by BJ Bourg
I pulled a notebook from my back pocket. “I’m not here about a new car. I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but we’re here to talk business.”
“What business is that?”
“We’re here to talk to you about Hays Cain.”
Randall shifted in his seat. “Hays? What about him?”
“Do you know where we can find him?” I asked.
Randall shrugged. “Try the restaurant—or his house.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“Um…a few days ago. Why?”
I made some notes, then looked up. “Where were y’all?”
“In town. Why? What’s this about?”
“We’re just trying to locate him,” I said. “If he’s not at the restaurant or his house, where else might we find him?”
“How would I know?”
“Stephen Butler said y’all are best friends—that if anyone would know his whereabouts, it would be you.” I leaned forward to stare into his shifty eyes. “Did Stephen lie to me?”
“No, he didn’t lie to you.” Randall glanced down at his desk. “He was my best friend since high school. We’d talk nearly every day and normally he’d tell me where he went, but, like I said, I haven’t heard from him in a few days.”
“When exactly did you last see him or talk to him?” I pressed.
Randall looked around, only stopping briefly to stare at me. “Wednesday or Thursday, I’d say.”
“Do you think it’s odd he hasn’t called since then?” I asked.
“Not really. As I said, we usually talk every day. There’ve been many times when we went days without talking to each other. No big deal. We’re not married, for God’s sake.”
“How’s he handling the loss of his son?” I asked.
Randall shrugged. “He lived day-to-day, like the rest of us do.”
“The rest of y’all?” My eyes moved from Randall to the large picture frame that hung behind him on the wall. It was of a young man in a military uniform. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen years of age.
Randall turned and looked up at the picture himself. “That was my son, Randall, Jr.”
“Was he in the army?” I asked.
“National guard.” Randall spun back around in his chair and stood. “I have some business to take care of. If that’s all…”
I stood and nodded, snatching one of his business cards from the box at the corner of his desk. I held up the card. “We have your number, so we’ll be in touch if we need more from you.”
Susan followed me out into the hot parking lot, and we slipped into the Tahoe. I cranked the engine, flipped the air conditioner on, and lowered the windows. “So,” I began, “what do you think?”
“I think he knows Hays is dead.”
I nodded my approval. “You’re good.”
I backed out of the parking lot, and Susan snapped in her seatbelt. “Where to?”
“We’re paying Pauline Cain a visit. She’s got to know something about her husband’s activities.”
“If I were married to a man who’d leave and not tell me where he was going, he’d come home to find a pile of ash on the front yard that used to be his shit.”
I chuckled. “That’s funny.”
CHAPTER 16
Stephen Butler was somber as he led us through the Cain mansion and into the living room. Pauline Cain was a wreck. She sat cross-legged on a white leather sofa. There was a pile of crumpled tissues on the floor in front of where she sat. She was still in the gown from the night before, but had a thick robe draped over her shoulders. She looked up at us with bloodshot eyes. “Did y’all find Hays?”
Susan frowned and sat beside Pauline. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
She pursed her lips. “He was having an affair.”
My jaw dropped, but Susan’s face had remained unchanged—like stone. I inwardly complimented her poker face, but cursed Pauline for not telling us about it last night.
“Who with?” Susan asked, resting her hand on Pauline’s shoulder.
“I don’t know for sure.” Pauline tossed an envelope in Susan’s lap. “But that’s her number.”
I quietly wondered how Pauline didn’t know who he was having an affair with, but knew her number.
Susan pulled several folded pages from the envelope and studied them. “It’s the highlighted number?”
Pauline nodded. “It’s the only one I don’t recognize.”
Susan handed me the sheets of paper. It was Pauline and Hays Cain’s cell phone bill. I skipped over the information on Pauline’s phone and went to Hays’ details. His last activity was from Friday night. He had sent at least a dozen text messages to the highlighted number and received just as many back. There were a few calls between them, but it seemed they communicated more through text messages. Other than one other number, Hays hadn’t had contact with another person at all that Friday. I started to fold the phone bill when that one other number caught my eye and I froze, stared long and hard at it. It looked oddly familiar. I checked the time stamp on the bill. Hays had called the number ten minutes after four in the afternoon. What is it about this number that—
“Holy shit!” I fished Randall Rupe’s business card from my pocket and glanced at his number. It matched. Randall, you bastard. You lied to us! What are you up to?
“What is it?” Susan asked.
“Randall… Hays called Randall Rupe that day.”
Pauline Hays shrugged. “There’s nothing odd about that. They’ve been best friends since high school. Served in the military together”—she paused to dab at a tear that had formed—“just like our sons.”
We stood quiet for a few moments, and then Susan asked, “Mrs. Cain, do you have any idea at all who she might be? Any suspicions?”
“He just promoted one of the waitresses to head manager at our restaurant here in town.” Pauline sighed. “I thought it was odd because the other employees have complained about what a screw-up she is, and we’ve gotten a lot of complaints from customers. Hays wouldn’t promote someone like that under normal circumstances.”
“What’s her name?” Susan asked. “Kelly Dykes.”
