The premonition hit her so hard, the earth fell away beneath her feet. She couldn’t swim; she couldn’t fly, yet somehow, she kept standing, like a dead tree in a flooded hollow.
“The police will find them for you, Ruby.” Elysse braced her, with arms wrapped around her shoulders and words insistent in her ears. “They’ll search every place you’d think of and lots of places you won’t. They’ll find them and they’ll bring them right here, so you’ll want to get some rest now. That way you’ll be fit to take care of Zoe and Misty. You’ll be strong and ready.”
Ruby wanted to thank Elysse, but she couldn’t speak for fear of completely losing the calm that had been drilled into her, the clear-eyed inner stillness needed to survive a world where at any moment, a complete stranger might make it his business to kill her. It seemed surreal to feel in greater danger on her home turf than she had ever felt in Iraq.
“Let me get this for you.” Elysse snatched up Ruby’s larger suitcase and preceded her upstairs. At the top, she unlocked the screened porch, where she kept a ceiling fan, a couple of deck chairs, and an old, chain-hung porch swing. Elysse’s flat-faced black Persian cat stared out at them through a sliding glass door, its demonic stare as unnerving as ever.
“This part’s Margarita Central.” Elysse ignored the cat to glance around her porch. “We’ll have the party here to celebrate when Misty and Zoe come back safe and sound.”
She pulled open the sliding door and said, “Hey, Bubba-Boo, we’re home.”
The cat’s orange eyes stared evilly before it turned its tail to them. Probably at the indignity of being referred to by such a cornpone name instead of one following a noble title. Baron Beelzebub, thought Ruby, who liked normal cats just fine, had even promised one to Zoe. Lord Lucifer, maybe.
“He’s really missed you,” Elysse assured her. “He’s just too proud to show it. Let me stow your suitcase in the guestroom. Then we’ll have a little breakfast before you get showered and into bed.”
Ruby’s stomach shocked her with a pang of hunger, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s midmorning snack at the Atlanta airport. Her brain buzzed with exhaustion, too, though sleep seemed even more unthinkable than food.
Yet Elysse was right, Ruby realized. Unless she forced herself to regroup, she’d be worse than useless. Unless she found the strength to plan and act, she’d spend eternity in a hell far more insufferable than the one she’d left behind in Iraq.
Smooth and untroubled, the water’s surface reflected a lurid bouquet of dawn color. Gliding upon white wings, Ruby looked down at the lily pads and shore weeds, at the cypress trees and finally the bleached trunks that had given rise to the lake’s unofficial name.
Circling, she peered down, heart thumping with the urgent need to see beneath the surface, to find the truths the water hid. But no matter how hard she tried, how desperately she struggled as her wings tired, she saw no farther than the mirror image of the sunrise, a bloody spill highlighted by a gleaming, golden orb.
The blinds were closed, so Ruby had no idea how long she’d slept by the time Elysse shook her awake. Heart spasming, Ruby jerked upright, jagged bits of her dream giving way to an equally unsettling reality. “Have they been found? Zoe? Misty?”
Elysse shook her head, her mussed hair and oversized T-shirt hinting that she, too, had just awakened. “Sheriff Wofford’s here to see you. She’s waiting for you in the living room.”
Ruby could scarcely breathe, her heart was pounding so hard. “Where are they? Where’s my daughter?”
“She didn’t tell me, Ruby.” Elysse hugged herself, the nail beds going white as her fingers dug into her arms. “She won’t say why she’s here.”
“Oh, shit.” Ruby sprang from the bed and bolted past Elysse. “Oh, no-no-no.”
Justine Wofford stood waiting with her hands clasped before her. An attractive woman in her late thirties, she wore an expression as funereal as her sleekly pulled back, coffee-colored hair and a black suit cut to downplay generous curves—and most probably a holster. Or maybe what looked like grimness was fatigue, for Ruby knew the woman had worked straight through the night.
At the sight of Ruby rushing toward her, the sheriff raised her palms, her dark eyes softening. “No, Mrs. Monroe. It’s not that. I still don’t have any word about the identification of the burned bodies.”
