Blood Echo

by Rice, Christopher

  “She wasn’t drunk.”

  “Henricks says she’s got addiction issues.”

  “Henricks was too chickenshit to go with me to question Clements.”

  “I heard you, jackass!” Henricks shouts from the coffee maker.

  “Good!” Luke shouts back.

  “She was slurring half her words,” Henricks fires back.

  “She’d just been beaten up, ass wipe. We’re lucky she could even talk. Who let her walk out of here before she could tell us what happened?”

  “Wait, tell you what happened?” Mona asks. “What did she say when she walked in here if she hadn’t told you what happened?”

  “It’s complicated,” Luke says.

  “Lies usually are!” Henricks barks.

  “Why the hell did you let her leave?” Luke barks back.

  “There was no stopping her, Luke,” Mona says. “Not if she had a change of heart.”

  “About lying,” Henricks adds.

  Luke feels his pulse pounding in his ears. He’s staring at the shocked expression on Henricks’s face before he realizes he’s storming through the sea of desks toward the spot where Henricks is backing up against the wall, coffee cup held up against his chest as if it might protect him from whatever’s coming next.

  “You went back in the interview room, didn’t you? You let me go to the Gold Mine by myself, and you came back here and convinced her to walk before I got back with Clements.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Henricks whines.

  Luke can hear Mona saying his name. She’s even grabbing at his shoulder. But as his rage builds, these things feel like the slip and slide of a loose shirt over his skin.

  “What is up with you and Clements, Henricks? You guys just fishing buddies, or did he put you on his payroll?”

  “Payroll? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you’re getting an envelope of cash each week from the Clements crew. And that’s why you have such a hard time believing someone with that last name might not be so squeaky clean.”

  “You’re paranoid, Luke. You brought that darkness into your house, and now you’re going nuts.”

  “Darkness? What the hell are—”

  “Don’t come after us just because everything you see’s a horror movie now that you’re banging Burning Girl.”

  “You say one more goddamn word about Charlotte and I’ll shut your fucking mouth with my—”

  “Enough!” Mona screams.

  The station goes still. Deputy Lewiston, a new hire and former member of Martin Cahill’s old contracting crew, looks even more uncomfortable and out of place than usual.

  Luke’s expecting to be dragged into Mona’s office by the shoulder. Or fired on the spot. Everyone else in the department knows he sometimes gets special treatment, and they figure it’s due to the long, close friendship Mona and his mother enjoyed before his mother passed away. And they’re right. But what they don’t understand is that this past family connection means that Mona’s just as likely to treat him like a teenager who needs a lesson about losing his temper. On most days, the choice depends on her mood, and right now, her mood’s anything but good.

  So when Mona walks past Luke and right up to Henricks, Luke is stunned silent.

  And relieved.

  “Did you allow a fellow deputy to go alone to a crowded bar to question a potentially violent suspect?” Mona asks.

  “I didn’t approve of the approach he was taking.” Henricks’s words might be confident, but his tone makes it sound like he’s drawing breath through a straw.

  “The approach? Are you saying Deputy Prescott was planning a violent act, or considering planting evidence?”

  “No . . . No, I mean . . .”

  “OK, then. Talk to me about this approach you didn’t approve of.”

  “He seemed upset. I wanted him to calm down.”

  “So in order to ensure calm, you let him go by himself to the Gold Mine?”

  The silence inside the station is so thick Luke feels like he’s drowning in it.

  “It’s a yes or no question, Henricks,” Mona says quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “Give me your gun and your badge.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “You’re under review. You essentially left a fellow officer in a crowd situation with a potentially violent suspect. That’s unacceptable and you know it.”

  As Henricks stares at her, his tongue makes a lump under his bottom lip. His nostrils are flaring like he just ate hot sauce.

  Then, slowly—too slowly for Luke’s liking—Henricks detaches his gun holster from his belt and sets it on the empty desk behind Mona. Luke breathes easier once the man’s set the gun down. Then, as he starts unfastening his badge, Henricks says, “I quit.”

  “I accept your resignation.” Mona collects the gun and badge as Henricks brushes past Luke.

  All eyes are on the shamed deputy as he steps through the half gate next to the dispatch desk. Luke doubts the man will leave without getting the last word.

  Henricks spins to face them.

  “This is the best goddamn thing to happen to this town since . . . ever. And everyone in here’s acting like it’s the end of the world just because it gave us more work to do. Well, I’m done. I’m done pretending like we gotta turn this whole place into Sunday school or turn back the clock to when we’re nothing but a couple horse farms and a shitty diner and an army fort that got smaller every damn year. We’re going to drive these people away, we keep acting like this.”

  “If we don’t let them all beat up their girlfriends, you mean?” Luke asks.

  “Fuck you, Prescott. Nobody wanted you back here anyway. Your mother’s dead and your brother’s a criminal. No wonder the best you can do is a serial killer’s daughter.”

  “Get out, Henricks,” Mona shouts.

