“Some women don’t,” she countered. “I have to ask these questions.”
“I understand. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Only your assurance that you’ll contact me if anything else unusual occurs.”
“Of course. If anything happened to Mimi or Zach, I’d never forgive myself.”
Blackwell rose from her chair, and I took my cue the interview was over.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said, scraping back my chair and also rising. The metal legs ground in a high-pitched squeal against the hard floor. “And thanks for reviewing the Cormier case,” I added. “Didn’t think anyone cared about them after all these years.”
She merely nodded, and I followed her out of the room and back down the hallway toward the lobby. As I approached the exit door, Blackwell turned to me and took out papers from the manila envelope. “Fill out this official report and leave it with the receptionist. If we have any leads or any more questions, I’ll give you a call.”
I scanned the two-page document she’d given me. Should be easy enough to complete. I nodded and had started to turn away when Blackwell spoke again.
“By the way, if no one was willing to discuss Jackson Ensley’s adoption with you, and you don’t have any papers, how did you discover his birth mother’s name?”
“I visited my aunt Tressie, Jackson’s mother, at her assisted living home and saw his birth certificate.”
“She’s one of the family members you discussed the Cormier case with?”
“Not exactly.” Heat traveled down my neck. “She asked me to put some papers and pictures back inside a trunk she keeps in her room. The certificate was in there.”
“Leave the investigative work to us,” she admonished. “Just in case there is any present danger.”
I shot her a wry smile before exiting. “Seems you are the second person today to issue me a warning.”
The lobby seemed even more crowded than before. I took a seat and quickly filled out the incident report before dutifully handing it over to the woman behind the glass wall. Had my meeting with Deputy Blackwell accomplished anything? The only thing I’d learned was that she had listened to me and was looking into the past.
Once outside, I breathed easier. I’d done everything in my power. Surely this would all blow over now. There was nothing else for me to pursue. If someone was watching me, they’d be bored to tears at my mundane life and eventually leave us alone. From here on out, it was back to working at my freelance job and keeping an eye on Mimi and Zach. Tonight, after they’d gone to sleep, I’d take what was left of my journals and burn them—like I should have done long ago. Destroy the written ramblings and stop dwelling on the past.
You were the last to see Raymond Strickland and Deacon Cormier alive. Blackwell’s words crawled like a nest of spiders let loose in my brain. It had to be a coincidence, nothing more.
Yet when the wind whipped up the sides of my unzipped black coat, I fancied that I must appear like a giant crow flapping its wings, an unwilling harbinger of death.
Chapter 9
TEGAN
“What are you looking at?”
Oliver’s voice thundered by my ear. I’d been so engrossed in reading the old Cormier investigative transcripts that I’d been oblivious to his presence. He leaned over my right shoulder, peering at the computer screen.
I flushed as though I were ten years old and had been caught misbehaving by the school principal. “Just exploring links between the various cases.”
He straightened, displeasure evident on his face. “Come into my office, and let’s talk.”
“Be right there.” Quickly, I closed the document and gathered my notebook and pen as he left our room.
“You’re in trouble now, rookie,” Haywood stage-whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“If he kicks you off the Strickland case, I want first dibs on it,” Mullins added, wagging a finger in my direction. I was sure his remark was only half in jest.
Oliver was already seated when I entered his office and didn’t immediately look up from the papers on his desk. I dropped into a chair across from him and waited for him to acknowledge me.
Finally, he folded his large hands on the desk and faced me. “Why were you reading up on that cold case? We’ve already discussed this. Our attention should be focused on the present, not events that occurred nearly two decades ago.”
“Yes, sir.” I vowed not to read it anymore in the office. What I did at home in my own time was my own business. And I would pore over every detail—present and past.
He nodded, satisfied. “We just received an initial report. I forwarded a copy to your email. The substance found in Strickland’s bedroom was marijuana. No prints were found that couldn’t be traced to Strickland or his mother. The nine millimeter extracted from the body was from a Glock. Unfortunately, one of the most common makes and models.”
