by Lisa Jackson
Quin looked at him. “What?” he asked.
“ ‘The devil made me do it’? Delta just mentioned that’s what Tanner said as an excuse for bad behavior.”
“A lot of people do.”
McCrae nodded. He didn’t know quite why the phrase nudged at him so much. He felt like it was just outside his grasp, lingering in some forgotten whorl of his brain. Something to do with high school? The Crassleys? Tanner?
“I’m talking to the union about Hurston,” Quin said suddenly. “Sick of him in my face.”
“Does that mean I can come in to work tomorrow?”
“Already told Mayor Kathy to butt out, nicely. She’s under the mistaken impression that Hurston solved my daughter’s case and should be allowed to look at Tanner’s. She wants Stahd Senior to stop threatening to sue everyone and anyone. She thinks the stall on the case makes her look bad.”
“Stall? It hasn’t been a week yet,” McCrae declared.
“She watches too much television,” he snapped as they headed to their vehicles.
* * *
When Delta finally sneaked away from her parents’ house and beeped her remote to open her car doors, it was close to 8:00. She drove away, glancing in her rearview. She’d thought she’d seen the black SUV again but wasn’t sure. Now she headed west toward the Forsythe property. It was still light. Wouldn’t get dark till nearly 9:00 at this time of year.
She was going to drive over the bridge that spanned the tapering end of Grimm’s Pond, right past where Zora and Brian’s car had gone over. As she approached that area, she slowed, looking to her left to see the crime-scene tape, the sheared bark of trees, trampled grasses, and disturbed gravel. To her shock, the black vehicle was suddenly in her rearview. The driver stomped on the brakes as Delta hit the gas, her Audi jumping forward as if eager to race. She tore down the road, zooming past the drive to Amanda’s and heading farther west twenty miles into the Coast Range before she caught the turnoff that would take her back to Highway 26 to circle back to West Knoll. Hands shaking, she dug through her purse for her phone. Of course, it wasn’t at hand. Of course, it wasn’t.
Finally, her hand closed over it. She pulled it out and called McCrae but got his voice mail. “I saw the black SUV! It was following me. I just drove—”
Beep-beep-beep. And the phone went dead. Dropped signal.
“Aargh!” she yelled. And then she laughed a bit hysterically. She was safe, at least for the moment. No black SUV in sight.
* * *
Ellie stood on her brakes at the same time the menacing SUV did. She nearly ran into the back of it, while it nearly ran into the back of Delta’s Audi. But then Delta sped away from it so fast Ellie wondered if she knew who was driving it. Was this some game of cat and mouse?
The Tahoe didn’t follow. Ahead of her, it made a three-point turn and started heading back the way it had come. Ellie stayed frozen in her car. Should she dash off too? Save her skin? Call the police or, more accurately, McCrae?
She stayed where she was, her eyes following the big vehicle as it came her way. The driver looked over as they came even.
He stopped.
Ellie pushed the button to roll down her window as the Tahoe’s driver did the same.
“Brad,” she said.
“Ellie,” he responded.
“What the fuck are you doing, man? You scared Delta. You see the way she ripped outta here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Following you! I was waiting for Delta, and I saw you move in after her. You’ve been hanging back, hoping she wouldn’t see you. What are you doing?” Then, as it came to her, “Who’re you working for?” For some reason, she wasn’t scared. She should be, she supposed. What did she know about Brad Sumpter, really? Nothing. He was always in the background. Just hanging with the guys. No one of serious importance.
“I’m trying to save her.”
“Yeah? From whom?”
“My cousins.”
“Your cousins? Who’re—” But she suddenly knew. “The Crassleys? You’re a Crassley?”
“My mom was.”
“Okay, Jesus, Brad. Drive into town. Stop at . . . the police station. I’m calling McCrae.”
“I don’t want to get in trouble.” He started to look scared.
“No, no. You’re not going to get in trouble. You’re saving Delta, right? From your cousins? What are they planning to do with her?”
