by Kylie Brant
Dylan rifled through the clothes in her drawer before turning his attention to her closet. Nothing there, either. She was probably carrying it with her. Unless she’d left it in another purse. She had gobs of them. Why the hell did a woman need that many? He rummaged through them, coming up with enough loose change and bills to fill his lunch account for another week. He shoved the money into his pocket before turning his attention to the bed. Dylan checked beneath the mattress. His fingers closed around something, and he drew it out. When he saw the object, though, his frenzy turned to confusion. It was a cell. It looked exactly like the one she carried, another TracFone. But she didn’t keep her phone under the mattress when she slept. It was always charging on the tiny table next to the bed.
He turned it on. The phone was activated and three-quarters charged. He sat back on his heels, his hand still clutching the cell, a sense of aggrievement filling him. What did she need two phones for when he didn’t even have one? At least not one he could use for anything personal.
Replacing the cell, he searched the rest of the room, finding nothing. Waste of time.
Dylan was feeling a little foolish when he reentered the living room. Until twin beams of light speared through the darkness of the room. A car was coming up the drive. He dashed to the front window, yanked the blind aside. The vehicle continued up to the house and was lost from sight, but not before Dylan identified it as his mom’s piece-of-crap Corolla. Relief streamed through him.
When her key sounded in the lock of the kitchen door, he walked into the room, more than a little surprised to see her not only home on a Friday night but also carrying a few bags of groceries. His disgruntlement fading, he leaped forward to take the sacks from her. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, yourself.” She shut the door behind her and took an exaggerated sniff. “Smells like pot in here.”
He was too interested in the contents of the bags to lie. Carrying them over to the counter, he withdrew the contents, taking inventory. Hot damn, popcorn. Frozen pizza. And enough soda to tide him over for a week. “I smoked a joint earlier.”
The whack on the back of his head wasn’t totally unexpected. “And just where did you find that?”
“In Colton’s dresser.” There were cookies in one of the bags. Tina had gone all out. Ice cream. Frozen corn dogs. Dylan stared at the box in delight. He hadn’t had a corn dog since he was a little kid. There’d been a carnival in town, and his mom must have been feeling flush. She’d given Colton and him ten dollars each to go to it. He’d stuffed himself with corn dogs and cotton candy and then used most of the rest of the money to buy her a necklace with her name spelled out in metal beads. His mom had yelled at him for wasting the cash on her, but she’d worn the necklace. At least for a while.
“If Colton comes back and finds it gone, don’t expect me to step in for you. You’ll deserve the ass whipping. Put that away for me, will you? I gotta pee something fierce.” She sprinted by him toward the bathroom.
He had a belated twinge of nerves at the mention of Colton. His brother’s temper was near ’bout as bad as his mom’s. But who knew when he’d show up again? After dealing with the groceries, he served himself a big bowl of ice cream. He’d just dug into it when he heard his mom yell, “Dylan Ray! Have you been in my bedroom?” She marched to the kitchen with fire in her eyes, near spitting in fury. “My drawers are an absolute mess! How many fucking times do I have to tell you to stay outta my things?”
He spoke around a mouthful of chocolate fudge ripple. “I was looking for your gun.”
“You . . .”
He swallowed and ducked as she came to his side, her arm raised threateningly.
“I thought I heard something outside the house. And then I started thinking it was him. I was looking for a weapon. Something I could protect myself with.”
“Oh, baby.” Her temper evaporating, she tousled his hair instead of delivering the slap she’d been poised for a moment ago. “No damn way I want you touching a gun. You ain’t never been trained, and besides, I can protect you.”
“When you’re here,” he muttered, and her expression darkened again.
“Well, there’s more than one way to protect you, ain’t there? I’m doing right by you every minute of the day, not just when I’m standing by your side. Where’d you put them chips?” He pointed at the cupboard he’d stowed them in, and she headed toward it. Snatched out a bag.
For the first time, he noticed the duffel she was carrying. “Now where you going?”