Ruby stopped, her limbs quivering from the surge of raw adrenaline. Abruptly, ridiculously, anger surged through her, resentment toward this woman whose concern was tempered by official distance. Ruby’s own emotions were so raw, she wanted to howl with pain, wanted the whole world to scream with her. Yet somehow, she forced herself to gear down, to listen as the sheriff spoke.
“I’ve asked the medical examiner to make this case a priority. I hope to have an answer for you soon. Meanwhile—”
“What about the AMBER Alert? Has anyone reported seeing my family, or the car at least?”
“I want you to understand that when it comes to cases involving missing children, there are always going to be reports. People who think they might remember seeing something. People who want to help so badly, they try to fit round memories into the square holes of the scenario. We get other calls as well, unrelated reports, false confessions from disturbed citizens, intentional efforts to mislead.”
Ruby swept her sleep-tossed hair from her eyes, tugging it hard enough to feel the pricks of pain at her scalp. “So you’ve gotten some of these already? But how do you know which ones—which calls are the real ones?”
Wofford shook her head. “I could tell you there’s some litmus test or that we have some sixth sense that helps us tell the accurate tips from all the false leads. But that would be a lie, and I promised you last night I wouldn’t do that.”
Ruby knew lies could be shortcuts, that they made the authorities’ jobs easier. But she was beginning to appreciate that Sheriff Wofford wasn’t the type to cut herself much slack, or maybe she couldn’t afford to as a woman in what had always been a man’s role in this county.
“No lies, no omissions,” Ruby said, echoing—and holding on to—Justine Wofford’s words.
The sheriff nodded an acknowledgment. “The truth is, we have to check them all out, and I won’t be bothering you with any that I’m not reasonably sure of. Otherwise, I’ll be running your emotions up and down the flagpole for no reason. And I won’t do that, either.”
“But you didn’t drive out here to tell me that.”
“You’re right. I do have news. I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone, so I’m glad you let me know where you’d be—”
“Oh no,” Ruby cried, remembering. “I meant to plug it in here, but I…”
What if Misty had tried to reach her? What if she had missed the call?
“I thought you’d want to hear,” said Wofford. “We’ve checked with your sister’s cell phone provider. Her service was suspended just days ago for nonpayment. I don’t have the records yet—that takes a warrant—but I convinced a sympathetic employee to tell me the last recorded call came from overseas on March thirtieth.”
“I called her, it would have been on that morning, your time,” said Ruby, chills racing up her arms. Had anyone spoken to Misty or her daughter since?
“We should have the phone records in a few hours, and we’ve asked the carrier to restore service for now, to see if we can use it to reach Ms. Bailey, or if need be, use the GPS locater.”
Ruby shook her head. “I don’t think Misty’s phone has GPS.” Although her sister could have used it, it only came with more expensive models.
“Since our 9-1-1 system’s been enhanced, we can locate any cell phone, as long as it’s powered up. And assuming, of course, that your sister’s phone didn’t burn with the house.”
“It didn’t,” Ruby said, hoping more than guessing. “Because Misty has it with her, and Misty’s with my daughter.” Somewhere.
“We’ve also contacted the credit card companies you mentioned last night and ta
lked to someone from the bank. No activity on any of the cards in more than a week.”
“And the bank?”
“Actually, that’s why I came. I—”
Wofford cleared her throat, regret filling her dark eyes. “Two days ago, your sister’s bank accounts were closed out, emptied. Do you know anything about—?”
“I—I don’t understand that. Why would…” A rushing sound filled Ruby’s ears, and her gaze drifted to the Persian, where it sat watching from atop the coffee table.
The cat’s orange eyes stared back at her. Cold, aloof—then surprised as Elysse snatched it up in her arms and stroked the silky black fur, as if to comfort herself.
“I’m afraid there’s more,” Sheriff Wofford went on. “I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, but according to the bank, your personal accounts are gone, too.”
“Gone? What do you mean? How could—?”
“Your money’s been withdrawn,” she said. “Right down to the last penny.”
C HAPTER S IX
We know more about war than we know about peace, more about killing than we know about living.
