Among the Dead

by J. R. Backlund

  “Look,” he said, softening his tone. “You’ve done a good job on this case. And you’ve embarrassed the hell out of Sanford, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “It does,” she muttered.

  “But they’re on the right track now, thanks to you.” He walked to his car and opened the door. “So the question is, what are you going to do now that it’s over? Getting another job will be easy for you, Rachel. Whenever you’re ready. But that’s not the problem. The problem is you lose yourself too easily. Sooner or later, you’re going to disappear down a dark hole again. And if you’re not careful, no one will be there to pull you out. Not even me.”

  His words held her in check as he drove away. She stood there, staring at the empty road in front of her, and wondered if she could ever find her way back to working for him. There was still a part of her that wanted to try. But she didn’t need to answer that just yet. After all, Penter was wrong about one thing—this case wasn’t over. There was still work to be done.

  57

  As far as jails went, the Lowry County Detention Center wasn’t a bad place to spend a couple of nights. Kevin had stayed in worse spots voluntarily. But that didn’t change how good it felt to be free. With help from a few of his friends, he had managed to hire a bondsman just after sunup. They’d even scraped together enough to get his mother released as well.

  Presently, he waited for her outside. Sitting on a park bench by the front door, he took out his phone and started making calls. Though his friends had been eager to contribute to his get-out-of-jail fund, finding a ride home had been a different story. Expecting someone to drive all the way from Whittier to pick them up was apparently too much to ask.

  He skimmed his contacts and found a few people that still owed him favors. They were all asleep at this hour, so he left messages, hoping it wouldn’t be long before one of them called him back. He was finishing his fourth attempt when a Tahoe from the sheriff’s office rolled to a stop at the curb. The woman behind the wheel shifted into park, left it running as she stepped out and walked over to him holding a clipboard and a set of keys. She was tall and muscular, looked like she could have been American Indian. Maybe Cherokee.

  “Kevin Gifford?”

  “Yeah?” he said, holding his hand up to shade his eyes from the sun. “That’s me.”

  “We’re releasing your brother’s truck,” she said, handing him the clipboard. She held onto the keys. “If you’ll sign for it, I’ll give these to you, and you can pick it up whenever you want.”

  He unhooked the pen from the clip and read through the form.

  “You just have to sign at the bottom,” she said impatiently.

  He looked around the parking lot. “Well, where is it?”

  “It’s in the back lot at the sheriff’s office.”

  “Y’all couldn’t bring it to me?”

  “Afraid that’s not my job.”

  “You keep away from my boy,” Linda Gifford shouted from the door.

  Startled, Kevin looked over and said, “Damn, Momma, calm down.”

  “To hell with that,” she said, stomping toward them. “You already got one of my sons killed. You stay away from us, you hear? Just get away.”

  She was building momentum. Looked like she might charge the Cherokee woman.

  “All right, Momma,” Kevin said, jumping between them. “That’s enough, now. I mean it.”

  Linda looked into his eyes, and the anger in her expression faded. “You sound like your brother.”

  Kevin hugged her and said, “It’s gonna be okay, Momma. She’s just here to give us the keys to Dylan’s truck is all.”

  He signed the form and handed the clipboard back to the woman. She gave him the keys, thanked him quickly, and hurried back to her Tahoe. He said, “Wait here,” to Linda, then ran after her, catching up to her as she was about to close the door.

  “Hey, look,” he said, “I know it ain’t your job to be drivin’ us around town and everything—”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It isn’t.”

  “I know, but . . .” He glanced back. “She’s been through a lot, you know. And we ain’t got no way to get home. It’d be a big help if you could just give us a ride back to the station. I mean, you’re goin’ that way anyway, aren’t you?”

  She looked past him, sighed, and said, “Yeah, okay. Get in.”

