She is slumped in a high-back chair in the middle of the small living room, a muted TV balancing precariously on a folding chair in front of her.
Her hair is unkempt, and though she used to keep it dyed scarlet, it now appears there’s a rust-colored little fox on her head. Her clothes are wrinkled—and don’t match. And she looks at least a decade older than she is.
“It really does.”
“I’m not saying I didn’t have my differences with that child,” she says. “She was another one more selfish than you can imagine, but . . . you can’t convince me she’d want her poor aunt to be living like this when she left so much money behind for us.”
Scarlett George is a sad person, a drug-fried, low-IQ narcissist who is actually on a partial high at the moment.
And I’m going to do my best to take advantage of that.
“She’d want you to have it,” I say. “To take care of yourself. To live in a better place. To have a better life.”
She nods. “To have a better life. Exactly. She knew how much I suffered, how hard I’ve had it. You can’t tell me even a self-centered only child like her wouldn’t want to help her own flesh and blood if she could.”
“And she can,” I say.
She nods. “If they would let her.”
“Maybe we can make them.”
She sits up and draws her head back. “Really? How so?”
“I think you may have some legal remedies,” I say. “My wife’s an attorney.”
“Shame you’re married.”
“But what might work even faster is a visit from a guy with a gun and a badge.”
She smiles a gleefully sick smile, her hooded eyes opening at the prospects of being able to throw a cop at her troubles.
“Nothing makes me happier than knocking down high and mighty bitches think they’re better than everybody else,” I say, “think they can just keep all the money for themselves.”
“It’s just him,” she says. “I know it is. He’s stoppin’ her somehow. She’s always helped out at least a little over the years. Not nearly what she could . . . but always something. Now . . . it’s gotta be him that’s keeping her from it.”
“You’re talkin’ about Jerry, right?”
“Yeah. Jerry.”
I open my eyes wide as if something just occured to me. “Wait a minute,” I say.
“What? What is it?”
“I may have an even better idea,” I say. “One that will get you the money a lot faster and not require any rough stuff.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“They have that money put up for a reward.”
“So they say.”
“You help me a little and I’ll see what I can do about getting them to give you the reward. You’ll have earned it fair and square. Nobody can say anything.”
“People always say stuff, but . . . I get what you mean. And I do have some information.”
“I know you do,” I say. “That’s what makes it so perfect.”
“How do you know I—”
“I know Randa called you the day she disappeared,” I say.
Actually, what I knew was that Randa had been trying to reach her the week after Chelsea died and before Randa disappeared. I was guessing that she eventually got through to Scarlett.
“It was the day before,” she says. “Well, the night before. She called all upset. She had been calling. Calling and calling. She could be relentless when she wanted to be. I finally answered just to get her to stop. She was a blithering mess. A friend of hers had died. It was her fault. Except it wasn’t her fault. It was my fault.”
“Your fault?” I say. “Why would she say that?”
“Kid’s always had a vivid imagination,” she says. “Figured she’d grow up to be an actress or some kind of strange artist or something. Said my Bill touched her when she was little and that she never got over it and that’s why she is the way she is and yada yada yada. Boohoo. What kid ain’t been touched? Ain’t no big deal. I can tell you I never blamed the little diddlin’ I got as a kid on any of the bad shit that’s ever happened to me. Never used it for an excuse.”
“What did she use it as an excuse for?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Like that has anything to do with bein’ able to keep a man or not. Said some crazy shit.”
“Like?”
“Like sex stuff. Addiction bullshit. You either like sex or you don’t, right? And most everybody do, don’t they? Ain’t no addicted to bullshit. She was talking crazy. Like I said, she . . . was always high-strung. Ain’t sayin’ that’s what got her killed, but . . . wouldn’t surprise me none, I can tell you that.”
“But surely she didn’t just call to tell you all that shit,” I say. “Just to bitch at you and blame you for her actions.”
“Only one person she blamed more than me,” she says. “And by God she meant to have it out with him. Sounded like she wouldn’t be happy ’til she killed him.”
“Bill?” I say.
She looks up at me and nods. “He went by Bill Lee a lot. Thought it was cute ’cause his name was Billy. He wasn’t cute. Just thought he was. He was a mean bastard. Nasty. Liked to hurt people. Full name was Billy LaDuke.”
“And she wanted to know where he was?” I ask. “Wanted to take out her rage for how she was and her friend’s death on him?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“Told her she was a silly little girl who didn’t want nothing to do with that mean man. I’ve known some cruel bastards in my time. Felt their bite. But Billy . . . he’s the . . . he makes all the rest look like child’s play.”
“Did she get it out of you?” I ask. “Did you tell her where he was?”
“Didn’t know it to tell. Told her last I ever knew of him he was working construction in St. Joe, but that had been a while. No idea where he was then or now.”
“That’s what she was doing out there,” I say. “She was on her way to Port St. Joe to confront the monster who was still haunting her life.”
“Then she’s a bigger fool than even I thought.”
