South of Hell (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

by P J Parrish

  They always did. Even cops got tired of looking. He had learned that in Ohio after he’d robbed the liquor store. A man just had to be smart.

  He’d be even smarter this time. And when things were quiet, he’d get out. He’d get out of Hell forever. Forget about Florida. He’d run to Canada. That was a place where a man could be free. Free to do what he wanted. Free of his past and his ghosts.

  Brandt stopped.

  Water…he could hear rushing water somewhere in the darkness.

  It had to be Lethe Creek. He pushed on, the brambles tearing at his hands. The rushing sound grew louder. He felt the ground give way, and he slipped, falling forward.

  The cold water hit him like a slap. He sputtered to his feet, waist-high in the creek. It was rushing so fast he couldn’t keep his balance, and he flailed in the dark, trying to grab anything to stop from being swept away.

  His hand hit a branch, and he hung on.

  Slowly, he pulled himself out of the water and staggered up the muddy bank. The ground leveled, and he dropped onto the wet grass, gasping.

  He lay there shivering, too cold to move. Slowly, he became aware of something cold and hard under his left hand.

  He jerked up to his knees.

  Fuck. He was lying on somebody’s grave.

  The cemetery. He was in the cemetery. But that meant he was close now. He staggered to his feet and strained his eyes to see something, anything, in the blackness. And then he saw it in the east—the faintest gray light behind the bare black trees.

  He turned to his right. South…that had to be south. And the farm was just a mile away. He was going to make it.

  His feet…he couldn’t feel them at all now. And his teeth were chattering so hard his jaw ached. But he could make out the black shape of the barn ahead and the house and—

  He stopped.

  Blue lights.

  Fuck, no! No! No!

  He ducked behind a tree. Two cop cars. He could see them on the road. But he couldn’t see the cops. Where the hell were they?

  His clothes were iced to his skin. The cold was affecting his brain.

  Think! Think!

  He had to get warm and dry. Then he could figure out what to do. He had the cop’s gun. He could shoot the other cops if he had to. But he had to get warm and dry first. Maybe if he could get into the barn and hide…

  He crept forward, his eyes on the blue lights. No other choice. He had to chance going into the barn.

  Then he saw the bobbing beams of flashlights. And a second later, he heard the men’s voices. They were searching the barn.

  The beam was coming toward him now. Or was his brain playing tricks on him?

  He began to back up slowly, hands outstretched, eyes on the flashlights, heart hammering.

  He was almost to the edge of the cornfield when his foot caught, and he went down hard in a thicket of thorns. He lay there for a moment, panting and bleeding. Then he carefully reached out for something to pull himself from the thorns. Hard, cold stone, then…rough wood.

  Slowly, he eased from the thicket and tried to see what he had fallen against. He carefully pushed the briars away.

  A door. An old wooden door, hanging by one rusted hinge in a crumbling stone-framed archway.

  But there was no building attached that he could see. Just a low hill of wild weeds and overgrown trees.

  What the fuck was this?

  The wind brought the sound of the cop’s voices to him again.

  He had to find a place to hide.

  He pulled on the door. It gave easily, and he stared into the black hole. Feeling his way, he went in. He stumbled again and caught himself. Steps…stone steps! It was like the cellar back at the house but smaller. What was this place?

  Slowly, he went down. Four steps. He couldn’t see a thing, but the air was cool and dry, smelling only of dirt. He reached out, and his fingers found cold, rough stone.

  Suddenly, he remembered the lighter in his pocket. If it still worked…

  With fumbling, cold fingers, he pulled it out. It took four strikes but then flared.

  Stone walls. A cave of some kind. Maybe four feet across, but he couldn’t tell how deep, and he sure as hell didn’t want to venture back there.

  What the hell is this place?

  Then he saw the corn cobs hanging from the wood rafters. And on the dirt floor…clumps that looked like dried potatoes.

  A memory flashed into his brain. Crazy Verna standing at the broken icebox bitching about what it was going to cost to get a new one and how in the old days her grandmother just put fruits and vegetables in the root cellar to keep from rotting. That’s what this had to be, a damn root cellar. No wonder he had never seen it before. It was carved out of a small hill maybe a hundred feet from the barn entrance and covered with sod, dirt, and weeds. No one had used this place for maybe a hundred years.

  He realized he was feeling warmer. It was still cold in here but not as bad as outside, and at least it was dry.

  Brandt stared at the shriveled potatoes. Maybe he could even eat some of this shit if he had to.

  The voices…

  He pocketed the lighter and scrambled up the steps. Through the tangle of thorn bushes, he could see the faint beams of the cops’ flashlights. But they were moving toward the house. Away from him.

  Brandt carefully arranged the thorn bushes to block the entrance, then pulled the broken door shut. If he didn’t know this place was here, then maybe no one else would, either.

  He backed down the stairs and stood in the pitch-blackness, holding his breath.

  No voices. And then the sound of a car pulling away.

  Feeling his way to the wall, he slid down onto the ground, his back against the stone. The gun was digging into his waist, so he pulled it out.

  This would be okay…at least, until he could get warm and get his brain working right again.

