by Brant, Kylie
Panic flooded his mind, a rising tide of fear. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t, not when the mental images the man’s words had planted bloomed. Of Marvella stripped and stretched out like a whore. Of sweet li’l Pammy Jo, wrecked and ruined.
He began to shake, sweat dripping down his neck, his mind scrambling for a way out. But he realized there wasn’t one. He’d seen what was done. He’d participated. And he knew what this man was capable of. He’d feared this all along, hadn’t he? He’d known that failure wouldn’t be tolerated.
His lips parted. He tasted cool metal and gun oil.
Listening to this man now wasn’t his biggest mistake. It was listening to him in the first place.
He thought of his wife and little girl, and mourned wildly for the sight that would greet them when they walked in the back door.
And then he pulled the trigger.
Chapter 6
Ramsey unlocked the mobile lab with one of the two keys that had been provided, and stepped inside. She’d worked with Jonesy enough to first pause in the small outer area to slip on a lab coat, shoe and hair covers, and plastic gloves before continuing into the lab. A frown of annoyance crossed her face when she didn’t see Jonesy at work.
It was nearly eight A.M. Not exactly the middle of the night. Maybe the scientist had worked late getting the lab set up, but she’d explained she was in a hurry for the tests to get started, hadn’t she?
She walked farther into the lab, looking more closely at the tubes and vials and machines covering its counters. One of the machines—she couldn’t name it on a bet—was humming and a red light winked from its front panel. Maybe Jonesy had gotten started last night. Maybe he’d worked all night and was just now getting some sleep while the tests were . . .
A slight sound had her whirling toward the back of the RV. Just in time to see a bare-assed Jonesy coming out of the bedroom lodged in the rear.
The sight of his nudity seared her retinas. “Jesus!” Ramsey clapped a hand over her eyes. “Strike me blind now.”
“God almighty, Ramsey.” Jonesy squealed like a girl. She heard a door slam and sincerely hoped he was on the far side of it. “What the hell are you doing here at the butt crack of dawn?”
“Poor choice of words,” she muttered. In a louder voice she called, “It’s almost eight. Figured you’d be working by now.”
“I’m not punching a clock, for Godsakes.” She heard a door open a few moments later, followed by the sound of furious footsteps. “If I were, I wouldn’t have been working my ass off until after two this morning. You want strictly eight to five, let me know right now. And take your damn hand away from your face!”
Ramsey cracked her fingers a fraction to make sure it was safe before lowering her hand. Jonesy was dressed—thank God—in a clean set of scrubs and booties on his feet.
“So you got started on the tests last night?”
The man glared at her. “You’re a piece of work.”
Belatedly, she reached for tact. “I appreciate the hours you’re putting in. Really. Especially after the long drive yesterday. Ah . . .” She searched for more pleasantries. “Have you had breakfast?”
“I’d be having it now if you hadn’t barged in.”
“Because I’ll be glad to get you something.” If bringing him a doughnut and coffee from the motel office would placate him, she figured it was little enough to do. A happy scientist got quick test results. At least that’s what she was counting on.
“Really?” He cast a wary glance toward her, obviously still smarting from their earlier encounter.
She could have told him she was the one who was going to carry those emotional scars for the rest of her days, but wisely kept the comment to herself.
“I wouldn’t mind a cheese omelet. Maybe some hash browns. Do they do biscuits and gravy down here? I’ll bet they do. A couple pancakes. Blueberry if they have them. Maybe you should write this down.”
Ramsey opened her mouth to protest. Going a few yards to the motel office and heading downtown to a restaurant for take out were two very different things. “I was on my way to the sheriff’s office.” The look on his face had her acquiescing with ill grace. “But I can stop first and bring something back for you.” She seemed to recall Mary Sue mentioning a place that served breakfast in town.
Ramsey waited while Jonesy rummaged around for a paper and pen to write down his order, the irony not lost on her. Her playing nice would keep the man happy. But it wasn’t going to do a thing to erase the sight of his nudity from her memory. It was enough to make her wish for selective amnesia.
The din in The Henhouse almost had Ramsey, by no stretch of the imagination a morning person, backing out again. It was packed, and the voices of its many occupants melded into a drone reminiscent of its namesake. With a quick glance around, she saw that all the booths were filled, but there was an empty stool at the counter, so she slipped onto it.
A harried-looking waitress stopped to fill the coffee cup of the woman next to her, so Ramsey said, “Excuse me, do you . . .” And then stared at the woman’s back when she flitted away as quickly as she’d stopped, refilling cups all the way down the counter.
“You’ll have to be faster than that if you expect to get Vicki’s attention,” observed the woman at her side.
“I guess.” Ramsey looked at the woman and was struck with a vague sense of familiarity. “Do they have take-out here?”
“Yes, and you really won’t have to wait long for Vicki to come zippin’ back so you can order. She’s got a method to her, and if you let her go, she’s pretty systematic.”