  He loaded Linda in the back seat, glared at her when she said, “It’s the least she could do,” then ran around to the other side and climbed in next to her. It was a quiet ride to the sheriff’s office. The Cherokee woman let them out right next to the Sierra, which was parked in the back corner of the parking lot. Kevin thanked her as he closed the door, and she pulled away to find a spot closer to the building.

  “Hop in, Momma,” he said, unlocking the doors. “I’ll take you home.”

  She leaned against the fender and started to cry, lost the strength in her legs and slid down to the ground. Kevin ran to her side, trying to pull her up by her arms.

  “Come on, Momma,” he said, his voice cracking. “We can’t be doin’ this right now, okay?”

  But she only wept more forcefully. Her arms were limp as wet noodles. Kevin knelt down beside her and hugged her shoulders.

  “I want . . . my baby boy back,” she said between heaving breaths.

  “I know.” He squeezed her and rocked her gently. “I want him back too.”

  He wiped his eyes and looked toward the building. A pair of deputies stood by the back door, watching with dead faces. The Cherokee woman parked and walked inside without a glance in their direction.

  “Let’s get you outta here, okay? Come on, now. Let’s get in the truck so I can take you home.”

  When she was finally inside, Kevin went around, hopped up into the driver’s seat, and cranked the engine. He took a second to look around while it warmed up. It was an older pickup, but his brother had loved it. There was trash in the back seat and mud on the floor mats. Everything in it looked and smelled old. Everything except the cheap cell phone sitting on top of the center console.

  He picked it up and turned it in his hand to examine it. There wasn’t a single scratch on its black surface. Plastic film still covered the screen. It was brand new, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing Dylan with it. It started to vibrate. He jumped and said, “Jesus . . .”

  He didn’t recognize the number.

  58

  The neighborhood would be beautiful once all the work was done. Most of the lots had been sold, and more than two dozen houses were in various phases of construction. A couple of families had already moved in by the entrance, next door to a trio of model homes that were decked out with expensive options meant to entice prospective buyers.

  Bishop admired them as he drove by, making his way toward the back where a new batch of houses was just starting to come out of the ground. He rounded a bend carved into a hillside and spotted a concrete truck parked ahead. He pulled into a grassy spot in a lot across the street and watched the operation.

  The driver would pull on a lever, the giant drum would spin, and concrete would run down the chute extending from the back of the truck. The chute dumped into the receiving end of a pump, which pushed the concrete through a long black hose. At the end of that hose, a worker fired the gray slush into a trench that would serve as the foundation for the new home. The crew had finished digging it on Thursday, had spent Friday laying and tying together the thin steel bars sitting inside it.

  At a spot near the corner, just a few inches beneath the bottom of that trench, Bishop had buried his own bit of concrete work. He had gotten there two hours before sunrise. Had been long gone by the time the crew had arrived to set up the pump. Now he was back to make sure the evidence got covered up for good. He wouldn’t feel at ease until there was a foot of reinforced concrete above the rifle barrels and the burner phones.

  The foreman noticed his Wrangler and came over to make small talk. Bishop had seen him around before, had sai
d hello to him once or twice. He rolled down his window and said, “Looks like a good day for pouring concrete.”

  The man shrugged, lifted the camouflage ball cap off his head, and scratched his buzzed scalp. “I’ll like it better when it warms up a bit more.”

  “Yeah, but before you know it, it’ll be too hot to do anything outside.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. What’s got you out here today?”

  “Oh, just trying to figure out how many cars I’ll need to patrol these mean streets.”

  “So basically, you’re out here wastin’ time for a little while,” he said with a chuckle.

  Bishop smiled. The workers had moved to the corner. Concrete was flowing directly onto the spot where he had performed the burial. “Something like that,” he said.

  “I hear the man that owns this neighborhood got killed yesterday. My wife was tellin’ me she saw on the news that someone went and shot him through his back window.”

  “Yeah. I’m afraid that’s true.”

  “Damn,” the man said. “That’s some crazy shit.”

  “Sure is.”

  “Course, now the damn Democrats will be tryin’ like hell to take all our guns away again.”