My mind runs ahead of me. In an instant I see Randa running into Windmark where Billy LaDuke is working, yelling all manner of accusations at him, beginning to hit and kick him. Is he there alone? Was it his van Bert noticed? He lashes out. Punches her in the face. Picks up a framing hammer and finishes the job. Then buries her beneath the foundation a few hours before it’s poured. Then to put more distance between where he used to work and where her body is found he digs her up and moves her across the street into the swamp.
Maybe none of it happened that way, but the movie in my mind is vivid, graphic, disturbing, and most troubling of all, it fits with the facts.
Of course, the facts can be fit together in other ways too. In a less sleep-deprived state I could come up with a few of them.
“Did she say anything else?” I ask. “Tell you she was headed to Port St. Joe to exact her revenge?”
“She said all kinds of jibber jabber mish mash.”
“Did you try to stop her? Tell her parents? The police? Anybody?”
“I got better things to do than get involved with some silly young girl’s dramatic bullshit.”
153
“She was on her way to Port St. Joe to find the man who raped her as a child,” I say to Reggie. “Still can’t account for the eight-hour gap during the day but I am pretty sure about this.”
I’m racing through Panama City with my emergency lights flashing and my siren on.
“That’s what she was doing where she was,” I say. “Losing her friend really got to her. She blamed herself. Which meant she really blamed her step-uncle or whatever he was—the pederast with her drug-addicted, narcissistic aunt at the time. We’ve got to find him.”
“You think he killed her when she came looking for him?”
“I think it’s a good possibility,” I say.
“What’s his name?”
“I’ll find him. How far out are you?”
“Forty-five minutes. Be there as fast as I can. What’s the word on the remains?”
“FDLE just left,” she says. “Tech told me the skeleton is definitely female and around the right age. So it could be her.”
“They confirm she had been moved recently?”
“Yeah. Say they may be able to give us a good idea from where after they get everything back to the lab and test it.”
“Cool.”
“We’re getting there, John,” she says. “We’re gonna close this thing. After twelve years.”
And until she said that I guess some part of me actually thought we might, but the moment I heard her verbalize it, to actually make her hopeful declaration, I knew we wouldn’t, knew somehow we were already too late.
A few moments after ending my call with Reggie, my phone starts vibrating again. The call is coming from an undisclosed number.
“John Jordan,” I say as I answer it.
“Hello, Mr. Chaplain Detective John Jordan,” a digitally demented voice says.
Instantly I know it’s him.
“What should I call you?” I ask.
“By my actual name,” he says. “Jeffrey Dixon Hunter. That’s my real name and this is an actual confession. Every single word of it is true. I’m not some punk kids playing a prank. I sent your friends the real picture of Randa and I’ve been emailing you. I’m telling you everything because it’s too late for you to do anything about it. Understand?”
“I understand.”
“Were you able to track me through my emails or the Snapchat image I sent?”
“No.”
“And you won’t be able to trace this call or track me now, but feel free to try if you must. But whatever you do, listen to me carefully. You need to really pay attention to what I’m saying. Okay?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m a cold-blooded killer. It’s just the way I’m wired. You might call me sick. And maybe I am. But I love to have my way with young women—and my way is hurtin’ ’em with my hands and my dick. Preferably at the same time. Y’all got it wrong. That little black girl . . . she wasn’t killed by her brother’s loser drug suppliers. I crushed that sweet little grape. God, was she good. So tight and strong. Love the ones with endurance . . . ones that like to tussle.”
He pauses but I don’t say anything.
“Am I shocking you?” he asks.
“I only wish you were.”
“Heard a few confessions over the years, have you? Still, can’t be easy.”
“Honestly,” I say, “it’s a lot easier hearing a straight confession or even someone bragging about what he’s done than it is someone making excuses and justifications and blaming the victims or their parents or the TV.”
“There is no excuse for what I do,” he says. “No justification for rape and murder. And that’s exactly what it is. Rape. I rape women. I hurt them. I brutalize them. I overpower them and do just what I want to with them. And I murder women. When I’m done fuckin’ them I snuff them out. Doesn’t even take much effort.”
He pauses but I don’t say anything, just think of a world where there are men like Jeffrey Dixon Hunter, the same world Anna and my little girls inhabit, and I’m filled with such rage I want to beat such men to death with my bare fists.
“Early on I told you I’d beat you, didn’t I?” he says.
“You did.”
“And I have. I’m only telling you the things I’m telling you because I’m already gone and you’ll never find me. You lose. You were no match for me. I’m not saying you wouldn’t have found me eventually. I was right there in front of you, after all, but . . . you didn’t find me or grab me when you had the chance. I won.”
“What happened to Randa?” I ask.
“Acknowledge I beat you first, then I’ll tell you.”
“You beat me,” I say. “Clearly.”
“Do you even know why Randa was where she was yet?”
“I think so. Looking for someone from her past.”