She ripped into the snack bag and stuffed some chips into her mouth before answering. “I gotta go visit a friend. Just till Sunday because that fucking Steve gave me hours even though I fucking told him I was going to be gone all weekend.”
Steve had apparently known about her trip before Dylan had. He kept the thought to himself. At least he’d have food. It wasn’t like his mom spent much time at home, whether she was around or not.
“You’ll be okay, right, baby?”
His teeth clenched. He hated when she called him that. As if he were another nameless stranger who’d followed her home from the bar after closing.
“I don’t want you to worry about that fuckin’ Forrester,” she continued, dragging out a chair beside him and dropping into it. “Didn’t I make them agents move us again? You’re safe here. All the cops in Asheville are probably watching out for us.”
“Got a US marshal looking for Forrester too.” From the expression on his mom’s face, she hadn’t known that. “Came here today.” He considered whether to tell her that they’d gone out for lunch. Decided not to. Tina had a short fuse, and he never knew what would set her off.
“He came here? Without talking to me first?”
“She.” Dylan scraped the leftover ice cream from the bowl, then got up to rinse it out before setting it in the sink for later. He hated washing dishes, but they wouldn’t get cleaned otherwise. “Katy . . . Cady”—he corrected himself—“Maddix. I think she was looking for you, but you weren’t here.”
“A marshal, huh.” She chewed a few more chips. “That’s sorta like a sheriff.”
“No, marshals are federal.” Dylan knew that from TV. “She’s supposed to bring in Forrester.”
“Her and a hundred other cops.” His mom popped up again, twisting the top of the bag closed before putting it back in the cupboard. “S’pose it don’t hurt none to have another one looking for him, not that it’s done much good so far. Is she anything like that twit Rebedeau?” Tina didn’t have much faith in any of the cops helping them, but she seemed to dislike the females the most.
He lifted a shoulder. “I dunno. She’s younger. Blondish-reddish hair.” There was probably a name for that color, but he didn’t know what it was. She would actually have been sorta hot, if not for the look in her pale-green eyes. It shouted “cop” as loud as a billboard. “She was . . .” Nice, he finished silently, in a no-nonsense sort of way. She hadn’t talked to him like he was a dumb-ass kid. He appreciated that almost as much as the lunch.
“Probably a bad dye job,” his mom was saying. Dylan wisely refrained from looking at the black roots splitting her blonde hair. She looked at the Apple watch on her wrist, the one she’d claimed a “friend” had given to her. “I gotta go. Stay outta my room from now on. I keep the gun with me anyways, and you’d probably shoot your own dick off. We’re safe. Forrester ain’t gonna find us here.”
Dylan didn’t ask her what made her so sure, since the man had found them before. He knew she’d have no answer. And a part of him didn’t see the point. It was enough that he spent half his days certain a bullet was going to come out of nowhere and tear a hole through his skull. No use both of them living in fear.
“I should have a cell.” He brought a damp cloth back to the table and scrubbed where they’d been eating. “Not the one the staties gave me. I mean one I can use to keep in touch with you. I would have let you know the marshal was here if I could.”
“We’ll see. Maybe next time I g
et paid.” She picked up her duffel and headed for the door. “I probably won’t see you until after work Sunday. Don’t leave the house.”
Where the hell would I go? Dylan thought gloomily, locking the door after her.
He went back to his game. But he couldn’t concentrate and got killed when he made an amateur move. Disgusted, he threw down the controller. Brooded for a while. Mom had probably been lying about getting him a phone, he decided; otherwise she would have told him she had a second one she wasn’t using. Getting up from the floor, he went back to her room, determined to look at it more closely. Maybe he could figure out the password. It wasn’t like he didn’t have time on his hands.
But when he reached beneath the mattress, he found nothing. Dylan picked up the edge, peered beneath it. The space was empty. He poked around the room again, being more careful this time to see where she might have stashed it. But he didn’t find the phone.
Wherever Tina had gone, she’d taken the extra cell with her.