  “You know it.”

  The engine in the concrete truck revved loudly, and the drum sped up. The worker at the trench dropped the hose and walked back toward the others standing by the pump.

  The foreman spit and said, “Well, that’ll do it for that load.” He unclipped a large phone from his belt and started searching for a number. “I’d better make sure the next truck is gettin’ close. You take it easy, my friend.” And he walked away.

  Bishop watched for a few more minutes, then wheeled back onto the street and left the neighborhood.

  * * *

  Pratt had cancelled their picnic date after the shooting, saying she had to canvass the neighbors around the Jones residence. He tried calling her after lunch, but she was still too busy to talk. And that suited him just fine. He figured it would be another month, maybe two before he broke it off anyway.

  He spent the afternoon in his office in Asheville, meeting with clients and interviewing applicants for security officer positions. He finished the day with a call to his accountant, who told him he was going to owe more in taxes than she had originally anticipated. Tried to tell him that it was a good thing, though it didn’t feel like it.

  At 5:00, Bishop said bye to the office manager and headed out. On his way to I-40, he decided to stop by the Wicked Brew restaurant near downtown. He had dinner and a few beers and flirted with the bartender for a while. When he realized it wasn’t going anywhere, he paid the bill and left. Pulled the soft top down on the Wrangler and enjoyed the cool air as he cruised through the mountains.

  By the time he turned onto the gravel drive, it was dark. He considered leaving the Wrangler open but decided against it. There was a chance of rain in the forecast, and he didn’t want the seats to be wet in the morning. He parked and put the top up, then took the shovel out of the back and brought it into the garage. He hung it on the rack by the side door, locked up, and walked toward the cabin, yawning.

  Then he saw it. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure standing in a shadow beyond the fire pit. He kept his stride for two more steps, lifted his shirt, and drew the compact 9mm from the concealed carry holster tucked in his jeans at his right hip. He turned and leveled his sights on the silhouette. Behind him, a familiar voice said, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Derek.”

  “Danny?”

  Braddock circled into view. He had his own sidearm trained on Bishop. “Hand it over,” he said. “Easy.”

  Bishop lowered his weapon and passed it to Braddock. His eyes were still fixed on the shadow in front of him. The figure approached, emerging into the moonlight.

  “Good evening, Mister Bishop.”

  He smiled and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Carver.”

  59

  “So,” Bishop said, “which one of you wants to tell me what the fuck is going on here?”

  Rachel peered into his eyes, trying to get a read on his expression, but there wasn’t enough light to see clearly.

  “We just came out to have a little talk is all,” Braddock said, holstering his weapon. He removed the magazine from Bishop’s 9mm, then the round from the chamber, and laid them in a chair by the fire pit. “Your name has come up in a murder investigation.”

  “A murder investigation,” he said, sounding surprised. “My name?”

  “That’s right, Mister Bishop,” Rachel said. “How well did you know Lawton Jones?”

  “Pretty well, I guess. We were business partners.”

  “Were. I guess that means you’ve heard he was killed yesterday.”

  “Of course I heard. Hell, it’s been all over the news. Just like the two of you.” He looked at Braddock. “Jesus, Danny. Does she really think I had something to do with Lawton getting shot?”

  Braddock shrugged. “It’s her show, Derek. I’m just along for the ride.”

  “Since you mention it,” Rachel said, “mind telling us where you were yesterday afternoon?”

  “Home,” Bishop said. He folded his arms, a defiant gesture. “All afternoon and all night. And no, I don’t have an alibi. I live here alone.”

  “And Friday night?”

  “Same thing. I was here. Wait . . . you can’t possibly think I’m involved in . . .” His head darted between Rachel and Braddock. “Shane? Melissa? Jesus Christ. There’s no way in hell I could hurt either one of them. Come on, Danny. You know me.”

  “You forgot someone,” Rachel said.

  “What?”