It was an unsettlingly perfect crime. “Is there reason to believe this was an execution?”
He hesitated. “Safe to say it was probably no amateur. Whoever it was, they were clever and calculating. It wasn’t done in the heat of passion.”
“So you’re ruling out Tommy Sims and the other men from the Pavilion.”
“Seems highly unlikely to me that any of them has the brains or cool deliberation for this crime. Sims did agree to an independent polygraph test last evening, and the results indicated he’s telling the truth when he claims to be innocent of the murder.”
Much as I disliked Tommy, I had to agree with Oliver’s assessment. “If it wasn’t a crime of passion, then are we talking about a hired gun? Maybe someone employed by a drug ring?”
“We have to consider that possibility, especially given that there were drugs in Strickland’s room and that he was a known drug dealer in his youth.”
“Never would have thought our small town would have a problem of this magnitude. I always believed drugs came in from the Port of Mobile and on to a few outsiders who distributed to a small clientele here in the backwoods.”
“No town, no matter the size, is immune to the opioid and meth crisis. And our state’s the worst. Alabama has the highest filled-prescription rate for opiates.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. Finding out my beloved state was last or next to last in any positive category—years of education, median salary—was nothing new. We only made the top of the national list in places we did not want it—things like most obese or most incarcerated. Now this.
“Damn. It’s logical to conclude that if we have the highest prescription rate, then there are a hell of a lot of addicts wanting the drug. Even if it’s off the streets.” I couldn’t help thinking of Linsey and Luke. They were at a vulnerable age with peer pressure and the need to fit in, to experiment because everyone else did. I knew this as well as anybody. Drugs had been easy to come by when I attended Enigma High, my friend Lisa being the perfect case in point. How much easier was it now to get them? How much more prolific was drug use these days?
“Exactly. Where there’s a demand, there’s always someone willing to become the supplier at a hefty profit.”
Discouraged frustration raked my gut. “So, what’s our next move?”
“We shut them down.” He gave me a warm smile, the first real one I’d gotten from him this morning. “Don’t be so upset. That’s why we’re in law enforcement, right? To fight back against the kinds of people who prey on others.”
“That, and the cushy lifestyle it provides.”
He barked out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, right. The first order of business for us is to infiltrate their operation.”
“How?”
“We petition the mayor to foot the bill for a narcotics agent.”
Surprise washed over me. That seemed like a huge expense to fork over on mere speculation. “Does our little PD even have one?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But if they don’t, we can have the mayor try and work out a deal to pay someo
ne to come in from Mobile.”
Oliver’s gaze drifted to the small window banking the side wall of his office. Suspicion pricked down my spine.
“And if that doesn’t work out?” I asked, feeling certain it wouldn’t. “Can we possibly get an agent from ALEA?”
The Alabama Law Enforcement Agency was an executive branch of state government that coordinated public safety matters. ALEA was an important resource for small towns like us.
“We can try. In the meantime, we’ll meet with our local police.” He glanced at the utilitarian wall clock to his right. “We’re due over at their station in half an hour.”
Inwardly, I groaned. Terrific. Another opportunity to be insulted by Dempsey. Immediately I brushed away my petty insecurity as I left Oliver’s office and returned to my own. Despite his warning, I spent the next twenty minutes sneak-reading the old Cormier file. If there was any connection between the past and present murders, I’d find it.
If we found and shut down a drug distributor in our bayou, we’d be a safer town. A safer place for my kids to grow up in. This job was more than a paycheck to me. It was my way of trying to shield the innocent and the vulnerable from danger. I didn’t want anyone to go through what I had as a teenage girl.
Chapter 10
TEGAN
April 1991
He knew my name! He called me cute!
I didn’t think Jackson had ever noticed me all these years I’d been crushing on him. Tonight was my lucky night. As much as I’d dragged my feet about coming to this party, Lisa had been right. If she hadn’t convinced me to come with her, I’d be doing my usual Saturday night thing—sitting in my bedroom, reading a book while half watching some lame sitcom.