Chapter 7
Tina Bandy shoved open the bedroom door. It bounced against the opposite wall, bringing the couple in the bed upright. “Jee-zus.” She clapped a hand over her eyes until they yanked up the covers. “Get some pants on, Colton. I need to talk to you.”
“Mom? What the fuck?”
“Hey, Tina.” Mya rolled out of bed like a buck-naked goddess and took her time pulling on her clothes. “Didn’t know Colton was expecting you.”
“’Cuz I wasn’t,” he muttered.
“Obviously. Place is a mess.” Tina came farther into the room, eyeing her son. “You gonna get dressed or not?”
“I’m trying.” He stuck an arm out from under the sheet, snagging his jeans from the floor and wiggling into them. Then he slid out of bed and grabbed his T-shirt, pulling it on as he walked barefoot past her. “I ain’t having no conversation with you in here.”
“Mya.” Tina followed him into the small front room. “Find somewhere to go. I gotta talk to my son.”
“She can stay if she wants!” Colton exploded. “This ain’t your house.”
“I asked nicely, didn’t I?”
“It’s okay. I gotta meet someone anyway.” Mya slipped into a coat she’d slung over the back of a chair and headed out the kitchen door, Colton scowling after her.
“So.” He dropped down into an easy chair. “What’s new?”
Tina sat on the couch facing him. “You talk to your brother lately?”
“How the hell am I supposed to do that? Unless you finally got him a phone.”
When she looked away, he swore. “I’ve been telling you for months. You can’t keep him locked up forever. No way could I have handled that at his age. I’d have exploded.”
“Yeah.” Colton had actually realized that before she had. “Well, he ain’t you. But you’re right; he ain’t a little kid anymore. And this last move . . . it’s been tough on him. But what the fuck am I s’posed to do about that? Cops still haven’t found Forrester. Bunch of incompetent assholes. Now they brought in some federal marshal, and she’ll probably be just as worthless. I still have to worry about Forrester, on top of whatever stupid thing your brother might do if he can’t take it no more.”
Colton cocked a brow in that smart-ass way he had. “You askin’ for my advice?”
She wasn’t. Not exactly. “I’ve been thinking. We might have to step things up a notch.”
His expression closed. “What’s that mean? And who’s ‘we’?”
She’d spent the car ride thinking it over. She laid it all out for him. He gaped at her for a moment. Then shot up from the chair like his ass was on fire. “The fuck you are! Are you crazy? That’s a terrible idea!”
Tina’s temper flared. “Do you want to protect your brother or not?”
“Hell no, not like that!” He paced around the small room, grimacing when he stepped on something embedded in the worn carpet. “You think you can control everyone, but you can’t. Why don’t you let the cops just do their jobs?”
“Because they ain’t doing it!” She stood as well. “And waiting on them will probably get us all killed. Or do you think Forrester plans to stop with your brother?”
That shut him up. Colton swallowed hard. “It’s too risky. Let the cops manage things.”
“Like that’s worked so well in the past.”
He disagreed with her, of course. Seemed like the kid had been born arguing. But after an hour of her laying it all out for him, he stopped to think for a minute. Then he said slowly, “I’m not sure if you’re out of your ever-fucking mind or if you just might be a genius.”
Chapter 8
It was barely 8:00 a.m. when Cady walked across the parking lot to the Buncombe County Detention Center. Before her plans with her mom this afternoon, she hoped to get in an interview with Michael Simmons. Maybe he was feeling a bit more cooperative today. The conversation she’d had with the deputy on the phone before driving over hadn’t given her reason to be hopeful. Apparently Simmons wasn’t playing well with others in lockup.
Thirty minutes later, the man was glowering at her from across a table, giving no indication his mood had improved. He had the beginning of a bruise beside one eye that could be a twin for the one he’d given her yesterday. Karma, Cady mused silently, can be a bitch.
“Bruce Forrester.” Wasting no time on small talk, she returned to the subject of yesterday’s questioning. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Same thing I told you yesterday. Jack shit.”
She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Have you heard from him since he was released from prison?”
