmed.
“It’s a pisser,” Delacroix said as they crossed the parking area to Reed’s Jeep. “What the hell happened to that kid?”
“I think we’ll have to find out. Most eleven- or twelve-year-olds don’t drop dead due to natural causes.”
“Amen to that,” she said as he unlocked the car. “Did you see the left ulna? Broken. At least once. Radius, too.”
He slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “Could have been anything. Biking accident, skateboarding, horseback riding, falling out of a tree—”
“Or it could be a defensive wound. Result of being hit with a baseball bat, or crowbar, or poker or—”
“I get it,” he said, and caught her glowering through the windshield. He wondered about what she’d gone through in her own growing-up years. She was tough and there was a reason for it, but he didn’t know why. Just a tomboy by nature, inherently strong, or was it because of how she’d been raised, the toughness really layer upon layer of calluses to hide her own vulnerability?
She caught his glance and seemed to read his mind. “I worked in New Orleans. Saw a lot of abuse I didn’t want to. Runaways. Child trafficking. Domestic violence.” Her jaw tightened. “The trouble was I can’t erase it from my mind.”
“So you took a job here in homicide?”
“Mainly adults,” she said with a shrug.
“You could have gotten out.”
She snorted. “Shit, no. How the hell could I make a difference then?”
“That’s what your job is all about? Making a difference?”
“Hell, no. I want to catch the bad guys, Reed. Catch ’em and send ’em up the river for good.” Her eyes behind those oversize glasses stared at him. “What about you?”
“Same, I guess.”
“Thought so.” One side of her mouth lifted. “So let’s do it, Reed. Let’s go get the bad guys!”
* * *
Nikki found a parking space across from the centuries-old red-brick building housing the newspaper offices. The three-storied edifice had survived several wars, multiple storms, good times and bad, and hadn’t crumbled. However, Hurricane Jules had made its mark. The first floor of the building had been damaged, a waterline visible on the ex
terior, the hair salon and spa on the street level still closed as repairs were ongoing, but the Sentinel was located on the third floor and since the elevators were still not operational, she hoped to find Fink at his desk.
A quick glance at the parking lot and she saw Fink’s vintage Corvette gleaming in his premier parking space in the small lot.
Good. Now to plead her case.
She locked her car with her remote, jaywalked across the street, then showed her ID to the security guard and climbed two flights to the newspaper’s offices.
At her desk near the entrance, Millie cradled a phone between her ear and shoulder but managed to wave Nikki to her desk.
“You find out anything else?”
As she hung up, Millie said in a hushed voice, “No. You?”
Bob Swan, the sports editor, passed nearby on his way to the front door.
“Nothing, but I haven’t been near a TV or computer.”
“I have and the info is just filtering out. But Reed might—”
“Don’t even say it,” Nikki cautioned. “I haven’t talked to him yet.”
“He would be your best source.”
“I know, but it’s difficult.” Millie was right. She had to find a way to work with her husband, not against him. “I need to talk to Fink. Keep me posted.”
“You got it.”
Nikki headed toward the back of the vast room through a maze of mostly empty cubicles, Norm Metzger’s included. Even she had a desk here, though it was seldom used and too close to the digital side of the paper, where televisions and monitors glowed, several reporters and techs sat on stools, each wearing earphones and focused on computer monitors.
Fink was at his desk in his glassed-in office.
In his usual khakis and a polo shirt, he sat, nose-deep into a computer on his neat desk, the only objects on it his phone, a signed baseball in a porcelain mitt and a coffee cup proudly displaying the Starbucks logo. Three flat-screen TVs were bolted to the wall behind him, a rowing machine peeking out from beneath an oversize credenza. Today, as ever, the TVs were muted and tuned to different news stations, chyrons for the latest headlines running along the lower portion of the screens.
She tapped on the partially open door.
“Yeah?” he said, still staring at the screen.
“Got a minute?”
“What?” He looked up, his tanned brow beetling beneath silvering hair that was thinning as he recognized her. “Hey.” Rolling his chair backward, he said, “Aren’t you supposed to be staying at home, ‘taking it easy’ or something?”
“Or something,” she agreed. “But it’s been over a week and I’ve been to see the doctor today. I’m good to go.”
“A hundred percent?” he asked, obviously doubtful.
“Pretty much.” That was stretching the truth a bit, but she plowed on. “I got the green light to get back to it and I have another idea I thought I’d run by you before I dive in.”
Now the truth was paper thin. She’d already started work on the story, even mentioned it to Reed this morning, just to cover her bases. While she’d sipped coffee and mentioned her idea, Reed, seated at the island with the newspaper spread in front of him, had glanced up. “You’re doing what?”
“A story on the history of the Beaumont estate.”
“The history?” he repeated, and finished off a final bite of his scone.
“Um-hmm.” She’d buried her nose in her coffee cup but held his gaze above the brim.
He’d lifted one skeptical eyebrow. But he hadn’t challenged her, just said, “Be careful,” then placed his plate on the floor, allowing Mikado to lick up any remaining crumbs before leaving.
