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The Buried

Page 17

by Kathryn Casey


  Within minutes, we had the names and addresses of the two churches.

  Before we parted, I gave her the torn phone book pages with the other churches listed. “Keep looking this over. If you come up with any reason we should add any of these churches to our list, ask the warden to call us. Remember, your deal with the DA requires full cooperation. You don’t come through, the DP is back on the table.”

  “Okay,” she said. With the death penalty hanging out there, she’d become remarkably more subdued. “I’ll do it, like I promised.”

  Once the guards had Jimi Jo back in her cell, Del called in his staff to brief them on what we’d found out. He assigned a deputy to each of the churches we knew remained on Beau’s list.

  Meanwhile, I returned a phone call that came in during our session with the lawyer. Warden Overton wanted to let me know that Kneehoff had decided his original number was correct. Number Thirteen wasn’t his final victim. I had one more woman to sketch, a final victim. But first Kneehoff wanted something from me, something I’d tried to put out of my mind.

  Twenty-nine

  When I arrived at Polunsky, a clutch of protestors stood on the highway with a twenty-foot long blue and yellow banner that read: NO DEATH PENALTY!

  Inside the prison, the guards led me to the visiting area. I waited while they brought Kneehoff in, locked him into the cage across from me and took off his cuffs. I thought of my meeting with Jennifer Allen’s husband and daughter, the way Josie looked lovingly at her mother’s guitar. I could still hear Josh’s sobs and Josie’s wails. Kneehoff sat down, and a scratch in the Plexiglas barrier between us cut diagonally across his face, distorting his image. I thought of Dr. Jekyll and about how Liam Kneehoff had always been a Mr. Hyde.

  “I explained what I want and why,” he said into the phone. “Sarah, you said you’d talk to the warden.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ve been reading about you in the newspaper, how you’re searching for that firebug.”

  “You know, Liam, I didn’t expect you to tell the media that we discussed the case.” We hadn’t talked since the podcast that started all the publicity.

  “So sue me,” he sneered. “Or charge me with something and take me back to trial. I’d enjoy that. You’d have to keep me alive while the trial went on.”

  “Liam, I –”

  “Sarah, don’t play with me. You have nothing to use to coerce me,” he said, spitting out the words. He was angry. Angrier than I’d seen him since the day of his arrest. “They’re going to kill me. That’s the only way I’m getting out of this place. We both know that.”

  He was right. What could I threaten him with that was worse than his looming punishment? Nothing.

  “Okay, sure. You’re right. I can’t force you. But you said you wanted to make amends by helping us find the victims. This is your chance to do something good before you die.”

  “Why else would I do all this?” he asked.

  I didn’t bring up that helping with the women gave him extra time. It served no purpose. I wanted to finish with him and leave. Looking at Liam Kneehoff made me ill. “So you want copies of the photographs of the five original women and my drawings of the other eight. Explain why again, please?”

  “I told you!” He sneered, glaring at me through the scratched glass. “Seeing the faces will help me put the women in order. It’ll jog memories, and I’ll be able to figure out who’s left. Which one I missed.”

  I didn’t believe him. I doubted that he’d forgotten any of the women. He enjoyed seeing the women’s faces and remembering, and the thought of how he would fantasize as he looked at their pictures made me sick. But maybe that was the price I had to pay to find out if there was a Number Fourteen. If she existed, I wanted to be able to tell her family, to bring her remains home.

  I needed to know that none of the women were left behind.

  “Sarah, if I study the pictures, I can organize my memories,” he said, the beginnings of a smile tugging his lips at the corners. “Last time we talked, I thought I’d estimated wrong, and the number might have been thirteen not fourteen. I thought maybe we were done.”

  “Yes, you said you might have made a mistake and counted Kristilynn in the original number. So what’s changed?”

  “Well, now I believe that my original number was right, and thirteen didn’t end it.”

  I would have bet everything I had that he was lying. But how could I know? “I think you’re making up a fourteenth victim to keep the stay of execution in place.”

