by BJ Bourg
Had I been a dog, my ears would’ve perked up. But I wasn’t, so I just played it cool and, in a casual voice, asked, “What was he working on at the dealership?”
“Who knows? He could’ve been lying about work. He could’ve been out there screwing around—”
“Julie!” her mother scolded. “Don’t talk like that in front of our guest!”
Julie fixed her mother with cold eyes, and I thought I saw the older woman sink back into her seat. Julie turned back to me. “As I was saying, he could’ve been sleeping around on me. We’d both been through a lot with Randall Junior’s death, and I didn’t have the energy to worry about what he was doing, so I just decided to believe he was working.”
“These meetings you mentioned—what were they about?”
Julie scowled. “I’m really not sure. Whatever they were about, they gave him a renewed sense of purpose. He was definitely a changed man. He reminded me of the Randall I’d married—the one who was bound and determined to build a dealership where everyone said a dealership couldn’t be built.”
“Do you know of anyone else who attended these meetings or where they were held?”
Julie shook her head. “I have no idea where they were held, but I do know Mark came by and picked Randall up for a meeting one day.”
“Mark?”
“Mark McNeal. I was in the flowerbed pulling weeds one afternoon—I started planting things after Randall Junior died. It helped me get through the early days. Anyway, I was out pulling weeds, and Mark came over to pick up Randall. When I asked where he was going, he told me he was going to his meeting.” Julie shrugged. “So, I guess Mark went to the meetings, too. It could’ve been some alcohol treatment place, since he stopped drinking, but I’m really not sure.”
I drummed my pen on my notepad. “The name Mark McNeal sounds familiar.”
“It should,” Julie said. “He only owns every bank in this—and the two surrounding—
parishes.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I saw him at the cage fight. He was actually sitting next to Randall.”
“They were good friends,” Julie acknowledged. “They grew even closer after our kids were killed.”
“I knew your husband was good friends with Hays Cain,” I said. “And Hays’ son also died while serving in the national guard, correct?”
“Six of our kids died that day.” Julie snapped her fingers. “Just like that, six families were ripped apart. It nearly took this town to its knees.”
“I’m really sorry about your loss. I understand how you feel.”
Julie scoffed, her eyes welling up with tears again. “You couldn’t possibly know what it feels like to lose a son and then a husband. No one knows how I feel.”
I suddenly realized I was okay to talk about it. I knew that Abigail and Michele would want me to help others in similar situations. “Ma’am, it’s true I don’t know how it feels to lose a son and a husband, but I do know how it feels to lose a daughter and a wife.”
Julie’s jaw slowly dropped. “Your wife and daughter died?”
I nodded. “They were killed—murdered—in an armed robbery that went bad.”
“You poor soul! You’re so young to have suffered so much.”
“It’s okay. I…I found a way to go on. To get through it. It’s what they would want me to do, you know?”
Julie nodded. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. Randall Junior would want me to go on. He would want me to be happy.”
“So would your husband. He would—”
“To hell with him!” Julie spat the words. “That selfish bastard left me alone! I hope he’s burning in hell right now for what he did to me.”
A woman scorned, I thought to myself, as I closed out the interview and left Julie Rupe to seethe. I stepped out into the afternoon air. The clouds overhead were starting to gather. It smelled like rain. I walked to my Tahoe and sat in the driver’s seat to dial a familiar number. It was the only number I’d never programmed into any phone I’d owned, because it was forever burned into my brain.
“Hello?” came an uncertain and tired voice.
“Mom, it’s me…Clint.”
There was a long pause, and I thought I heard a soft sob. “Clint? Is it really you?”
“It’s me, Mom.”
“Oh, Clint, it’s so good to hear from you. It’s been so long. I’ve been worried every night about you. I didn’t know if you were okay or not. One of my friends drove me by your house earlier this year, but the house looked empty. I tried calling the phone number for you, but it was disconnected. I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I was so scared that something bad happened to you.”
I frowned. “I’m sorry, Mom. I…I know I should’ve kept in touch. I’m really sorry.”
“But what’ve you been doing? Why didn’t you call me before?”
“It’s…it’s just that, you know, every time I looked at you, I…you reminded me of what I didn’t have any more. You reminded me of Abigail and Michele. And it killed me. I tried to get it out of my head. Tried to distance myself from everything that reminded me of them.”
My mom was bawling on the other end of the phone. She had a million questions, and I tried to answer all of them on my drive back to the office. When I pulled into the sally port, I cut her off. “Can I call you later? I’m at the office.”
“The office? What office?”
“I’m the chief of police in a little town called Mechant Loup.”
After more excited chatter, I was finally able to get her off the phone. Feeling better about myself, I hurried into the office to write my report on Randall Rupe’s suicide.
CHAPTER 37
I was just putting the finishing period on my report when Chloe called. I couldn’t answer it fast enough. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing much. I’ve been working on a story about the vanishing coastline. Not as exciting as the suicide of a prominent businessman.”
“I bet not,” was all I said on that subject. “Want to hang out again? Maybe tomorrow night?”
“It’s why I called. Your place or mine?”
“My place at eight o’clock?”
“Why so late?” Chloe asked.
“It’ll give me time to cook up something special.” I hit the print button on my computer and swiveled in my chair to catch the report as it spat from the printer.
There was a long pause from the other end. “Is it true you were with him when it happened?”
“Did you call to talk to me or pump me for information?” I joked.
“I called because I’m worried about you. No one should have to see something like that—especially you.”
My door swung open, and Melvin and Susan trudged in.
