Devil's Pasture

by Richard Bannister

  "I can give you a lift. I haven't been completely candid with you, and I want to set the record straight."

  CHAPTER 52

  AS KAYLA ELLIS BACKED her Toyota RAV4 out of the hospital parking space, I said:

  "Do you know what my biggest regret will be when I'm fired tomorrow? Not putting away the people who killed Beth and Ashley."

  "You've given the police brass far more than they should expect from you. The loss of three close friends is my biggest regret."

  "Marcus Pascoe and whoever helped him torture Matt is as guilty as Kent Brickman. They left him for dead in a deserted house, for heaven's sake. And they're still out there. I hope the department will be relentless in pursuing them. It's already strapped for resources, and my leaving won't help one bit." I kept an eye out for anyone following us using the passenger door mirror.

  "You need to find a police department where people respect your abilities."

  "I'm so worn out after the last few days. I can't think about the future."

  "It's not surprising, but you'll bounce back."

  "No one else will hire me after they see disobeying an order on my record. They won't care that the person who gave the order was covering up past crimes." It was tough to keep the anger out of my voice.

  "Maybe Kane wants to see you for another reason." Kayla was trying to sound upbeat, but I knew the reality of the situation. And I still didn't know how much I could trust her.

  "For all Chief Kane's nice guy facade, when push comes to shove, he will support Townsend," I said. "The lieutenant will be at the meeting to gloat. He's got away with fixing the Coroner's verdict in the Bennett case for his friends."

  "Have they offered protection after what just happened to you at the apartments?"

  "I figured requesting it would only hasten my departure from the force. They wouldn't do more than have a patrol car drive by every hour. It wouldn't fool my attackers for one minute. I should be safe once I'm a civilian again. I won't be a threat to anyone anymore." I was bone-weary but tried to keep my tone cheerful.

  "I wouldn't be so sure about that. These people are cruel and vindictive. You should come and stay with me in Angie's basement. It's out of the way."

  Before I could insist I'd be fine at my cottage, she was speaking to Angie Bennett on her hands-free. When Kayla told her about the attack, and how she felt I was still in danger, Angie wouldn't hear of me staying anywhere else.

  After disconnecting from the call, Kayla said, "We could share the bed if that's okay with you. Otherwise, I'll take the sofa."

  "I have no problem with sharing." In the last hour, my opinion of Kayla Ellis had begun to turn around.

  WE STOPPED AT TARGET to pick up a supply of Band-Aids and dressings. I bought yet another pre-paid phone. I hoped it would survive longer than the last one. Next stop was my cottage, to pick up a few toiletries, clothes, and my laptop.

  We were soon both seated on the sofa in Angie's farmhouse basement, waiting for the coffee to brew. Kayla was re-wrapping my hands and fingers so I could use them for the necessities of life. I hadn't experienced anyone taking care of me in a while. While she worked, she said:

  "Tell me more about your friendship with Beth."

  "When we were children, Beth and I did everything together. We liked the same food, the same movies, the same boys. In our senior year, she accused my father of molesting her. My Dad denied her accusations, and three weeks later, Beth recanted saying she made the whole thing up. I always thought Dad was innocent. I never saw her again until we found her body outside the Brockway Apartments. Life was rough after Dad lost his job, and Mom left. For the next fifteen years, I blamed Beth for our misfortune, convinced that she lied—until four days ago when Beth's half-brother showed me proof my Dad molested her for over a year. I still didn't believe Greg and threw him out of my house.

  I paused for a mouthful of coffee, then continued:

  "That same night, I had a flashback of Beth coming out of Dad's room in the middle of the night, and I knew she had been telling the truth all along. I found nude pictures Dad took of her posing. It was horrible and sickening to see Beth naked and lost. How could he? Had I known the truth, I'd have stayed friends with her, and she'd still be alive. I'm so angry at him—it feels like he violated me too, though I have no memory of him physically doing that."