  Kneehoff stiffened. “No. That’s not why I’m talking to you.”

  I said nothing, not sure how to respond. When he spoke again he whispered, “Sarah, I promise you that when they put me on that gurney, I will be responsible for the deaths of fourteen women, not thirteen.”

  The thought made my neck muscles tighten and ache. Stress. I rubbed the sore spot and thought about what he wanted and what I was willing to sacrifice to get what I needed.

  “You really don’t want to give me the women’s pictures, do you?” he asked, his eyes cold dead. He had me backed into a corner, and he intended to enjoy it. “Why not? Why should you care?”

  At times, the game was too hard to play. “Because those women deserve respect. They are entitled to finally rest in peace. You’re entitled to nothing.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” he said. Pushing aside his anger, he grinned at me. “You are in a pickle, aren’t you? If you don’t give me the pictures, you’ll always wonder if there’s another one out there, one more family that could have gotten answers and didn’t. Can you live with that?”

  He toyed with me, and it all suddenly felt like too much. I bit my lower lip to make sure I said nothing more. When I again controlled my emotions, I said, “Okay. I’ll talk to the warden and ask the captain to e-mail over the photographs and sketches. You’ll have them today.”

  He sat back in the chair, clearly pleased.

  “When will you know if there’s one more?” I asked.

  “I should be ready to work with you tomorrow.”

  I hung up the prison phone that connected us and stood. Kneehoff then did the oddest thing. He put his palm against the glass and waited. I knew what he wanted. Inmates did this with family and friends, placed their hands together across the glass that separated them. It served as a kind of handshake, an embrace.

  I stared at his hand, and I wanted none of it. I turned and left.

  As I walked away I glanced back for one last look. Behind the glass Liam Kneehoff grinned, and he appeared to be laughing. Locked in the cage, he still held his hand against the glass, waiting for me.

  Thirty

  “I’ve got it all set up,” Del said, when he called.

  “All three are covered?” I was driving into Houston, ready for a long night.

  Before I left Del’s office that afternoon, we’d worked out a plan. A couple of his deputies would join the church members on guard at each of the two churches Jimi Jo remembered from Beau’s list and the only synagogue in the county. We added the temple because she mentioned her beloved’s disdain for faith extended beyond Christianity to the Jewish religion.

  “Yup, all covered. Six deputies, two at each,” he said. “It’s going to wreck my budget, but it can’t be helped.”

  “What about the fire pit? Are you going to keep that going another night?”

  For a moment, Del paused, perhaps considering. “Well, unless you’ve got an objection, I’m planning to pull the men off of it. I had two deputies there last night. They didn’t see anyone. I’m thinking that Beau’s progressed beyond lighting fires in the pit. Maybe I’ll just have one squad drive by off and on tonight, but that’s it.”

  I thought about that. “I think you’re probably right.”

  I arrived as the sun set, and I parked the Suburban a bit up the block from Kristilynn’s house, two houses from the corner. I made myself as comfortable as possible, and settled in. I’d stopped at a drive-through and bought
a chicken sandwich. I wanted the fried variety, but Mom’s voice played in my head and I bought a grilled one. I ignored her long enough to supersize the fries.

  The caffeine in the Coke, I hoped, would help me stay awake. I planned to watch the house as long as possible, and then doze in the SUV. I wanted to be close in case anything happened. The day a long one, I had no illusions of making it through the night.

  I called and talked to Maggie, and she mentioned that Strings’ dad, Pastor Fred, saw me on the newscasts about the church burnings.

  “He said to say thank you, Mom,” Maggie said. Then we talked more about her robot. She had a problem with the crab crackers not lining up the way she wanted. I, of course, didn’t have a clue how to help her and wondered what those knobby arms were supposed to do anyway.

  “Has Bobby been around?” I asked.