  “Dylan Gifford. He was in the car too. Did you know him?”

  “I don’t . . . No, I don’t think so.”

  Rachel had just scored her first refutable lie. She and Braddock had reviewed his case files earlier in the day. He had arrested Gifford on at least two occasions as a detective. She was about to remind him of that when a new voice said, “I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that one, Mister Bishop.”

  Braddock’s hand moved to his sidearm, but another voice said, “Don’t even fuckin’ think about it, man.”

  There was the racking sound of pump-action hardware, hurried footfalls over rustling foliage. Bishop spun in a circle, looking in every direction. He said, “What the fuck?” as the men came into view.

  There were three of them, all dressed in black, all wearing ski masks. Two of them carried shotguns. The third brandished a shiny chrome automatic. He put the muzzle in Bishop’s face and said, “Why don’t you invite us all inside, asshole? It’s gettin’ a little chilly out here.”

  Bishop led the way into the cabin. The shotgunner nearest Braddock took his weapon and waved him in. Rachel followed. Once everyone was in the living area, the man with the chrome handgun made Bishop drop to his knees in the center of the room. Rachel and Braddock were made to stand against a wall.

  The chrome handgun appeared to be the leader. He stood over Bishop and said, “You know why I made you bring us in here? ’Cause when we take to shootin’ your sorry ass in a minute, we don’t want the noise to carry too far.”

  Rachel saw Bishop’s jaw muscles flexing nervously. His eyes were fixed on a spot on the floor, but his mind seemed to be in overdrive, trying to figure a way out of this situation alive.

  “That’s right, motherfucker. We’re fixin’ to light your ass up, and it’s gonna make quite a racket.”

  One of the shotgunners laughed. The leader joined in, then he suddenly got quiet and leaned down to get within a few inches of Bishop’s face. “I’m gonna enjoy watchin’ you die.” He backed up and looked over at Rachel and Braddock. “You two ever seen what a pair of shotguns and a hand cannon like this’ll do to a motherfucker?” Back to Bishop, “You’re gonna turn into one helluva mess.”

  “Why?” Rachel asked.

  “What?” The leader looked at her, incredulous. “Did you say something to me?”
/>   “I said why. Why do you want to kill him?”

  She took a step forward, and Braddock seized her arm, gave her a sideways look that pleaded with her to keep quiet. But the leader didn’t appreciate that.

  “Whoa, ease up on the lady, man. She and I are tryin’ to have a conversation.” He looked her up and down for a second and said, “Step on over here, sweetheart. Let me get a look at you.”

  Rachel moved to the center of the room next to Bishop. The leader walked around behind her and examined her figure. “Not bad, huh, boys?”

  One of the shotgunners said, “Looks good to me.”

  “I’ll say.” The leader came back around to stand in front of her. “Now tell me again. What is it you were sayin’, pretty lady?”

  Rachel tried to swallow, cleared her throat, and asked, “Why are you going to kill him?”

  The leader feigned surprise. “You mean you don’t know? Well, shit, girl, I guess I should fill you in. Then again”—he seemed to reconsider—“why don’t we just hear it straight from the horse’s mouth?” He leaned down to Bishop. “Go ahead, cocksucker. Tell the lady why we’re here.”

  Bishop mumbled something.

  “What’s that? Speak up, asshole.”

  “I said, I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t know what the fuck is going on right—”

  The leader cocked back and struck Bishop’s mouth with his pistol. Rachel yelled, “No!” and Braddock took a step forward, but a shotgunner pushed him back against the wall. Bishop was lying on his side holding a bloody lip.

  “Get up,” the leader said.

  When Bishop moved too slow, he kicked him. “I said, get up, motherfucker.” And Bishop lifted himself back to his knees.

  “Since our host ain’t shit for tellin’ stories, I guess I’ll have to educate you all myself. This sorry piece of trash went and murdered a good friend of mine. A fella by the name of Dylan Gifford. Ain’t that right, asshole?”