  "What ifs can threaten our sanity," Kayla said. "Especially if we ruminate on them. I had similar feelings of regret after my mother died when I was twelve. It didn't bring my mother back and caused me all manner of mental problems in my teenage years. I'm mostly over them now, but it took many, many years."

  "I'm so sorry to hear that. In my heart, I know you're right."

  "How did you end up a detective?" Kayla asked.

  "After the turmoil in my teenage years, the army offered stability. I was in the Military Police. Later, the civilian police force seemed a logical progression. My jobs haven't allowed me to form anything but casual friendships. I've never given any consideration to what I would do instead. Now it looks as if the Chief will fire me tomorrow."

  "No boyfriend at the moment?"

  I told Kayla about Jake.

  When I had finished, she said, "What a tragic story. I am so sorry."

  "His death follows me around and won't let go. Jake keeps showing up in my dreams and encroaching on my thoughts."

  "My relationships are more um . . . transient. Nothing long term. But I've known some of my sex partners for a while." Kayla finished my hands and regarded me with sympathy. She'd done an expert job, and I could wiggle all my fingers. She poured two steaming mugs of coffee and set them on the table, together with a USB flash drive, saying:

  "Maybe this will help. It's Matt's, and he told me where to find it before he was abducted. He didn't want the fruits of his hacking to go to waste. I'm sorry I didn't bring it to you sooner. I've never held a high opinion of cops, but you're different, honest."

  "What's on it?"

  "I'll show you as long as I can keep the contents for articles."

  "I'm about to become a private citizen, so what I say doesn't mean anything. The police can't prevent reporters from reading information, regardless of how they came by it."

  "Some of the files require a password. I've searched for one without any luck. I can open Bennett's police files, but you've already seen them. There are also emails between the Mayor and several developers. So many that I haven't had time to read them all."

  "Even if I stay in the police force in some capacity, I can't build a case based on illegally obtained evidence. It would be thrown out of court. But possession isn't a crime, so I'd like to read everything you have." I fetched my laptop, booted it, and plugged in the flash drive.

  "You're still talking like a cop, Megan. Attagirl. " Kayla gave me a wan smile.

  "I'll need cop-speak in my next job. As a night security guard. Or maybe I'll work as a store guard, watching for shoplifters." I clicked on the new drive and folders appeared on the screen. I'm wondering what's in the ones needing a password."

  "I've tried his birthday, his middle name, anything I can think of. It can't be a complicated password if he wanted me to read the files."

  "There's just one picture here, and it's Matt, isn't it?" I clicked on the thumbnail and turned the laptop for Kayla to see.

  "That's Matt and his kitty. I couldn't find her anywhere when I was in his apartment. She must have run off when his computers were taken. I hope someone's feeding her."

  "Funny there's just the one picture. What's the cat's name?"

  "Marmalade . . . what is it?" Kayla saw an idea had hit me. A look of realization crossed her face. "You don't think that could be it?"

  "Let's try." I clicked on one of the encoded files and typed Marmalade into the password prompt. It opened, and a page of email headers filled the screen.

  Kayla clasped a hand to her mouth. "Oh, my God. How was I so stupid?"

  We spent the rest of the day reading the files and p
rinting out the ones most relevant to the case. A discussion between hospital executives and developers about the sale of twenty acres of land known as The Devil's Pasture on the south side of the hospital campus piqued our interest. The more we read, the wider our eyes became.

  "Matt must have given everything that's here to Beth. She was killed when the people in these conversations got wind of what she knew. They had to silence her," I exclaimed. "As I've said, I can't present information hacked off a computer as evidence to Chief Kane."

  "What if I publish what we know in The Examiner? It's hot enough for other news organizations to pick it up."

  "Ordinarily you'd be opening yourself to legal action," I said. "But everything I've read tallies with what I already know. I do want to be careful the killers aren't tipped off by a newspaper article, giving them time to flee before the police can apprehend them."

  "What if it's published in The Examiner the day after tomorrow, and I give you an advanced copy for your comments." Kayla made air quotes with her fingers. "You can give me the usual bullshit about police looking into it."