I walked into the foyer and grabbed the police radio from my belt to call Lindsey. “I need you to run a name check on Kelly Dykes. I need address, phone number, and criminal history.”
“Ten-four, Chief. Standby.”
I paced the width of the spacious foyer and waited for Lindsey to call back. Within five minutes, my radio scratched to life. “Chief, she lives on Walnut. She’s got a misdemeanor shoplifting charge from four years ago and a few speeding tickets.”
I pulled my notepad from my back pocket and jotted down the information. “Do we have a number on her?”
“Ten-four.” Lindsey provided the number, and I compared it to the phone bill. It matched the numbers Pauline had highlighted.
Footsteps echoed on the marble behind me, and I turned to see Susan approaching. “Did you get anything on her?”
I showed Susan my notes. “Pauline was right. The phone numbers match. Can you believe it?”
“Women know.” Susan touched the address. “Is that where she lives?”
“Yeah. Is it far from here?”
“It’s across town about ten—”
“Chief, are you on the radio?” It was Melvin.
“Ten-four,” I said. “Did you find something?”
“We recovered Dexter’s boat and your guns.”
“Ten-four. Thanks. Any sign of that alligator or Hays Cain?”
“Negative, but we’re still looking.”
I clipped the radio on my belt, then followed Susan out the mansion and to my Tahoe. She told me how to get to Walnut. It was almost lunchtime and traffic was heavy, so it took us about fifteen minutes to reach the street.
“It should be around midway down,” Susan guessed.
It was a long street and the house numbers were faded or didn’t exist. “I can’t
even see most of the numbers.”
“You’ll get used to counting from the last known address around here. Most townspeople don’t take the time to hang their house numbers. I guess they figure it’ll be harder for the governor to find them when he comes for their guns.”
I shot a look at Susan, but it appeared she hadn’t meant anything by the comment. I continued down the street, and Susan pointed ahead to a small trailer on the right.
“That should be it,” she said.
I pulled to the side of the road in front of the trailer and parked parallel to it. After throwing the gearshift in park, I stepped out and walked around the front of the Tahoe and met Susan near a small ditch. We paused to scan the area. An older model Caprice sat in the muddy driveway. The yard was clean, with the exception of an old dog kennel that lay on its side. “I need one of those for—”
A gunshot suddenly erupted from the area of the trailer and the taillight on my passenger’s side exploded into tiny shards.
“Holy shit!” Susan dropped to her face beside the Tahoe and scrambled on all fours around the back of the SUV until she reached the other side and it was between her and the trailer.
Another shot rang out and the headlight on the passenger’s side disintegrated. I backed up until I could sidestep behind the hood of the Tahoe. I dropped to my right knee, using the front tire and engine block as cover. My pistol had instinctively appeared in my hand. I leaned out from around the front of the Tahoe and pointed my pistol at the trailer. “Did you see where the shot came from?”
Susan peered around the back of the Tahoe. “The front windows are closed, so I don’t think the shot came from inside.”
I nodded my agreement. “Cover me.”
“Wait…what are you doing? Don’t you go out there. It’s suicide!”
I bolted from behind the Tahoe and ran toward the left side of the trailer, sweeping the area with my pistol. When I reached the corner of the trailer, I slammed up against it with my right shoulder and glanced back at Susan. She was staring wide-eyed at me, shaking her head. I pointed to let her know I was going around the trailer. She tried to wave at me to stop. I took a deep breath and button-hooked around the corner. I dashed toward the back of the trailer. Trees cloaked the area in shadows. When I rounded the back corner, I came face-to-face with a wooden swing set. Before I could stop, I crashed into it and tumbled forward. As I fell, I caught a glimpse of a human shadow disappearing like a flash into the woods.
The dirt was damp and cool against my cheek and smelled musky. I rolled to my right shoulder and scanned the tree line. Other than the distant sound of snapping branches that grew fainter as the attacker escaped, there was nothing. I jumped to my feet and gave chase, jumping over downed tree trunks and ducking under low-lying branches. Pickers and thick underbrush clawed at my exposed arms, slowing my progress. A twig slapped my face and left a stinging sensation in its wake. Sweat dripped from my forehead. My breath started to come in gasps, as my lungs burned. My legs screamed for me to stop, but I forced them onward. I could no longer hear the suspect due to the noise of my own trampling and my heart beating in my ears. I wondered if the attacker had doubled back to ambush me. I kept a wary eye as I ran, but everything was a blur.
I suddenly broke out into a clearing and stumbled forward when the forest released me of its grip. I stared about. The roaring of a car engine sounded off to my right. I spun around and pointed my pistol in that direction. The sun blinded me. I lifted my left arm to shield out the brilliant light and tried to find the front sight on my pistol. Through the shimmering heat waves in the distance, I saw a large truck kicking up dirt and grass as it sped off. I couldn’t tell the make or model of the truck and I hadn’t gotten a good look at the suspect. I thought about putting a few bullets into the back of the fleeing vehicle, but I couldn’t identify my target and I couldn’t be sure what was beyond the truck or if there were any innocent people inside. I dropped my hand and slammed my pistol into its holster. “Shit!”