Jackson freaking Ensley knew my name and was actually talking to me—me—fat nobody Tegan Atkins. Maybe even flirting with me? My head was dizzy with excitement before I even swallowed the whiskey he offered. Disgusting stuff, but I didn’t tell him that. If I hadn’t wanted the hard liquor, I for sure hadn’t wanted to smoke pot. But he held it out to me and smiled oh so charmingly.
Aw, come on, Tegan, don’t be a drag.
So I smoked the joint. It took several attempts to inhale without coughing up my lungs, but I discovered that I liked it much better than the whiskey. When he threw his arm over my shoulder and began carting me off to who-knew-where, I offered no resistance, wobbling on my feet and giggling.
First party, first-time high.
The music, laughter, and loud conversations dimmed behind us as we walked away from the barn. Jackson removed his arm from my shoulder and opened the door of his red Mustang, motioning me toward the back seat. My excitement pulled up short, and I planted my feet, balking.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, flashing that crooked smile that made my stomach turn flips.
“I, uh . . . I’m not sure about this.”
“Why not? It’ll be warm in my car.”
I stared at the black leather seats and gulped.
“C’mon, baby,” he said, his voice husky as he nuzzled his nose against my throat and neck. And when I turned to face him, his lips fanned my hair, my cheeks. So gentle, so sweet. I closed my eyes and sighed as his mouth pressed against my right temple and then my forehead. My first kiss—if you didn’t count the peck on the mouth Bucky Rodgers gave me in third grade at recess.
This kiss was nothing like that one.
How many times had I dreamed of this moment? Of kissing Jackson. Don’t be such a baby. Get in the car.
I caved to that inner whisper. Jackson wouldn’t like me if I was a prude. He dated girls like Natalie Clecker. Pretty, popular, and, I assumed, putting out. What harm could a few minutes of making out do? I’d never get a chance like this again.
He pulled away from me, again beckoning me into his car. I slipped inside and ungracefully plopped onto the cool leather seat, shivering as much from nerves as cold. I pulled my skirt down over my thighs pockmarked with cellulite. He climbed in beside me and shut the door, sealing us off from the rest of the world. We were in our own little bubble. He kissed me again, right on the lips, a little more insistent this time.
I responded, lost in the heady newness of whiskey, pot, and my first real kiss. Too quickly, his hands began roving toward my back. Inwardly, I cringed, thinking he had to notice the roll of fat beneath my bra. Thank God we were in the dark, where he couldn’t see it as well as feel it. Some of my giddiness seeped away at the thought. I should have refused to get in the car. Better he think I was a prude than a disgustingly fat slob.
With expert fingers, Jackson unbuckled my bra with a flip of his hand. The guy had obviously done it hundreds of times before. I was in over my head. Nothing special. I pulled away from him.
“I—I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I think we should go back to the party.”
He laughed. A disbelieving, unkind laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”
I tried to fasten my bra but couldn’t get it snapped together. I drew my coat closer around me. If I kept it on, no one at the party would know my bra was undone.
He’d hurt my feelings with that laugh, and it reinforced my decision to get the hell out of the Mustang. Although handsome and with an abundance of surface charm, Jackson was not a nice guy.
“I want to go back to the barn,” I said with as much dignity as I could scramble together.
He changed tactics; his voice lowered to a husky note as he cajoled me. “Aw, come on, baby. It’ll be fun. Haven’t you ever done it before?” He reached up and palmed one of my breasts.
I jerked away from his touch and grabbed the door handle on the passenger side of the vehicle.
“What are you doing?” he growled, all trace of huskiness gone.
“Leaving.”
“The fuck you are.” He grabbed my arm and yanked me away from the door.
“Let me go. I changed my mind.” I tried to sound firm, tried to keep the quiver of fear out of my voice. This was not how I imagined our getting together in my dreams. In my fantasies, Jackson was kind and romantic. I tried to pull from his grip, but his fingers squeezed my biceps so tightly that I was afraid the bone beneath would snap in two. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I gasped from the pain. “Stop it!”