  "I'll be able to wave the advance article in Chief Kane's face tomorrow. I'll have to downplay Matt's hacking, for now, so don't reveal your sources in the article. We might also need an extra day to round up the suspects."

  "I never reveal my sources. Why don't we pool what we know and write it together but publish it under my name? Kayla Ellis, crime reporter extraordinaire."

  "You'd have to keep my hand in it a secret until your dying day."

  "Deal."

  At dinner time, Angie put together a sumptuous meal of chicken with roasted vegetables. We were both famished and swilled it down with beer, as we drafted the exposé. When we were done, Kayla called her editor, Max Dixon, and told him her plan, without mentioning my name.

  After hanging up, she said, "I've always wanted to say that—hold the front page." Kayla's eyes sparkled, her voice trembled with excitement.

  CHAPTER 53

  MARCUS PASCOE FINGERED the silver snub-nose .38 revolver in his ankle holster. If the man wearing the red bandana didn't zip up his pie hole, he would zip it for him.

  "The Price is Right is starting on channel thirty-three." The man exclaimed, reaching for the remote on the low table. He was bald under his headscarf, and an overgrown walrus mustache drooped from his upper lip.

  "Pick that up, and I'll break your fingers." Pascoe intoned in a clipped voice. Or maybe I'll really hurt you, he thought. Permanently.

  He leaned back in a shabby chair that must be older than the once grand building housing the Stockbridge Hostel. Back in the day, he thought, the house must have been a fancy place full of wealthy people. As a boy, Pascoe had imagined himself living somewhere like that, but nothing ever worked out the way he wanted. Things had been going downhill ever since he borrowed the one hundred grand from the construction advance. The shit-for-brains public defender didn't tell the judge the money was just a loan. The kid was straight out of law school—barely old enough to shave. It was all a big misunderstanding for which he spent three years inside, much of it in solitary.

  After he got out, Detective Davies convinced him to testify against the Mayor and Joey Sands in return for not turning him in for a parole violation.

  Thankfully, Buddy had rescued him and given him the money to set himself up in Mexico. Leaving his car in San Francisco to confuse the cops was a stroke of genius. Townsend had been following him, but Buddy seemed to know how to buy the cop off. Pascoe remembered Detective Townsend, as he was then, was nowhere to be seen when he made his getaway.

  Pascoe grew up in Guanajuato, Mexico and that was where he returned after escaping from Detective Davies. He was going back there any day now, as soon as his money came through. Back to where he'd be safe. The Mexican authorities wouldn't extradite him to the US for a capital offense to face the death penalty. But right now, he was stuck in this dump surrounded by morons like bandana man and the young couple in the corner. It was a small consolation that Buddy was paying his room and board.

  "You need to learn some common decency. Give and take makes the world go around." Red bandana slapped his lips when his mustache caught in his mouth as he spoke.

  Marcus Pascoe rose to his feet and towered over the man, his fists balled, ready to strike. "I'm not going to warn you again." His words were slow and deliberate. Two kinds of people stayed at the hostel: those who put on airs and graces like this guy and those who behaved like animals, like the couple in the corner. The girl had her hand down the boy's bulging pants, while as his arm moved rhythmically under her skirt.

  Red bandana saw a dark rage behind Pascoe's pale blue eyes and shrank back in his seat. "No problem, pal."

  The Channel Four News jingle played, and the camera cut to the anchor. "Good morning, this is the news at nine. I'm Kelly Walsh." Pascoe thought she was hot for a woman of her age. Perhaps he should look her up. "Topping the news at this hour, a manhunt is underway for two men who kidnapped a Stockbridge detective and left her for dead in an apartment complex. It is believed they started a fire that destroyed the Brockway Apartments. Police are speculating it was to hide their crimes. Stockbridge's Detective Prentiss told Channel Four Live News that Detective Megan Riley is recovering from her ordeal and is expected to make a full recovery. He warned that one of the men, Marcus Pascoe, is extremely dangerous and should not be approached. They have yet to identify Pascoe's accomplice."