I dropped to one knee and took several deep breaths to try to calm my racing heart. I’ve got to find a way to stop drinking so much. It occurred to me just then that my knees weren’t shaking. I held up my hand—steady as a rock. Much different from the other times I’d been shot at or found myself in a life-threatening situation. Why does this time feel different? Why am I not experiencing the normal physical responses that go along with high stress situations? I started to wonder if the doctor had been right about me. I shook my head to dismiss the thought.
I slowly turned and picked my way through the woods. I hadn’t realized how far I’d run. After about five minutes, I heard what sounded like a herd of buffalo coming toward me. I reached for my pistol, but relaxed when I saw Susan. She stopped when she saw me, exhaling sharply.
“Are you okay?” she asked in a hushed voice, sweeping the area with her pistol. “Where’d you go?”
I nodded and took a deep breath before answering. “I chased him, but he got away. There was a truck waiting.”
“The back door to the trailer is wide open. I didn’t clear it yet, so there might still be a threat inside.” Susan spun to return to the trailer.
I grabbed her arm. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I’m a little freaked out.” Susan wiped sweat off her brow with the back of her hand. “I’ve never been shot at before. Thought about it—a lot, actually—but never experienced it. I think I shat my pants.”
“I’ve never heard it put that way, but I did, too—shit my pants,” I lied, but only to make her feel better. “You never get used to being shot at.”
“I felt like I couldn’t breathe for a minute there.”
“That’s normal. Nothing to worry about. It’s when you stop feeling it that you have to worry.” I looked away because I knew I should be worried, but oddly wasn’t.
Susan walked off, and I followed. When we reached the clearing where the trailer was located, she trained her pistol on the back door, and I palmed mine. She nodded to me and I nodded back. We slowly approached the trailer. I kept my eyes on the windows, while she watched the door. When we reached the back steps, we fanned out, each of us moving to opposite sides of the door. I peered inside. All I saw was an empty hallway and a door leading into what looked like a bathroom.
“Can you see anything?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She shook her head, as she craned her neck to see. “I don’t hear anything either.”
I held up my hand to let her know I would count to three and then we would enter. She nodded. I slowly lifted my index finger, then middle finger, and, finally, my ring finger. We scurried up the stairs and crisscrossed into the trailer. I ran left toward the front of the trailer, and she ran right toward the back. I quickly found myself in a living room/kitchen combination that was well furnished and tidy. There was no sign of life. I relaxed, checked out the living room. A sofa, loveseat, and recliner took up what little space there was in the room. I noticed something on the floor and bent to examine the object. It was a sliver of wood. I glanced up toward the front door, which opened into the living room, and nodded. The door had been secured shut by the deadbolt, but the lock plate for the doorknob hung loose and the doorframe was split.
I strode into the small kitchen. There was a white wooden table with four chairs centered in the tiny area, and one of the chairs had been knocked to the floor. A plate was on the table in front of the downed chair and there was a small amount of scrambled eggs and a half-eaten biscuit on the plate. Something shiny under the table caught my eye. When I bent to look, I saw a fork with a clump of scrambled egg stuck to it. I surveyed the rest of the kitchen, but nothing was out of place. The sink was free of any dishes and the counters were clean. A picture of what had happened here began to form in my mind’s eye.
I suddenly realized things were too quiet inside the trailer. I had heard Susan’s boots pound the hollow floor when we first entered, but I now heard nothing. “Susan?”
“One second,�
�� she called back. I heard a doorknob shake and then the squeak of an opening door. It was followed shortly by a startled gasp.
“Chief!” Susan hollered. “Get in here! We’ve got a body!”
CHAPTER 17
I hurried down the hallway and through the door of the back bedroom, squeezed by Susan and looked down. The body of what looked like a young woman was prone on the floor between the bed and the far wall. She wore loose pajama pants and a cotton nightshirt. There was no mistaking the four bloody bullet holes in the back of her shirt. One wound was high on her shoulder, another was over the back of her heart, and the last two were at the very center of her back—most likely severed her spinal cord. I scanned the immediate area and spotted two spent shell casings on the floor just inside the door. I picked my way closer to the body and squatted beside it. I leaned forward and placed my index and ring fingers against the inside of her wrist to feel for a pulse. There was none.
“She’s dead,” I said.
Susan left the room, and I could hear her digging around in the living room. She returned with a driver’s license. “This is Kelly Dykes’ driver’s license. Is that her on the floor?”
I hated to touch her body before documenting the scene, but I needed to know if she was Kelly. Without moving the body’s position, I turned her head until I could see her face and frowned. “Yeah, it’s her.”
“And who else would it be, right?” Susan took a deep breath and blew it out. “What the hell is going on here, Clint?”
I stood, turned to face her. “It’s imperative we find out who wanted this girl dead.”
“Besides Pauline Cain?”
“We just left Pauline. There’s no way she got dressed, armed herself, and then beat us here.”
“She could’ve paid someone to do it.”
I frowned, thought it over, but shook my head. “If she wanted Kelly dead, she would’ve never told us about her. She would’ve just had her killed and been done with it. She certainly wouldn’t send us here to interrupt her hired killer.”