  “I think he’s still out of town, but he’s been calling Gram a bunch. I heard them talking this afternoon when Strings and I were in my room working on the robot. Gram sounded upset, but when I asked her what was wrong she said, ‘Nothing.’”

  “Okay,” I said. “Be extra nice to Gram, okay Magpie?”

  “Yeah, but I’m always nice to her.”

  “I know.”

  Kristilynn’s lights stayed on until ten, and then went off one-by-one as she closed the house down for the night. The bedroom light was out by eleven, and I plugged my phone in to keep it charged. I sipped on what was left of my Coke, and munched on cold French fries, the sandwich a memory.

  By midnight, my eyes drooped, and I wondered if I was being foolish. I considered driving home. I had a full workday ahead with no opportunity to sleep. Del was counting on me, and I had to be back at the prison to draw Number Fourteen, if there was one.

  I nestled my head against the glass. I focused on Kristilynn’s house and thought about her asleep in her bedroom. I wondered if I should have told her I’d be outside. Maybe she would have had a more restful night.

  Just after one, I jerked awake.

  A car approached on the cross street, a hundred feet behind me. It crawled up to the intersection. I waited and watched. I turned on the ignition. Maybe it would turn onto Willoughbee Lane. As it passed under the streetlight, I saw a deep burgundy Taurus. The light over the license slot out, I didn’t see a plate, much less a number. But I could read one word on the white bumper sticker: SQUIRRELS.

  The Taurus continued straight ahead and drove on. I put the Suburban into gear and swung into a U-turn. But when I turned the corner, the Taurus was gone. I looked down the first street, and then the next, hoping for a glimpse of it. The car had vanished. I drove the streets as I had the night before looking for the elusive sedan, but it was gone.

  “I need a BOLO on an older burgundy Taurus,” I told the 911 dispatcher after I identified myself.

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant,” she said.

  “No license plate. It has a bumper sticker with the word squirrels.”

  I could only imagine what the dispatcher thought, but she said nothing, just took down the information. “What do you want done if the car is spotted.”

  “Have the unit call me,” I said. “I’ll give instructions.” With that, I hung up.

  Then I put in a call to the local cops and asked them to cruise the streets around Kristilynn’s house. They said they’d send out a couple of squads. I continued to drift down streets, one after another, until the squads arrived. I let them take over and returned to my position on Willoughbee Lane.

  The lights at Kristilynn’s remained off. I tried to get comfortable again for my night in the Suburban, but all I could think of was the burgundy Taurus.

  Thirty-one

  Beau Whittle couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt such rage. She was there again, the Texas Ranger, parked on Kristilynn Cavanaugh’s street, watching, waiting. How did she know he’d be there? Who told her?

  Jimi Jo?

  That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t talked to her since her arrest, and he hadn’t even heard of Kristilynn then. Not until the podcast, when he heard Liam Kneehoff’s voice calling out to him to take care of his unfinished business.

  That ranger knows what I’m up to. Why else would she hang around? That’s gonna make it harder. “Shit!”

  Beau hid behind the same house as the first time, the one where no one appeared home and the driveway wrapped around into the backyard. This time the ranger didn’t drive the street, but a marked cop car cruised past.

  While Beau waited, he tried to decide what to do.

  Even before he saw the woman ranger and knew his plan wouldn’t work, Beau had been edgy. He didn’t like the feeling, a nervous anxiety that came over him sometimes. It started when he was a kid, the year after his dad died. The kids at school laughed about the old man kicking the bucket, called him a druggie. One said he heard Beau’s dad didn’t die of an overdose. He said Beau’s dad shot himself in the head.

  “That’s not true! You’re a liar!” Beau had yelled at the kid.

  The older boy taunted him. “Is so true! My mom told me!”

  After a while, when Beau had time to consider it, he decided the boy probably was right. That Beau’s dad committed suicide explained a lot, like all the folks whispering at the funeral, and Edith Mae mumbling when she was drunk about how Beau’s dad left them of his own accord, when he could have stayed and helped her raise Beau. “No good man would leave me saddled with a boy. That husband of mine was a coward! He took the easy way out.”