  The bitch detective was still alive.

  Pascoe clenched, as his booking photo from six years ago flashed on the screen. He looked younger back then. People wouldn't recognize him now.

  "That guy could be your twin brother," Red bandana said in a gravelly voice. "You're not from around these parts, are you?"

  Pascoe walked over to the man and pulled him out of the chair. An uppercut to his chin made the loud crack of splintering bone and teeth. The man collapsed to the floor and lay motionless. He should have gone back to sneaking glances at the blond chick and her boyfriend groping one another in the corner, instead of annoying him, Pascoe thought.

  On this trip back to The States, his streak of bad luck had continued, he reflected. The bitch detective seemed to have nine lives. Like a fucking cat. The whack on the head at the construction site was enough to take her out of the game. Then, he could have sworn she was dead when they left her in the storeroom. But he didn't bother checking, knowing the fire would finish her off. She had no right to even be at the Brockway Apartments. He'd tried to torch her house, the night before. Somehow, she knew he was there and chased him. Marcus Pascoe had twice let a girl run him off and escape from his clutches. He was oh-for-three with her. He'd lost his touch.

  Then there was the oriental reporter bitch. She had asked too many questions and somehow seemed to know what they were up to. He'd pulled her into the back seat of the Explorer—heck, she was light as a feather—but she could kick and scratch. Until those two overgrown schoolboys stepped in. More people who ought to have minded their own fucking business. That was the problem with California. Everyone was in your face, trying to push their way into your life. It was time for him to head south. Buddy had promised to give him travel money. With any luck, he'd be back in time for the Cervantine Festival—an excellent time to pick wallets from unsuspecting tourists who ventured that far south. And to enjoy the beautiful women. Californian chicks were stuck up, disrespectful, and needed to be taught a lesson. Mexican girls were much more accommodating, willing.

  He didn't fit in here.

  Red bandana lay on the floor, not moving. Blood streaked from both sides of his mouth. Pascoe needed ciggies and a bottle from the mini-mart. He was thinking it would be an excellent time to get them when a commotion at the hostel entrance drew his attention. Red and blue strobe lights swept the front windows. Two uniformed cops came through the double doors, their guns drawn and ready for action.

  "That's him." The blond girl from the corner of the room was with them and pointing his way. Pa
scoe pulled his collar up, his baseball cap down, and hurried toward the door leading to the rear garden. Once outside, he ran across the lawn and vaulted over the back fence.

  He didn't quite clear it and landed heavily on the sidewalk, twisting his right ankle. Pain shot up his leg. Crap! His truck was only two blocks away. Pascoe held onto the fence and managed to stand. His foot wouldn't take much pressure, but he could hear the cops in the garden, trying to figure out which way he'd gone.

  He'd made it to the street corner by the time the first cop cleared the fence. He started to go for the revolver in his ankle holster, but the young officer had the drop on him and yelled:

  "Freeze, asshole. Reach for the gun, and you're dead."

  Pascoe saw the young patrolman look down the sights of his pistol and for a moment wondered whether his best choice was to go for his revolver and have the cop shoot him dead.

  Then he raised his hands above his head in surrender.

  CHAPTER 54

  "DETECTIVE, I HAVE A PROBLEM." Chief Kane's gray eyes scanned me like an animal sizing up its prey. He was sitting behind his desk with what looked like my personnel file open in front of him. Off to his right side, Townsend regarded me impassively with his elbows on the arms of his chair and his fingers steepled. Kane continued, "Glen here thinks I should fire you for working while suspended and for disobeying his direct orders. In the past, I've always found you to be a valuable member of the force."

  "Please, let me explain," I shuffled in my seat, not at all confident I'd escape from the room with my career intact.

  "My spies tell me you have news about the spate of crimes vexing us. Why don't you start there, while I decide which way to go?"

  "Five days ago, I found a list of names in Beth Gervais' gym locker. We discovered they are all children who died of cancer. The dates of their deaths are shown on the list. Jack Bennett's police report shows he had the exact same document in his desk when he died."