  But when Luke says, “Who’s us?” his quiet tone surprises everyone into silence.

  “What?” Henricks finally asks.

  “You said, don’t come after us. Who’s us, Henricks?”

  The man’s face reddens and his lips part, but nothing comes out.

  “Maybe I am a little quick tempered for a cop,” Luke says, “but you sure as hell don’t have the temperament to be on the take, loose lips.”

  Henricks mutters the word bullshit under his breath several times as he storms out of the station. Luke figures the fact that he couldn’t once say the word while looking anyplace other than the floor is a sign the only bullshit being slung was coming from Henricks.

  21

  It takes three phone calls to establish that no one matching Lacey Shannon’s description has walked into the new late-night urgent care in town or any of the nearby hospitals. That means she’s either gone back to Trailer City or left town altogether, and right now, Mona doesn’t want Luke investigating either possibility.

  Instead, she wants them to sit in her office with the door closed while they both try to catch their first deep breath in five months.

  So far, that coveted deep breath is proving elusive. Having Jordy Clements locked in a cell close by does give Luke a newfound sense of control, but he wouldn’t call it relaxing.

  “I think I’m going to turn into one of those sheriffs who keeps a flask in my desk like on TV,” Mona says.

  “That’s not your style,” Luke says.

  “Says who?”

  “You barely drink.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll start.” After a moment, she says, “I’m going to have to call the county to replace Henricks.”

  “Fine.”

  “And maybe get some more people in general.”

  “Or we could have a jobs fair like everybody else is doing.”

  “What fine specimens is that going to bring to the surface during this golden moment for Altamira?”

  “I don’t know. Not everybody who’s rolled into town is a bad apple.”

  “You really think Clements is paying people off?”<
br />
  “I think we’ve got prostitutes for the first time. Saw one giving up belly button shots at the Gold Mine earlier.”

  “I’m not hearing anything about shakedowns, or organized crime.”

  “Me neither, but still.”

  “Why don’t you get out while the going’s good?” Mona asks.

  “What?”

  “The old Meadows apartment building close to you’s still for sale. Price goes up every week, but nobody’s touching it yet because it’s right by where they’re going to start blasting. See if you can get a loan and, presto, once the tunnel’s done, you’ll be in the real estate business.”

  “I don’t want to be in the real estate business.”

  “Hell, maybe I’ll go in on it with you and we can both get the—”

  “Mona, come on. This is . . . doable. It’s a lot, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll get more people. We’ll manage.”

  “I’m just tired, is what you’re saying.”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  She plants her elbows on her desk and rubs her face with both hands. “It’s hard.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s hard because it reminds me of your mom. The chemo, the hospitals. And I feel weird saying that because she was your mom, and I don’t want to . . .”

  “Don’t want to what?”

  “I don’t want to steal your story. What you went through was a lot worse than what I dealt with.”

  “Not really.”

  “Luke . . .”

  “I’m serious. I was a snot-nosed kid back then. You did all the heavy lifting. Driving her to doctor’s appointments, helping her keep track of meds.”

  “You took care of your brother. That was the important part. You guys called a truce on whatever war you had with each other so that your mom could have a little peace in the end. That was important, Luke. It was important to her. She said so. Many times.”

  Luke just nods, but any mention of Bailey spears his gut worse than any memory of his mother’s final days.

  One of the richest men in the world could have cleared his record, allowed him to come home again, and Bailey still said no. He actually chose the life of a criminal in hiding over coming home and being a family again.

  “You miss him?” Mona asks.

  Mona knows Bailey had to flee the country after conducting an elaborate hack to locate the dean of a small community college who fleeced Bailey and his classmates of their tuitions. But that’s just a fraction of Bailey’s story now, and no way can he tell Mona the rest of it.

  “Yeah, I do,” Luke says.

  “Well, you’ve got Charlotte now. That’s gotta help.”

  “It does.”

  When Luke’s cell phone rings, they both jump. He half expects to see some text from Bailey that makes it clear he’s been eavesdropping on them via one of the many networked devices in their vicinity. Then the phone rings again, reminding him it’s an actual call. The number’s unidentified.

  “Luke Prescott,” he answers.

  “Good evening, Deputy,” the voice on the other end says.

  Cole Graydon.

  Luke rises out of his chair and steps quietly from Mona’s office. He’s aware he’s taking steps, but he can’t feel his feet connecting with the floor. He’s suddenly sweating all over, so much the phone feels slick against his ear. Not good, he thinks. A call from Cole and not Charley means this is not good at all.

  “Good evening,” Luke says, but his voice sounds reedy, breath starved.

  “Is this a good time?”

  “I can always make time for you.” Even though you’ve never called me on the phone before.

  “Well . . . good,” Cole says. “Two things.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Our operation is complete and Charlotte is recovering nicely.”

  “Recovering?”

  “She should be home in a day or two. I’ll let her explain, provided you keep those details confidential.”

  “Of course. But . . .”