“John, that makes him sound like a former lover or a coach from high school. She was looking for the monster who ruined her life. And she ran into another one. A worse one. She was all hopped up on pills, booze, and revenge. Slid her little car around on the road. And here’s the important part of that. She hit her head. Thwack. Forehead to steering wheel. Check. See . . . all you investigators and all those armchair detectives with their silly little podcasts . . . y’all all thought the odds of someone like me coming along in the seven minutes or so she was out there alone were just too great. I mean, fuck, what would odds like that even be? But it wasn’t exactly like that. No, our little dazed and confused girl wandered around for a while. Got away from her car. Started walking. Hid from the tow truck and the cop and anyone else who passed by. But eventually came upon me.”
He pauses again and I wait.
“I know you have questions,” he says. “I know you want more details. I left it all behind for you. It’s there. You’ll find it. I’ve got no problem with you looking, with you digging up the rest of the info. What I would have a problem with is you coming after me. That’s a no-no. And I’ve taken out a little insurance policy to make sure you don’t. So please don’t be stupid. Don’t come after me and I’ll guarantee a happy ending for you and the rest of them. Come after me and I guarantee not only will you never find me but you’ll never see one of your friends again. Listen to me, John. Are you listening? Everything I’ve told you is true. All this really happened. But pretty soon you’re gonna get some more information that will—that should greatly impact your decision. Listen to it. Let it in. Go against your instincts. Save your friend. Prepare yourself to do that now so that when the time comes you’ll be ready. That’s what this little call was about. To try to get you prepared. To say I beat you. And to say goodbye and that it’s been a real pleasure watching you work this thing. It really has. Now let it go and get yourself some rest. You need it.”
154
“Are y’all okay?” I ask.
As soon as the killer disconnects the call, I phone Anna.
“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?”
“Dad and Verna are there with you, right? And you can see Taylor?”
“I’m holding her and yes they are. Why?”
“Just a new threat from the killer,” I say. “Tell dad to keep his weapon drawn and ready for the next little while until I call back. Y’all stay inside and keep the doors locked. Would you call Frank Morgan and tell him to do the same for Johanna?”
“I will and we will, but you’re the one who needs to be careful. Who’s guarding you? You’re out there with him.”
“I’ll be extra careful,” I say. “Call you in just a little while. Love you.”
“Love you.”
As soon as I end the call with Anna, I call Reggie.
“I was just about to call you,” she says.
“Before we do anything else,” I say, “we need to take a roll call. I just had a call from the killer and he’s threatening one of us. Will you check on Merrick and your kids? I’ll check in with Jake and Merrill about Sam, Daniel, and Nancy. Tell everyone to stay put and be vigilant until we get a better sense of what’s going on.”
Without waiting for a response, I end the call, tap in Merrill’s number, and tell him what’s going on.
“Everything quiet here,” he says. “They not even up yet.”
“Double check,” I say. “Wake them up if you have to. I’m gonna call Jake. I’ll call you back when I can.”
Two more taps and Jake’s line is ringing.
After several rings and no answer it goes to voicemail.
I leave him a message and then call him right back.
Same thing again. Several rings. No answer. Voicemail.
And again.
And again.
As I’m coming into town and trying Jake yet again, my
phone begins to vibrate. It’s Merrill.
“He’s not here,” he says.
“Who?”
“Daniel. He’s gone. I’ve searched the whole house. There’s no sign of forcible entry and I would’ve heard it if there was. His car is still parked out in the lot. His wallet and keys are still in his bedroom. But he’s gone. Guess he could be out on the property for some reason—walking, checking the mail, hell, I don’t know, but I can’t watch her and go out looking for him.”
“Stay with her,” I say. “I’ll send a deputy over to search the grounds.”
“Can’t fuckin’ believe I lost him, man. Shee-it. Ain’t like me.”
“We’ll find him,” I say, and hang up.
A moment later Reggie is calling.
“Merrick and all our kids are good and together,” she says. “And I have a deputy out in front of the house. And before I forget—nobody reported Billy LaDuke missing, but he’s been missing a very long time now. He used to live in a camper or van or something on the sites where he worked. The people he was working for just thought he took off—the way contractors do. Wonder if he took Randa and vanished or . . . Where are you?”
“Coming into town. Daniel is missing. Merrill is inside keeping an eye on Sam. Can you send a deputy over to Barefoot Cottages to search the grounds for Daniel—preferably someone who knows him?”
“Done,” she says. “I’ll—”
“And Jake’s not answering. Can you call the Franklin County Sheriff’s Department and get someone over to Nancy’s place to check on them?”
“On it. Call you right back.”
When she is gone, I call Merrick.
“Hey, Reggie told me what’s going on,” he says. “You okay?”
“Having trouble reaching Jake and I don’t have Nancy’s number. Can you call her and check on them?”
“I’ve tried her a few times this morning and keep getting her voicemail, but I’ll keep trying.”
“Let me know when you get her,” I say. “And text me her number just so I’ll have it.”
When I end the call with him, I try Jake again. And again I get his voicemail.
True Crime Fiction Page 60