  Tomorrow, maybe he would get on the road.

  He laid the gun down on the dirt near his foot, brought up his hands, and blew on them for warmth. He sat there, the darkness so black he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.

  No sounds now. Just the wind whistling through the old boards of the door.

  He was alone.

  Except…

  He turned and peered into the blackness.

  A shiver snaked up his wet neck.

  He fumbled in his pocket for the lighter, flicked it with his thumb, but it jumped out of his trembling hand.

  Frantic, he patted the dirt around him. His fingers touched plastic, and he snatched it up.

  His other hand paused on the dirt, then closed around a clump. He brought it up to his nose.

  This place. This farm…

  This was the reason he had come back here.

  It was his. He hated it. But it was all he had.

  Could he leave this place?

  Could he leave Jean?

  She was here. She was close now. He could feel it.

  He let the dirt fall through his fingers.

  He couldn’t go. He couldn’t leave this place yet.

  There was one more thing to do. Then he would be free.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Louis sat down on the wooden bench and let out a long sigh through gritted teeth. He had never thought breathing could be this painful. The muscles across his chest felt cauterized, and the tiny stitches itched like hell. Thirty-six of them.

  “You look like you’re going to pass out,” Joe said.

  He looked up. Joe and Amy stood nearby. Amy was glancing nervously around the courthouse lobby, as if she expected Brandt to come bursting through the front doors. Joe was holding her hand.

  “What do you think the judge will do?” he asked.

  Joe glanced at Amy, then whispered something to her. Amy nodded and moved away, taking a seat on the next bench. She wore jeans and the pale pink parka Louis had bought for her at Kmart. Her hair was pulled back and clipped with a barrette. Louis realized she was starting to lo
ok like a young woman, as if being told she was sixteen had forced her to grow three years overnight.

  Joe sat down next to him. “I’m going to ask for permanent guardianship,” she said, keeping her voice low.

  “Permanent? Like adoption?”

  Joe gave a half-smile. “I don’t know,” she said. “But for now, just something longer-term.”

  “Have you told her?” Louis asked.

  “Not yet.”

  Louis looked back at Amy. She was fondling her locket. He tried to imagine Joe, his Joe—a thirty-six-year-old woman who wanted no chains and, as far as he knew, no children—taking on a strange girl like this one.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” he asked.

  “She has no one else.”

  “She has Shockey.”

  “For how long?” Joe asked. “It’s a miracle he’s lived two days.”

  “And every hour brings more hope.”

  “Amy says he’s going to die,” she said.

  “And you believe her?”

  Joe’s eyes moved away from him, to Amy first, then to nowhere. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m just trying to put a Plan B in place. I want her to know, if he does die, that she still has someone.”

  Louis started to say something, but he stopped himself. His eyes caught a glimmer of white outside the glass doors. He watched as an Ann Arbor cruiser pulled to a stop. He checked his watch. It was ten to one. He hoped Margi was arriving.

  They had learned yesterday that she had not only pulled through, but she wasn’t as seriously injured as Bloom first thought. Apparently, her skull was pretty thick, and it wasn’t the first broken arm she had ever endured.

  When Margi heard Brandt was on the run and Shockey was clinging to life, she demanded to be brought to Ann Arbor to help. As part of that help, she wanted to make sure the family court judge knew exactly what kind of man Brandt was.

  Louis knew they didn’t need her testimony, but he also knew she needed to give it.

  Margi let the cop open the door for her and limped through it. She wore a pair of black leggings that outlined her skinny thighs and bulged where the bandages wrapped her knees. She had her leather jacket over her shoulders, with one arm in a cast. On her head was a goofy-looking velvet hat that spiked her brittle yellow hair out over her ears. He knew it covered a massive bandage on her partially shaved head.

  She saw him and came awkwardly across the lobby in heeled sandals. As she neared, her face sharpened in the brighter light. One eye was pooled with blood.

  He rose to his feet.

  “Am I here in time?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m still alive,” Margi said.

  She shrugged as she said it, but there was something in her voice that told Louis she didn’t quite believe it.

  “Have you been to see Shockey?” Louis asked.

  “No, but I’m going right over when I’m done here,” she said. “How long do you think this is going to take?” She glanced at Amy and lowered her voice. “They said he might not make it, and I want to talk to him.”

  “He won’t be able to talk to you,” Joe said. “He’s not conscious.”

  Margi’s eyes welled. “I caused this. It’s all my fault.”

  Louis was quiet. He knew from the police statement that Margi had told Brandt the address only when he tried to push her from the car. He couldn’t imagine her terror, yet there was a part of him that wished she’d been a little smarter in trying to get away in the first place. Why had she stopped in Hell to make that call? Why not drive fifty miles farther?

  “Does he know?” Margi said softly.

  “Know what?” Louis said.

  “Does he know that I didn’t go back? Does he know that I tried to get away? Does he know that?”

  “What does that matter?” Louis asked.

  Margi glanced at Joe before answering. “He told me he was proud of me. I’d hate him dying and not knowing that.”

  There wasn’t anything to do but lie. Not for Shockey’s sake but for Margi’s.