“You’re going to turn me in. You’re going to blame me for everything. I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t do it.”
“I believe you, Brad. I do.”
“No, you don’t.” He threw his behemoth into gear and tore toward West Knoll.
“Shit.” Ellie shoved her Escort into DRIVE and turned it around with more ease than Brad had demonstrated as he herded his Tahoe. Still, he was way ahead. Not that she couldn’t find him, but did she really want to race after him? Yes! No . . .
Should she tell McCrae? Yes . . . but the story would get away from her then. She’d already given him a tip that he’d taken as his due, not giving her another thought. If she didn’t push to fit herself into the investigation, she would be forgotten. But this was her story. Hers. And Brad was harmless, right? He was trying to save Delta from his cousins. Jesus. The Crassleys were his cousins!
Did she have Brad’s number? No. She knew she didn’t. Where did he live? Did she know? But he wasn’t going there. He was going back to Delta’s, to pick up her trail there. That made sense. But would Delta go back home?
No. She would go to her parents’. That’s where the kid had to be.
Immediately, Ellie aimed for Smith & Jones.
* * *
Delta didn’t trust going through town, so she wound around the outskirts, avoiding the city center. She tried to call Amanda. No answer. “Pick up!” she cried. Maybe she should go back to her parents’. Be with them and Owen. Wait for McCrae to get back to her. He hadn’t yet. She had cell service again, but she’d been driving and expected him to call any second.
At this end of town, she was closer to Amanda’s than her parents’. What if the black SUV found her or knew where she was going?
Her phone rang, and she stared at the screen for a moment before answering carefully, “Hello?”
“Delta, it’s Ellie. I saw the guy who was following you. Brad Sumpter. In the black Tahoe? He says he’s trying to keep you safe.”
“What?” She was stopped at a crossroads, and there was no traffic, which was just as well because it felt like her bones were melting.
“Are you going to your parents’? I’ve been trying to get through to you. Together we’ve got a real story. Brad Sumpter’s mom is a Crassley! One of those pieces of shit attacked me today.”
“What?”
“Where are you going? I’ll tell you about it in person. Or meet me somewhere? Your house.”
“I’m going to Amanda’s. I’m meeting my lawyer.”
“Oh. Then meet me afterward.”
“Ellie, are you sure about Brad?”
“Yes. So, your house. What time?”
“No. I’ve gotta go.”
“Delta, don’t put me off. I think the Crassleys are behind Bailey’s death, too.”
“I’ll—I’ll call you and let you know.” Then, “Thanks,” and she clicked off.
Good Lord. Her pulse was racing. Too much information in too short a time. Had Brad started following her after they ran into each other at Danny O’s? He was related to the Crassleys? Why were the Crassleys after her? She’d never done anything to them. She’d avoided them as much as anyone else. It didn’t seem right.
She drove on toward Amanda’s, glancing once more toward the spot where Zora and Brian died, though she warned herself not to. She’d told McCrae there was a conspiracy. There had to be. Her friends just couldn’t die like this.
* * *
“Dee,” McCrae said aloud, on his way back to the station. Something or someone had brought Tanner’s nick
name for Delta to the front of his mind. Dee. He’d thought it could stand for Dean Sutton or Zora DeMarco . . . But Zora was gone now, and it didn’t feel like it could be Coach Sutton. It didn’t even have to be a name . . . although Woody’s last name was Deavers . . .
He grimaced, knowing he was searching for anything other than “Dee,” as in Delta’s initial.
But what had cued that? What was his brain trying to remember? Something from high school?
He’d powered down his phone while he was in the jail. His battery was low, and he’d left the charger in his own car, which he was on his way to retrieve. Now he switched the phone back on and was gratified to have a whole seven percent of battery life left. It was enough to get him to the station, where he could switch back to his car.
Two messages. The first one from Ellie. “I want to talk to you. I’ve got information that I want to share, but I need to be in on the story. Here’s some: Brad Sumpter’s been following Delta in a black Tahoe. He says he’s watching out for her because his cousins, the Crassleys, have it in for her. Call me for more details.”