Silently, Simmons folded his arms across his thick chest, the chains on his wrist manacles jangling.
“So he didn’t call, didn’t write. It’s almost like he doesn’t care. That’s harsh, Michael, after all you guys must have meant to each other.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Arraignment’s Monday, right? Wouldn’t do your case any harm to have a written message from a federal marshal noting your cooperation on an unrelated federal warrant.”
Interest flickered in his expression. “I want a deal.”
“That’s not the offer on the table. I’m not talking to the DA on your behalf.” She waited a minute, but when the man didn’t answer, she stood. Went to the door.
“Wait.”
Cady turned.
“I know Forrester had a job waiting for him in Mars Hill when he left prison.” That much was true. It’d been in the digital case file. She went back to the table. Sat. “He was from Wilson. Winterville. One of them. Maybe he’s still there.”
He wasn’t, but at least she knew Simmons was giving her factual information about his former cellmate. “The two of you must have gotten along.” They’d been cellmates most of the time Forrester had been inside.
“If we hadn’t, we’d have put in for a switch.”
“So what was he like?” She had details of Forrester’s upbringing. His crimes. But discovering what drove the man would have to come from people who knew him.
Simmons scratched his jaw, as if the question mystified him. “Like most of the guys inside. Don’t piss him off and you might be fine. Do him dirt, you’re probably going to have a bad accident.”
So Forrester was violent. Not exactly a news flash, given what she’d learned about him. “Do you know of anyone inside who ‘had a bad accident’ at his hands?”
The man’s expression closed. “I ain’t a snitch. And I don’t know nothing for sure anyway.”
Intrigued, Cady pressed him. “Then you aren’t snitching, are you? Maybe he just mentioned something, like people do. Doesn’t mean he acted on it, right?”
Simmons seemed to mull over her words for a moment. “Yeah, that’s right. Can’t arrest someone for talking. So there was a guy, Gordy the Ghost we called him, ’cuz he had really white skin and light hair. Bruce called him a vampire. While we was inside, Bruce could arrange for, uh, some conveniences, and Gordy ran up a bi
ll, then never paid. Bruce talked about catching up with him on the outside. If they ever found some pale-looking piece of shit with a stake through his heart, maybe ol’ Bruce tracked him down.” He cackled, seeming genuinely amused.
There were ways to verify the story. And to check on the welfare of “Gordy.” Cady let the thread go and continued to question Simmons, but it soon became clear he had nothing else to offer. She rose to leave.
“Don’t forget to write that letter. I helped, right?”
“I won’t forget.” She turned toward the door.
“What’s he done? Bruce?” the man called after her.
Facing him again, Cady replied, “He’s wanted on an abduction charge. He kidnapped a woman.” Simmons smirked. “That amuses you?”
“Don’t surprise me none.”
“Why not?”
Shrugging his beefy shoulders, he said, “Guy like him wants to be in control. He’d rather take it by force than have it given free.”
It. A thread of revulsion skated over her. But the man was still talking. “He had this thing he liked. Can’t remember what they call it, but . . .” He put both hands to his throat and squeezed lightly.
“Erotic asphyxiation?”
“Yeah. ’Cept he didn’t do it to himself. He liked to watch.”
Cady sat in the jail parking lot for a moment, her mood grim. Forrester had grabbed Cassie Zook six weeks ago. There’d been nothing in the woman’s history to suggest the two had been acquainted before the abduction. Given what Simmons had just revealed about the man’s fetish, the woman’s chances of being found alive—already slim—had just worsened.
Her laptop sat on a swivel attached to the dash. She turned it toward her, booted it up, and waited impatiently until she could look at the digital file again. As Simmons had mentioned, Forrester had had a job waiting for him nine years ago upon leaving prison. He’d been hired as a mechanic at Pete’s Garage in Mars Hill.
His employer and fellow employees from the time were listed in the file, as well as the date they’d last been contacted. Forrester had worked there almost two years. His final day on the job corresponded with an arrest date on his sheet. He’d spent a few days in the Madison County jail for assault.