He chuckled. “Stop it,” he mimicked in a high-pitched falsetto.
I fought him in earnest then, kicking and squirming. His weight slammed against me, pinning me to the seat. A loud, metallic rip rent the air as he unzipped his jeans. I screamed, and he clamped a hand over my mouth.
I was trapped. I looked out the car window, focusing on a cypress whose limbs swayed in the breeze like beckoning witchy fingers. This was not happening. My mind left me, drifted far, far away. This was a nightmare. I was at home in my cozy pink bedroom with my fluffy comforter wrapped snug around me and the smells of Saturday night’s roast beef dinner drifting upstairs from the kitchen down below.
It would be over soon. I’d find Lisa and hightail it home. I couldn’t tell my parents. If they knew I’d sneaked off to a party and drank and did drugs, they’d be angry. Anger I could handle, but not their disappointment. I didn’t want anyone to know how stupid I’d been. I could hear my classmates snicker about fat Tegan hollering rape. Who would even want her lard ass? they’d say.
No. I’d tuck this memory of Jackson down so deep that it would never hurt me again. Everything that happened tonight would be relegated to a black chasm of oblivion.
Chapter 11
In hindsight, perhaps sending that message hadn’t been a good idea. It had been way too specific.
Stubborn woman went straight to the sheriff’s office. I hadn’t counted on that. Not that the investigators would find anything to incriminate me. But still, the vandalism and its timing provided a link to my past misdeeds—a past I couldn’t allow to surface.
That initial crime necessitated a string of felonies that grew increasingly worse. How much longer did I have to keep paying? I thought after Ray Strickland was convicted, I was home free. But Str
ickland had put a kink in everything, threatening to expose me. He couldn’t prove anything, and yet I couldn’t risk calling his bluff. I’d anonymously deposited cash into his prison canteen account over the years. Small change, mostly—it wasn’t like he could spend much money on the cigarettes and candy bars sold at the inmate store. But he had bigger plans for the future. He’d plotted revenge, and once he was paroled, he kept tightening the screws, demanding more money, until I had no choice but to pull the trigger.
I turned my attention back to the matter at hand, trying to be optimistic. Maybe the message would work after all. Jori may have reported the threat, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t shaken her. Wouldn’t hurt to cover my bases.
So far, everything was contained.
Strickland’s murder investigation would be hot for a few weeks, and then, as they found nothing to discover the killer’s identity, the trail would grow cold. Other crimes would be committed, and manpower would be split in different directions.
Besides, it wasn’t as though anyone cared about Strickland’s death. He was a parolee convicted of murder. A person to be regarded with, if not fear, then mistrust. The convenient death of his mother left the man with no more ties to the community. No one cared that he’d died. There’d be no political pressure or moral outrage placed on law enforcement to find his killer.
All I had to do was sit tight and wait it out. I was no rookie to that game. Circumstances had been far more nerve-racking for me with the Cormier disappearances.
Meanwhile, I’d wait and watch.
I might like Jori. But that wouldn’t stop me from doing what had to be done. She’d been warned.
Chapter 12
JORI
It was difficult to concentrate on my job when all I could think about was the threat against me. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat at the small table, longing to make my escape. Mayor Hank Rembert finally adjourned the special county commission meeting. I’d answered every last question volleyed at me by the half dozen folks who composed the entertainment subcommittee—no easy feat, considering my thoughts kept circling back to the dead snake left in my closet. But I knew I had to focus as best I could, both for my work’s reputation and for the town who depended on this successful event for the local economy. Enigma’s population doubled from its usual twenty-five hundred during the festival weekend, when the archbishop from Mobile arrived to bless the boats and sailors. Before and after his blessing, there were land and boat parades, arts and crafts vendors, bands, dances, boat and kayaking tours, a race, and a gumbo cook-off. And since this was the South, a beauty pageant to crown a queen and her court.
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