McCrae thought that over. Almost called her, but listened to the second message.
Delta’s voice, on the edge of hysteria, “I saw the black SUV! It was following me. I drove—” and it cut off.
He quickly phoned her back.
* * *
Delta drove around to the back of the Forsythe property and parked next to Amanda’s Lexus. There were lights on in the kitchen, and she stepped outside onto the patio, the breeze tugging at her hair. Memories stirred, and she looked down at her foot, faint scars still visible around her tender ankle from the injuries sustained at the barbeque.
She knocked on the door, and when nothing happened, pushed it in. “Amanda?”
No answer.
She stepped into the kitchen and listened. Nothing.
In the dining room, she found Amanda’s laptop and a notepad and papers . . . and a journal. Bailey’s journal?! She’d seen it enough times before it disappeared that she knew it instantly. Amanda had Bailey’s journal? How?
“Amanda?” she called again, the creeps coming over her. Something was wrong here.
She reached for the journal but pulled her hand back and waited, counting her heartbeats. Carefully, she reversed her steps and then saw what looked like drops of blood on the carpet. Mouth dry, she leaned down to look. The wood floor looked as if someone had hurriedly wiped up some liquid. Was that blood in the tiny cracks? Blood drops on the carpet? Amanda’s blood?
A teensy corner of blue paper was caught beneath the edge of the carpet. She was torn between finding out what it was and running for the back door. She got her fingernail around the ragged piece of paper and carefully slipped it out.
Not me & T at bbq
Amanda’s writing? A message for her?
An icy feeling settled between her shoulder blades.
The journal. Something in the journal had prompted the message?
Is that blood?
Where was Amanda?
Is this some kind of trap?
Delta bolted for the back door, racing for her car. She’d locked it automatically and now couldn’t seem to get her hands around the keys, digging wildly through her purse.
Was that a noise? A footfall? Was Amanda playing games with her?
It was dusk. Shadows lengthening. The wind beginning to moan. She could smell the river. The grasses.
Get a grip. Get in your car. Call McCrae.
She saw something on the patio. A black puddle?
One of the garage doors suddenly started to rise. Delta froze, her eyes darting to the garage. A woman stepped from the shadows. Amanda, finally.
Behind her Delta glimpsed the rear end of a white car. A Mercedes.
“Amanda?” she asked, suddenly not so sure about this blond woman.
“Amanda’s in her bedroom,” the woman told her.
Delta automatically looked upward.
Amanda was hanging out her bedroom window. Limp. Arms thrown forward in abandon. Eyes open.
Dead.
Delta stumbled forward, a shriek of horror bursting from her throat.
Hard hands grabbed her from behind, wrenching her shoulders back.
Clarice Billings stood in front of her, but not the Miss Billings with the blond hair clipped at her nape and the trim suits and warm smile and kind words of counsel. This Clarice was cool and hard and capable.
“Put her in the garage,” she told Delta’s captor.
Chapter 29
McCrae tried to reach Delta three times before he gave up, his calls going to her voice mail. He next tried Ellie, who also didn’t answer.
Brad Sumpter was a Crassley.
He called in and ordered an APB on Brad Sumpter, then stopped trying to make it to the station and drove directly to the Crassley compound just as it was getting dark. The dogs burst into frenzied song as soon as he stepped out. He stalked to the front door and banged on it with his fist. It was wide open, only shut by the screen, which wasn’t latched. “Booker? Harry?”
He stepped inside. Pulled his gun. Eased himself through the rooms, clearing them one by one. Headed upstairs. Messy. Dirty. But empty. Downstairs. To the basement. No one. Nothing but car parts—and a small arsenal of guns.
Back to the main floor and outside, looking over the cars. A slanting sun sent its last rays over them, touching them with gold. Nothing.
Back in the Trailblazer, he searched for Delta’s parents’ number. Found it. Called them.
“Hello?” It was Delta’s mother.