  “Yes,” Louis said. “He knows.”

  Margi ran a hand under her nose. Louis didn’t have a handkerchief, and he looked to Joe. She found a Kleenex in her purse and gave it to Margi. When she wiped her eyes, he noticed most of the bright orange fingernails were broken.

  The door to the courtroom opened, and someone called Amy’s name. Joe moved away to take her inside. Margi watched them go, sniffed again.

  “I’m a little scared. I never been in court before, at least not for testifyin’.”

  “I’m not sure they’ll need your testimony,” Louis said. “Don’t be too disappointed if they don’t, okay?”

  “I won’t,” Margi said. She reached under her velvet hat to scratch her head, winced slightly as she touched the bandage, then with a sigh just dropped her hand. “I mostly wanted to be here just in case that judge decided to give that girl back to Owen.”

  “Not a chance. He’s wanted for the attempted murder of a police officer.”

  She looked down at the wadded Kleenex. “He’s going to go back to jail, ain’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed.

  It was the strangest thing Louis had ever seen. This sad woman feeling sorry for a loser like Brandt.

  “I suppose he’d be going back to jail, anyway, so I guess I oughta tell you this part,” Margi said.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Owen told me he killed his wife,” she said.

  “He confessed to you?” Louis asked.

  Margi hesitated, then gave a tight little nod. “He said he cut her up and stabbed her like a hundred times, right there in that kitchen. But he broke the knife, and when he left to go get an axe, she like just crawled away and disappeared.”

  Louis was stunned. But it did match Amy’s strange account of what she’d seen. She saw her mother attacked and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Jean was gone.

  “Did you tell this to Detective Bloom?” he asked.

  “No, I…I guess I still wanted to protect him,” she said. “But I’m done doing that. I just can’t anymore.”

  “Well, if you still want to testify,” Louis said, “they’ll want to hear this. Will you do it?’

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s the least I can do for Mr. Shockey.”

  “He’d be proud of you for that, too.”

  Margi’s eyes held his for a moment. Then she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked to the courtroom. He knew that even if they caught Brandt today, his trial was months away.

  “What are you going to do now?” Louis asked. “You going back to Ohio?”

  She tried a smile that came out a quiver. “Well, once you know the gypsy woman is wrong, you can do almost anything, can’t ya?” she said softly.

  She limped off toward the courtroom. He started to follow but stopped when he saw another familiar figure come through the glass doors. It was Sergeant Channing.

  Channing walked straight to him. Before he spoke, he took a second to study the lacerations that crisscrossed Louis’s face and hands.

  “I heard about everything that happened. How you feeling, Kincaid?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Is everything okay with Lily? I’m sorry I haven’t called or—”

  Channing cut him off with a raised palm. “Don’t worry about it, man, please.”

  He pulled a blue envelope from his shirt pocket, louis printed across the front in block letters.

  “Lily wanted me to give this to you,” Channing said.

  Louis opened the envelope and pulled out a card. It showed a cartoon of a bandaged teddy bear and the text, PUT YOUR RIGHT HAND ON YOUR LEFT SHOULDER AND YOUR LEFT HAND ON YOUR RIGHT SHOULDER.

  Louis opened the card.

  AND GIVE YOURSELF A HEALTHY HUG!

  She had signed it, in purple pen, in big letters: LOVE LILY.

  “You told her I was injured?” Louis asked.


  “Yeah,” Channing said. “Kyla and I talked about it and decided she might find out. She reads the papers, believe it or not. Plus, she’s going to see you again, and your face looks like you crawled through barbed wire. Kyla and me…we made a decision a long time ago that we had to be honest with her about this stuff.”

  “Because of your job?”

  Channing nodded. “A few years back, I ended up in the hospital for a week with a gunshot wound. We didn’t want Lily to worry or be scared for me all the time, so Kyla told her I went out of town.” He smiled. “Well, one morning, Lily didn’t show up for school and set the whole damn city in a panic. Turned out she overheard someone talking and walked three miles to the hospital to find me.”

  “Three miles?”

  “Yup,” he said. “Afterward, we had a long talk with her about my job and what could happen to me. It’s amazing what kids can digest sometimes.”

  Louis looked down at the card. “Yeah, it is,” he said.

  Channing was quiet for a moment. “You look beat, man.”

  “I’m all right,” Louis said.

  “We’re going to catch this fucker,” Channing said. “I know you’d like to be a part of it, but you need to get some rest.”

  Louis looked away and nodded.

  “When things calm down, give me a call at the station, and let me know your plans,” Channing said.

  Louis nodded again. “I will, thanks.”

  Channing started to leave, then turned back. “I almost forgot. I got a message for you from Kyla. She says don’t you dare go getting yourself killed now.”

  Channing walked away. Louis folded the card and slipped it into his back pocket.

  By the time he slid into a back-row seat inside the courtroom, Joe was standing in front of the judge, asking him to allow her to take Amy home with her to Echo Bay.

  He looked over at Amy. She was staring at Joe, her eyes filled with love. And he thought it was amazing that with everything Amy had been through, not only was she still able to feel love, but she was also willing to give it to a woman she barely knew.