“Thanks.” Ramsey studied the woman for a moment longer. “You wouldn’t be related to Leanne Layton, would you?”
“I would think so. I’m her mama.” The woman flashed a smile reminiscent of her daughter’s. “Proud one, too. That girl is makin’ somethin’ of that shop of hers. You ever been there?”
And it was, Ramsey thought ruefully, a charmingly worded hint that she could use an appointment. “Actually I have. I spoke to Leanne yesterday. And the night before. My name is Ramsey Clark. She was telling me that you’re somethin’ of an expert on the legend of the red mist.”
“Well, bless her, I’m no such thing.” Donnelle Layton patted her lips gently so as not to disturb the lipstick that looked to be the exact flaming shade her daughter wore.
The waitress stopped in front of Ramsey then, so she switched her focus long enough to place the order and then looked back at the older woman. “I’d like to come by and talk to you sometime about the history you’ve done of the town. Especially the different accountings of the legend.”
Donnelle picked up her fork and toyed with it while maintaining a pleasant expression. “What brings you to Buffalo Springs, Ramsey? My, that’s an unusual name. Pretty, too.” Effortlessly she segued back to her original question. “Do you have kin nearby?”
“I’m from Virginia. I’m working with TBI on the murder that occurred near here recently.”
“Must be an excitin’ job.” Donnelle lowered her voice. “My daughter can’t get enough of those gory crime shows. I’m all the time tellin’ her it’s just not feminine to be that enthralled with all that killin’.” She smiled sunnily. “Not that you aren’t feminine. What I wouldn’t give for your height.” She stood, withdrew her wallet from her purse, and selected some bills to lay on the counter.
“About the legend . . .” Ramsey began again. “Leanne said I could find you at the Historical Museum on Wednesdays.”
“I’m afraid I’m busier there than a one-eyed cat watchin’ two mouse holes. But I do wish you well with your work, Ramsey.” The woman slipped the strap of her purse over her arm. “And you make an appointment with my daughter, y’hear? She’s a wonder with a pair of scissors. That’s not pride talkin’; that’s fact.”
Ramsey was nothing if not persistent. She twirled on the stool as the woman prepared to walk away, unwilling to take no for an answer.
But before she
could open her mouth, she heard the woman say, “Devlin Stryker, as I live and breathe.”
As if her morning hadn’t already started off ignobly enough, Ramsey thought sourly.
The second-to-last man she wanted to see—with the first being a nude Jonesy, but it was too late for that—was easing back from Donnelle’s enthusiastic hug, one of her hands in both of his. “How’s the beauty of Buffalo Springs?”
Ramsey managed, barely, to avoid rolling her eyes.
“I’m put out, is what I am.” If Donnelle wanted to sound angry, she should eliminate the adoring lilt to her voice. “Leanne tells me you’ve been in town for days, and you haven’t stopped by for dinner once.”
“Just bidin’ my time, Donnelle. How’s Steve doin’?”
As the two commenced speaking of people that were unfamiliar to her, Ramsey lost interest and instead listened to the snippets of other conversations drifting around the restaurant.
“. . . blew his head clear off, I heard . . .”
“. . . Marvella is a case, I’ll tell ya. Don’t know what will happen . . .”
“. . . know why he done it?”
“. . . seen him yesterday and looked a might down to me. Thought to myself at the time that he . . .”
Shamelessly eavesdropping, Ramsey strained to hear more, but the fragments of conversation intermixed into an incomprehensible chatter. What she could make out was Donnelle’s voice, clear as a bell.
“You come see me real soon. Stop down at the Historical Museum on Wednesday, why don’t you? I’d love to spend some real time catchin’ up.”
Fuming, Ramsey threw a glance over her shoulder just in time to see Donnelle heading for the door. Dev turned and caught the full force of her glare and stopped midstep, his hands rising in surrender.
“I don’t start full-on sinnin’ ’til nine most days, so I’m pretty sure I’m innocent.”
Ramsey faced forward at the counter again. “Of what?”
“Of whatever you’re wantin’ to slice me up over.” Without waiting for an invitation—which she wouldn’t have offered—he slipped onto the stool at her side and cocked his head at her. “Don’t tell me. You’re not a mornin’ person.”
“I sat right next to that woman and asked her if I could come by the Historical Museum and speak to her about the legend,” Ramsey informed him, heat tingeing her tone. “She told me she was much too busy.”
“I’m sure she didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”
“I speak y’all, Stryker. No matter how politely it’s worded, I can recognize the brush-off buried in the politeness.”
“Well if you’re that familiar with southern folk, you shouldn’t be surprised to discover them closemouthed with strangers.” To the waitress who hovered near him, he shot a smile and said, “Just bring the usual for me, Vicki.”
“Sure thing, hon.”
He returned his attention to Ramsey. “You actually carry a double whammy. Not from ’round here, and workin’ for the law. I can’t believe this is the first person you’ve run into who’s not anxious to sit down and answer a bunch of questions.”