  The thoughts inside Beau’s head pulled at each other, tearing him apart.

  Then he locked into the fire starting. That fixed it all. The fires eased the anxiety, the prickly nerves that made Beau feel like his insides were being dragged out through his skin. For a long time the bonfires were enough. Then he met Jimi Jo and heard about her mom, dying after she’d gone to nearly every church in the county asking for prayers. Beau thought about his mom who drank herself to sleep every night except on the evenings when she went to church and complained to the preachers about him.

  Looking back, he thought it all made sense, everything leading him to the church burnings, then to Lord’s Acre and Pastor Wilson. That was how he found his way. Now he knew what he was supposed to do.

  The raw energy inside him wouldn’t let up, clawing on his insides. The disappointment at Kristilynn’s only made it worse. Once the adrenaline ebbed from seeing the ranger, his nervous energy took over again. He needed a release.

  The hour late, he thought about the remaining churches on his list.

  “I’ll do one of those,” he decided.

  In case the woman ranger called in a description of the car, Beau took the side roads out of Houston and stayed off the interstate, heading north. At least he’d been careful enough to remove the license plate. Once he got up around Huntsville, he veered east. In his mind he worked over the possibilities. Eventually he decided on Christ’s Garden. His mother always liked that place. She said it reminded her of a cottage and bragged that they had the best Wednesday evening pot luck dinners in the county.

  But when Beau arrived, pickups and SUVs filled the church’s small parking lot. He saw a deputy’s car, lights on top and SHERIFF on the side.

  From Christ’s Garden, Beau drove another fifteen miles north, and then pulled up in front of Chapel in the Pines. The same situation: men with shotguns sat in lawn chairs outside the church. To Beau it looked like they were drinking Lone Star out of longnecks, making a party of it.

  What to do?

  The anxiety gnawed at him, and he had to do something, anything to get past it.

  The road deserted, Beau angled off and took a dirt driveway not much wider than a path. He parked in a small clearing at the dead end.

  Stepping outside the car, Beau looked up. The moon full, not a cloud, the umbrella of sky above him appeared a deep navy with pinpoints of light. In the woods he heard the singing of mating insects, but nothing else. Peace. Quiet. He popped the trunk on the Taurus and pulled out
the old man’s shotgun and a three-gallon gas can. From there, he started walking, carrying the shotgun and the heavy can, picking his way in the darkness with only the moonlight guiding him.

  A few minutes later, he arrived at the clearing with the fire pit.

  He wondered if his mother had told anyone about this place. He looked around, but saw no evidence of interlopers. Nothing appeared disturbed. Convinced he was alone, Beau went to work gathering sticks and brown leaves. He heaped them in the center of the fire circle. Once he had enough tinder, he piled on branches and logs, chunks of a fallen tree. He worked hard, sweat coating his body, the salt getting into his mouth and stinging his eyes.

  By the time he finished, the wood stacked three feet high. He poured on the gasoline and wet it down. Then he stood back and threw in the match. Woosh! The flames exploded, reaching up toward the clear, dark sky.

  The bonfire crackled, the light flashed and his nostrils filled with the campfire smell. Beau stood transfixed, the ball of anxiety in his gut eased.

  Then he heard the crunching of dry leaves and the approach of footsteps.

  Thirty-two

  I’d fallen asleep in the Suburban and woke to my ringing phone. The sun was making its first appearance of the day, and I shook the night off.

  “Sarah, something’s happened. We need you up here ASAP,” Del said.

  “Did you find Beau?”

  In her wheelchair Kristilynn maneuvered down the driveway to pick up her morning newspaper. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt for her summer job. When school wasn’t in session, she worked at a daycare.

  “I guess you could say that he found us.” Del said. “I’m at the fire pit.”

  Something about the way he said it set off alarms. “Another victim?”

 

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