  Now his vision is spinning, and he feels as if some invisible string that was holding him up by the back of his neck has been cut. All the tension of the last few moments, possibly the last five months, collapses in a single instant. He grips the back of the nearest chair. Only now that his bones have gone liquid can he truly feel the extent to which his fear for Charley calcified his every move for over a month now. He better pull it together before everyone inside the station starts offering him cold compresses.

  “But what, Luke?” Cole asks.

  “She’s OK?” he whispers.

  “More than OK. She continues to be her remarkable self.”

  “Good. Great.”

  Cole is silent; probably he can tell Luke is trying to catch his breath. He’s also blinking back tears, but he’s pretty sure Cole won’t be able to hear those.

  “Is that both things?” Luke finally asks.

  “No. Let Jordy Clements go.”

  Luke is stunned silent.

  “Luke?”

  “I’m here.”

  “We’re doing important work. Momentous work. And you’re supporting us more than you realize. Continue that support by not making mountains out of molehills. They’ll ruin everyone’s new view. Including yours.”

  Luke’s not exactly sure what the hierarchy is for the strange deals Cole Graydon’s put together to bring all this new construction to Altamira. But never in a million years did he think a problem with Jordy Clements would travel all the way up the shadowy ladder to the man who’s become the puppet master of both his life and Charley’s. (And pretty much everyone in town, even if they don’t quite realize the extent of it.)

  “We haven’t even given him his phone call,” Luke whispers. “Who did he call?”

  “He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t need to.”

  “You’ve got spies all over town, is what you’re saying.”

  “He’s not worth your time, Luke.”

  “He beat up a woman.”

  “If that’s true, he’ll be dealt with. Just not by you.”

  For a second, Luke feels a surge of relief. Cole Graydon can deal with people far more effectively than any member of the Altamira Sheriff’s Department ever could, usually with private armies of mercenaries and surveillance technology that puts the most paranoid conspiracy theorists to shame.

  Who knows? Maybe the punishment Cole’s got planned for Jordy’s going to be way too severe. But Luke doubts it. What he hears is the powerful protecting the son of someone slightly less powerful, someone he might have made a special backroom deal with to get the tunnel project underway.

  “Luke?”

  “OK.”

  “Good. Take care.”

  Cole hangs up, and the next thing he knows he’s settling back into the chair in front of Mona’s desk while she studies him with as much energy as she can muster, which isn’t much.

  “Luke . . . ?”

  “Charley’s coming home soon.”

  “Oh, good. Where’s she been?”

  “Visiting family.”

  “Not her father.”

  “No, never.”

  “I didn’t think she had much family left.”

  “Some cousins . . . aunts,” Luke lies.

  Mona nods. Luke nods.

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Jordy . . .”

  “I know,” Luke says, more to himself than to her. “We have to let him go.”

  She feels the wind first.

  It’s colder than any she’s ever felt in town. Then she feels the dull throb of the injuries covering her battered face. There’s a new sensation there, not as deep and painful as the others. When she tries to open her eyes, she learns the source—she’s been blindfolded.

  Now that she’s aware she can’t see, her body is in a rush to make sense of her surroundings using her other senses.

  A length of something—she figures rope—ties her wrists against her back. She c
an’t be sure the same rope is what’s securing her ankles together. But there’s something else of which she’s becoming gradually but sickeningly sure.

  She’s upside down.

  Her hair’s been tied back; otherwise she would have realized this right away, but her postnasal drip’s running backward, making fire in the back of her throat, and her upper jaw’s going sore from hanging at an unusual angle.

  The cold, persistent wind grazing her body from inverted head to toe suggests she’s inside some sort of vast outdoor space. Now she remembers the mad rush back to her trailer after the asshole cop threatened her. She remembers throwing open the door, already planning in her mind what she would grab and what she would leave behind. Then the darkness inside seemed to grab her, and that’s when she realized, too late, that one of them had been waiting for her. Maybe they knew what she’d found, or maybe the other cop, the one who seemed to believe her, had made too much noise.

  As soon as she put some distance between her and Altamira, she would have called him, told him about the gift she’d left him. That had been the plan. But she’d always been good at making plans, bad at keeping them.

  And now, here she is.

  Maybe they’re trying to tell her they know about her fall. She wouldn’t be surprised if they’d brought her back to the same spot. It was isolated as hell. When she’d gone to visit the place, she hadn’t calculated the right time for sunset. The spot was on the eastern side of the mountain, which meant the place lost its good light well before dusk, and she’d found herself lost in shadows quicker than she’d expected. That’s why she’d tripped and almost somersaulted to her death.

  There’s a sharp crack off to her right.

  It takes her a second to identify the sound.

  At first, she thinks maybe it’s a snapping stick. But it’s too resonant.

  It echoes.

  And then there’s another sound just like it. Farther away.

  Farther down.

  Farther below.

  The sound repeats, and repeats, as the rock bounces down into what sounds like a chasm that travels to the center of the goddamn earth.

  Of course, she thinks, fighting a sob. Of course they’d try to break me like this.