—General Omar N. Bradley
His discharge forms completed, Sam was half dozing in front of a TV fishing show when Paulie Hammett barged into the hospital room and said, “Holy shit, kid. You look like a sack fulla fish guts.”
Sam jerked fully awake. “Thanks,” he managed. “And same to you, pal. Only I have a prayer of getting better.”
Paulie thumped down a twelve-pack of longnecks—wrapped in a blue ribbon—on the bedside table, a broad grin splitting the stubble of his grizzled beard. When Sam stared at the strange offering, he said, “What? You were expecting flowers?” Beneath the brim of Hammett’s gimmee cap, he raised unruly gray eyebrows as he studied Sam’s face.
Sam fought off a laugh, mostly because he knew it would hurt like hell. “Thanks—and I’m glad you could make it.”
Paulie beamed at him, his faded Hammett’s-on-the-Lake T-shirt straining across his paunch—and offering evidence that if a person wielded enough influence, he could make up his own damned dress code, thank you. A big man in height as well as girth, he tossed Sam a plastic grocery bag stuffed with jeans and what appeared to be—surprise, surprise—a new navy shirt bearing the grinning alligator logo. “Anna had me pick you up some clothes while I was taking care of that mutt of yours. Thought you might like something without blood all over it to wear home.”
“Your wife’s a goddess among women,” Sam said.
“Tell me something she doesn’t know already.”
“She married way beneath herself.”
Paulie rolled his eyes and snorted, as close to laughter as he ever came. “Tell me something everybody doesn’t know already. Now put those on so I can run you home. We’re shorthanded at the restaurant, so I need to get back before five.”
“Sorry to take so much time out of your day.”
“Not like you planned this, did you? Besides, I wanted to see you for myself, make sure they sewed you up straight.” Paulie squinted, making a study of Sam’s face, then abruptly sobered. “Seriously, McCoy, how’re you feelin’?”
The concern in his expression was so unlike the King of Bullshit, Sam braved a response that few would dare. “You can tell your wife I’ll be back in top form in a few days.”
Instead of easing, Paulie’s frown lines deepened. “All kidding aside, Sam. Anna—both of us—are plenty worried about Misty and that baby girl. If you know anything…”
Paulie looked away and rubbed the rolls behind his thick neck, but not before Sam caught the slippery shift of his expression. Was that suspicion he saw, or regret that Hammett had allowed Misty, an employee he considered family, to storm out of his restaurant over some meaningless squabble about a botched lunch order? Or was he simply pissed—which tended to be Paulie’s default setting—about any sleep this disappearance had cost him and his wife?
“I’m worried, too,” Sam said. He wondered if Paulie had heard yet about the bodies pulled from the burned house. But Ruby’s face flashed through his mind, her desperate need to believe her family still lived, and he couldn’t force himself to bring it up.
After an awkward silence, Paulie reverted to form. “You need me to call back that nurse to help you get your clothes on? Or you want maybe I should hunt up one of the younger ones? ‘Cause I’m not helping you step into your boxers, no matter how pretty you beg.”
“Well, in that case, wait outside,” Sam grumbled.
Paulie grabbed the twelve-pack and headed for the door.
In spite of his discomfort, Sam tried to dress quickly, but a wave of dizziness—probably from the pain meds—left him clammy and exhausted. Stumbling into the bathroom, he bent to splash a little water on his face, then froze, catching sight of the bandages and bruises.
At least the shock cleared his head, allowing him to finish before his ride home lost patience. But when Sam opened the door to the hall, he found Paulie deep in what looked like a serious conversation with Justine Wofford.
Like most folks, the new county sheriff was dwarfed by Paulie’s bulk, though her heels brought her within an inch or so of Sam’s six feet one. He guessed she was going for an authoritarian look with her tightly upswept, dark hair and darker suit, but in spite of the effort, she looked all wrong for the role she’d claimed. Far younger than her late husband—Sam would guess late thirties—shehad the kind of figure not even the most asexual suit could hide. Lucky thing for her, Sam thought, that Preston County’s citizens, who weren’t known for their open-mindedness, were well conditioned to vote “Wofford” when they saw the name on a ballot.