“Hi, this is Chris McCrae. Is Delta there?”
“No.” Alarm in her tone. “She was meeting her lawyer, and she said she would be right back.”
“Is that Mommy?” he heard in the background.
“No, honey. It’s a friend of Mommy’s,” Mrs. Smith told him. “Is everything okay?”
“As far as I know.” He injected surety into his voice. “Did she say where she was meeting Amanda?”
“At her office? Maybe?”
“You hear from her, would you have her call me?”
“Okay.”
He hung up before he gave anything away. Amanda’s office was in downtown Portland. Would she really meet there this late? Maybe. Especially if the meeting started earlier and had already broken up.
Delta. Dee.
Dee.
He had a sudden memory from high school. Tanner and Woody.
Tanner: “Let’s go to a titty bar.”
Woody: “They closed the best one down.”
Tanner: “Years ago, but there are others. Good ones.”
Woody: “McCrae should meet Diabla.”
Tanner, suddenly angry: “Diabla’s not in the game.”
Woody: “Well, maybe not now . . .”
Tanner: “C’mon, McCrae. Don’t be a pussy. Let’s go find you a real woman.”
He’d declined, and Tanner had called him a pussy for weeks afterward. McCrae had wondered if he should tell Delta, who believed, at that point, that Tanner was being true to her. A misguided sense of brotherhood and the uncomfortable feeling he would be a rat kept him from speaking. But maybe he should’ve.
Diabla. Female devil.
The devil made me do it.
Crassley had said those words with amusement mere hours ago, a hidden joke. Woody had reminded Delta of Tanner going to adult men’s clubs, and Delta had remembered Tanner using “the devil made me do it” as an all-encompassing excuse.
Was Diabla a myth?
He called Woody for the second time that day.
“Hey, McCrae, my man,” Woody greeted him, recognizing the number. “Are we BFFs all of a sudden?”
“The devil made me do it.”
McCrae guffawed. “So, you know?”
“About Diabla? I’m learning.”
“You know who she is?”
McCrae searched his mind. Someone older than they were. Someone who’d been “in the game.” One of
the parents or the teachers? He ran through the list and, like a dial, click, click, clicked down to a few choices.
Bailey said Carmen saw something in the woods.
Carmen died when Clarice Billings couldn’t pull her from the water.
“Miss Billings.”
“Bingo, brother. I tried to get you with her that one time, remember?”
“Clarice Billings worked at an adult men’s club?”
“That’s how she paid for college. Gave it all up to be a teacher—well, mostly.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, she ran through the male faculty at West Knoll. Brian Timmons never got over her, but Tanner kind of thought she’d screwed around with Kiefer, and that’s why he recommended her for that job she’s got now. Let’s face it, he married the chief’s ex-wife, so neither Kiefer nor Diabla probably wanted her to be hanging around West Knoll anymore.”
“And she was with Tanner?”
“He was of age,” Woody defended. “I woulda done her, wouldn’t you? If you had the chance?”
“Tanner died on Monday,” McCrae said coldly. “You’ve had all week to bring this up.”
“Well, she didn’t kill him,” Woody denied. “She’s not a killer. And she and Tanner were long over.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Well . . . yeah . . . but I don’t see much of Tanner anymore . . .”
McCrae said tautly, “Carmen saw Clarice with Tanner at the barbeque. In the woods together.”
“Might be,” Woody allowed cautiously. Then, “Y’think that’s what sent Carmen over the edge?”
I think that’s why she wasn’t rescued, McCrae thought.
He got off the phone with hardly a good-bye. Then he called Quin.
* * *
Delta was seated on a hard metal chair. She’d tried to escape when her captor first grabbed her, but he’d wrenched her arms back so hard she was practically immobilized. He’d brought her into the garage, sat her in the chair, and was standing somewhere behind her. The golf cart was to her left, and in front of the door was Miss Billings, Clarice.
“You’ve had your fun, Harry,” Clarice told him. “Now push the body out the window.”