Point taken. Ramsey reached for the water glass the waitress had set in front of her. “I suppose I should be grateful that I didn’t get run off with a shotgun this time.”
The humor vanished from his face. And she was left to wonder at the lethal look that could show in his eye when he wasn’t wearing that incessant smile. “Someone pulled a gun on you?”
She debated how much to share with him before giving a mental shrug. So far she’d gotten nowhere asking questions of the locals. Stryker did nothing but talk. He may as well make himself useful. “Mary Tibbitts was not anxious to speak to me yesterday. Tried to run me off with the business end of a shotgun.”
He grimaced and sipped at the coffee that Vicki had placed before him. “Not hard to believe it. Glad to hear she didn’t use the gun. Way I hear it, the Tibbitts aren’t known for their restraint in that area.”
“Duane was supposedly inside but didn’t come out. I was wondering if there was meth lab somewhere around there. She looks like a user. And I saw a man in the woods behind their house watching me.”
“It was probably Ezra T., Duane’s younger brother. And if the Tibbitts are usin’ meth, it’s a pretty good guess that they’re buyin’ it these days rather than manufacturin’. That family learned a pretty hard lesson years ago.” He paused to add some cream to the coffee, stirring it with a spoon before taking another drink. “The story I heard was that Ezra T. was no more than two, sittin’ in a high chair in the kitchen when his parents were cookin’ meth in the house. There was an explosion, killed them both. Blew Ezra T., chair and all, through the wall.”
“But he survived.”
“With serious brain damage. He spent the next dozen years in residential care in Nashville. Duane and Mary brought him home a few years ago.”
Shrewdly, Ramsey said, “I’m guessing it wasn’t familial devotion that motivated them. His disability check now comes directly to them as his caregivers, right?”
“Wouldn’t know ’bout that.” With a clink of stoneware, Dev set his cup back on the saucer. “Ezra T. is harmless. Runs the woods most of the time, but he seems to be happy ’nough. He’s a heckuva mimic. Hard tellin’ his animal calls from the real thing. I think he was hangin’ around watching’ me a lot of the time I spent at the pond that night. He stayed back of the trees most times. He doesn’t mean any harm.”
“If he’s in the woods so much, he might have seen something the night the body was dumped. Heard something.” Had he been questioned by Rollins office? She didn’t recall mention of it in the case file, and she’d been up until late last night going over it again.
Dev was shaking his head. “He’d be of no help to anyone. He’s hardly a reliable source. He’s got the judgment and the intellectual level of a four-year-old. No one would credit anythin’ he had to say, especially about somethin’ as important as murder.”
“Maybe not.” But Ramsey mentally filed it away to ask Rollins about later.
“So.” He turned to face her more fully, a slight smile playing about his mouth. “’Bout your unpopularity in these parts . . . I can probably help you out with that.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
“Oh, really.” His brows rose. “How are you plannin’ on workin’ a sit down with Donnelle to hear more about the legend?”
Lifting a shoulder, Ramsey craned her neck to see if any familiar dishes were lined up on the cook’s counter. “It’s not like the information is pertinent to solving the case.” It was background, nothing more. Filler that explained the whys and hows of people’s attitudes and beliefs, which, come to think of it, could, in a roundabout way, affect what they told law enforcement.
Vicki set a pile of disposable containers down in front of Ramsey. “That will be nine fifty. You can either pay at the register or I’ll take your money right here.”
Ramsey opened her purse and fished out a ten and two ones, handing it to the woman. “Thanks.”
“You have yourself a good day, hon,” the waitress said, heading to greet another customer.
“I’m surprised you think that way, after what happened yesterday evenin’.”
She stood, reaching for the containers. “Why, what happened?”
He jerked his head toward the full restaurant behind them. “Haven’t you been listenin’? Everybody in town’s talkin’ ’bout it, seems like. Beau Simpson killed himself last night.”
Pausing in midmotion, she looked at him. “And who’s Beau Simpson?”
“Has the hardware store here on Main Street. Took it over from his folks some years ago. Nice guy. Hard worker.” His expression was somber for once. “Left a wife and little girl.”
“Tragic, but what does that have to do with me or the case?”
“It’s the second death after the red mist was sighted. That’s what people are sayin’.” Vicki set his plate in front o
f him, and he looked up and smiled his thanks before returning his attention to Ramsey. “And if you were findin’ folks closemouthed before, they’re really gonna button up now. At least those who hold with the legend. And others who don’t but won’t push their luck.”
Intrigued, she sat on the edge of her stool facing him. “And why is that?”
He reached for the maple syrup and spread it liberally on his stack of pancakes. “Because the way the legend goes is that the deaths—some call them murders, but history doesn’t necessarily bear that out—happen in threes. And there are some who believe the subsequent ones occur because of people askin’ questions and stirrin’ up things that should just be let be.”
“Just ignore homicide, in other words.”