Now, Fink waved her into a side chair and listened as she pitched the idea. His eyes narrowed and he tented his fingers under his chin as she explained about the human interest side of the story, about not only the buildings but the family and history that was a part of the local culture. “I think people whose families have been here for generations would love the culture and even nostalgia of the series, and newcomers would like a little deeper knowledge of the area,” she said as Fink listened.
He was nodding to himself, but he said, “So why do I think this is your way of working around me and digging into the crime?”
“Because I would be. I mean the recent crime involving the Duval girls, of course, would be a part of the story, but there’s more to it than that. Another girl died there years ago. Nell Beaumont.”
“The ghost girl?” he asked, unconvinced, but picking up the baseball and tossing it as he considered.
“Right. And there may have been more over the course of the estate’s history. At one time before it was broken into pieces, it was one of the largest parcels in the Savannah area. Right now, everyone in town, well, in the whole state for that matter is interested in the Beaumont estate and family and history. I know it’s because of the bodies being found there, of course, but with that interest comes a curiosity about the place where it happened. Who knows what other secrets are hidden out there?”
He caught the ball and stared at her. “Okay.” He was nodding. “But be careful, okay? I heard about that break-in at your house.”
“I will.”
“And don’t go stepping on Metzger’s toes.”
“Why would I do that?”
He scratched his jaw. “Because you’re you and can’t leave well enough alone, Gillette. So don’t bullshit me.”
She stood, wanting to leave before he changed his mind. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He slid her a disbelieving look, tossed his baseball into the air one more time, caught it and set it back into the ceramic mitt on his desk. “Yeah, right.”
CHAPTER 20
Nikki drove straight home and took Mikado for a short run through the park, the first since her miscarriage. The afternoon was sliding into evening and it felt good to sweat, to get her blood pumping. As she ran down the wide walkways, around the other pedestrians, skateboarders and dog walkers, she thought about the mystery. What if the body found up at Black Bear Lake was Rose Duval? What if it wasn’t? Reed still hadn’t returned her calls, just texted saying he was working late and making certain she was okay.
So frustrating.
But their normal routine.
She remembered feeling that she was being followed the last time she’d passed by the large fountain, but now, as there were so many people crossing beneath the large live oak trees, she saw no one who seemed to be focused on her, no dark figure lurking behind the trunk of one of the trees.
Don’t forget: Someone broke into your house just a few nights ago.
That thought brought goose pimples to the back of her arms. Out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of a man in black and her heart clutched before she noticed the slash of white at his neck: his clerical collar.
A priest or preacher, for God’s sake!
Nikki, get hold of yourself!
“Come on,” she said to the dog, and took off toward home.
Once in the house, she threw a frozen pizza in the toaster oven and while it baked, filled a glass with ice and Diet Dr Pepper. Sipping the drink, she climbed the stairs to her office and opened her laptop to start researching the Beaumont family. What did she know about them? Tyson, her brother’s age, was the current owner and manager of the property, a real-estate developer like his father, Baxter. Tyson was the only living child of Baxter and Connie-Sue, who lived in an expensive adults-only center on a golf course just out of town. Tyson’s sister, Nell, had died at a young age, drowning in the river near the old house where they had all resided with Beulah, Tyson’s step-grandmother and matriarch of the clan, and Connie-Sue had insisted they move from the estate as it was too painful for her to live so close to the spot her daughter had died.
The timer on the toaster oven dinged. Downstairs, where the kitchen smelled of sizzling pepperoni, oregano and mozzarella, Nikki retrieved two slices of hot pizza and a couple of paper towels, then returne
d to her attic-office and pored over tons of information about the Beaumont estate. She sorted through deeds of sale, news clippings, articles and pictures, searched the Internet for historical records, joined a group dedicated to the history of the area, read for hours, immersed in all things Beaumont. As she picked at her dinner, she took notes and gave up around eleven.
In a nutshell, the Beaumont estate had once been massive, spreading across the shores of the river, and had been cut up over the years, the most interesting pieces being the Marianne Inn, near Black Bear Lake, where the recent body had been discovered, the abutting acres of Channing Vineyards, which was owned and run by Jacob Channing, and a much smaller parcel near the Marianne Inn purchased by Wynn Cravens and now home to Bronco.
She eyed the records for the Marianne Inn. After the Second World War, over a hundred acres had been developed into the Marianne Inn property, once a flourishing hunting and camping resort in the middle part of the last century. It had been built and run by Baxter Beaumont’s father, Arthur, who had dedicated it to his first wife, Marianne, who had died when Baxter had been less than two. Arthur had married Beulah soon thereafter.
Nikki glanced out the window and saw her own watery reflection. The night was closing in and her neck starting to ache.
She stood and rotated her shoulder while looking down at the notes, pictures and copies of deeds of sale scattered on her desk.
Her gaze landed on a picture of the lodge at the Marianne Inn, which looked like an original black and white photo that had been tinted.
So maybe that’s why the color was off.
Her pulse ticked up.
The sign for the inn had been tinted a deep crimson and the lettering a distinctive script in white.
“Oh, God,” she whispered as she remembered the boat hidden in the shadowy branches of the willow tree at the Beaumont estate the day the bodies were discovered. It, too, was red but faded, and she hadn’t been able to read the graying lettering, had only caught a glimpse, but now, staring at the sign for the Marianne Inn, she was certain it was the same.