Or maybe, her opponent, the heavy-handed Roger Savoy, had made more enemies than just the Hammetts during his years as deputy.
The new sheriff offered her right hand, and Sam accepted, struck by the contrast of the firm grip with the woman’s neatly polished red nails and diamond-studded wedding band.
“Mr. McCoy, sir.” Wofford’s gaze was direct and somehow unnerving; her eyes were so dark they were nearly black. “I came over here specifically to shake your hand. From what I understand, you put yourself at grave risk to save the life of Deputy Whitaker. Thank you, on behalf of Calvin’s family and the citizens of Preston County, and I hope you’ll soon be feeling better.”
Sam, who had a McCoy’s instinctive distrust of law enforcement coupled with a convict’s desire to fly beneath the radar, wasn’t certain how to handle gratitude from the enemy. Worse yet, she spoke like a damned politician, an association that made him want to rush off to wash his hand.
“I’m fine,” he said, and attempted to deflect her attention by adding, “And Ruby Monroe’s the one you should be thanking. You see the size of that dog she took out? Would’ve ripped both of them to shreds if she hadn’t thought to pick up Calvin’s weapon.”
Last night in the emergency room, he’d told another deputy all he could remember. Sam had hoped to quickly dispose of the questions so the department could get down to the business of closing this case without involving him further. But with Wofford here, that hope was gone.
Her smile didn’t register in her eyes. “I read Deputy Savoy’s notes, and it would seem that both of you behaved admirably.”
She drew out the statement, leaving Sam to wonder if she’d meant to emphasize the words “would seem.” He glanced at Hammett, only to see him nodding in agreement.
Paulie suggested, “Once everything gets settled and Misty and her niece are back home, I promise, we’ll make one hell of a party of it. Boiled crawfish, cold beer, cake and punch for all the kiddies.”
The new sheriff’s demeanor changed at the mention of the missing persons, the fluidity of her expressions stiffening into what Sam recognized as the Official Law Enforcement Mask.
“I think it’s premature, Mr. Hammett, to be planning celebrations.” The stiffness of her tone contrasted with the merry wink of what appeared to be more diamonds at her earlobes. “For one thing
, there’s still a deputy to bury. A deputy who was a close friend of my husband’s.”
“Hell, Justine, they were both good friends of mine. You know that.” Face reddening, Paulie rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to imply—I just wanted to—”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to Deputy Balderach in time to help him,” Sam interrupted before Hammett could offer beer and “mud bugs” for the after-funeral gathering.
Wofford shook her head, the darkness of her expression reminding Sam she was a recent widow. Eyes trained on him, she said, “We’ll talk more about what you did during the drive home.”
Sam let that sink in before he answered, choosing his words carefully. “I’d be glad to do that. But Paulie here came all the way into town to pick me up.”
It was a strain keeping his gaze neutral, an effort keeping his mouth shut; all he could think of were the reactions of those who might see him riding with the county sheriff. Surely, they would put it together with his neighbors’ disappearance and the deputy who’d been killed. Most people in the area were willing to forgive a local boy, even a McCoy, of some crime they didn’t understand that had only harmed some distant—and faceless—corporation. But what had happened last night related to a beautiful and well-liked young woman and a cute kid, a local lawman who’d been burned to death, and another who’d been injured. If people started associating him with that mess, he could kiss his new guide business good-bye. Though money wasn’t Sam’s problem—even after paying a huge fine, he continued to earn hefty royalties from some commercial security software he’d developed—what the hell would he do with himself for the next three years if he couldn’t work his stopgap trade?
Instead of helping Sam out, attesting that they’d been close since Paulie and Anna had hired him as a scrawny, mouthy fourteen-year-old to clean fish for returning boaters, Hammett exchanged a long look with the sheriff before saying, “That’s no trouble at all, Justine. I’ll just ice this beer down back at the restaurant. Or maybe I’ll drop by with ‘em later, Sam. You and I can catch up then.”
Beneath Bone Lake Page 5