“Clint? Are you still there?” Chloe asked.
“Yeah, but I have to get back to this report.”
“Okay, I guess. So, I’ll see you tomorrow night then?”
“For sure.” I pressed the button to end the call. “Any sign of the boys?”
Susan shook her head and sank onto a chair. “Where’re William and Jack?”
“They’re already out on patrol.” I looked from Melvin to Susan. “Any ideas?”
“We looked everywhere. Red McKenzie’s fit to be tied. He’s certain that killer alligator got them.”
“I’m not so sure about his theory,” Melvin said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“We searched every square foot of the bayou and the lake and didn’t locate an oil slick.”
Curious, I gave him my full attention. “What’s that mean?”
“If that alligator got them, their boat would’ve sunk. When a boat sinks, the fuel and oil from the engine leak out into the water and eventually float to the surface.” Melvin pointed to me. “That’s how we found Dexter’s boat.”
“Can we rule out the alligator attack?” I asked.
Melvin shook his head. “Not entirely, but I think we need to expand the
search area.”
“Yeah,” Susan said. “Melvin thinks we need to consider the possibilities the boys ran away of their own will or were taken.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I think they’re alligator bait.”
I nodded, studied both of them. “Well, I think we can do both. Tomorrow, we’ll hit the waters again, and I’ll contact the media and circulate pictures of the boys”—I nodded toward Melvin—“just in case you’re right.”
Melvin smiled, then glanced down at his buzzing phone. His face quickly fell. “Oh, can I cut out? My wife’s been calling all day. She’s not feeling well and needs me to pick up some medicine on my way home. She’s pregnant.”
“When is she due?” I asked.
“Early August.”
I nodded. “Go on…get out of here.”
When Melvin was gone, I updated Susan on the Randall Rupe suicide case.
“We need to find out about these meetings.”
“We know for sure that three men were attending these secret meetings—Hays Cain, Randall Rupe, and Mark McNeal—and two of them are dead. We need to interrogate Mark.” I scowled. “If he doesn’t talk, the case could very well have died with Randall.”
“You know what they say,” Susan offered. “Three people can keep a secret—”
“If two of them are dead.” I nodded. “Mark could be the killer.”
“Which means we need to find the gun in his possession or we need him to confess.”
An idea found its way into the recesses of my mind. “Unless…”
Susan’s eyebrows rose. “Unless what?”
I dropped my boots to the ground and slowly stood. “I’m going out to the plantation home at the end of Paradise Place. I need to get inside that building.”
“For what?”
“It has to be the secret meeting place, and it might be where Hays was killed.”
“Good luck finding a judge to sign a warrant. We’ve got no evidence whatsoever that the building—”
“I’m not applying for a warrant.” I snatched the Tahoe keys from my desk. “I’m going in dark. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“You’re not going without me,” Susan said.
“What I’m about to do is illegal, and I don’t want you involved.”
“I’m already involved.” Susan led the way to my Tahoe, then we raced across town. Traffic was light, but Mechant Loup was a small town at the end of the world, so I figured it to be normal for a Tuesday night.
I shut off my headlights as we turned onto Paradise Place, slid all of the windows down. Gravel crunched under the tires and an occasional rock popped against the undercarriage. I steered the Tahoe off the road to the right, where grass lined the street and made for a less conspicuous approach. The going was slightly bumpier, and we jostled side to side with the sway of the vehicle. Tall sugarcane blades lapped at the passenger’s side of the SUV.
“It’s up ahead,” Susan whispered.
I gently smashed the emergency brake so I wouldn’t light up the area, and we eased to a stop. With the Tahoe still in drive, I killed the engine and left the key in the ignition. We both leaned forward and peered ahead, trying to penetrate the utter darkness on the other side of the windshield.
“Can you see anything?” My voice was a hoarse whisper.
“No.”
I flipped the switch on the interior lights to off so they wouldn’t come on when we stepped out. “Together, on three,” I said, grabbing my door handle. “One, two, three…”
There was a low metallic click as we simultaneously pulled on our door handles and inched them open. When we were outside the Tahoe, we swung the doors until they were almost shut and then met up near the hood. I could barely see Susan, but the distinct sound of a snap breaking and metal dragging against leather let me know she had palmed her pistol. I did the same, and we slunk toward the large shadow that loomed in the distance.
Blades of sugarcane sliced at my face and arms as we pushed our way along the outer edge of the rows. Mosquitoes buzzed in my ear and an occasional prick let me know they were drinking freely from my blood supply. I could feel Susan behind me. She bumped me several times when I stopped to listen and ran into me again when I stopped at the edge of the clearing. Although the clouds in the night sky blocked much of the light from the moon and stars, enough seeped through to paint the open area around the plantation in a ghostly hue.
“Everything looks quiet.” Susan’s breath was hot on my neck.
“Cover me,” I said.
Susan patted my back, and I took that as a signal that she was ready. Crouching low, I scurried across the open yard. I was careful to skirt the outer edges of the shell driveway, keeping to the soft grass. When I reached the corner of the plantation home, I dropped to my knees and looked to Susan’s location. I couldn’t make out anything. I dug for my phone, but before I could find it, a shadow emerged from the darkness and skidded to a stop beside me.
“Everything looks clear,” Susan whispered.
We knelt beside the plantation home for several long minutes, listening. Other than the crickets chirping and the sounds of other night critters, all was quiet. I holstered my pistol and Susan did the same. We walked the perimeter of the large home, testing the doors and windows, but everything was locked. There was no sign of life from inside.
“What do you think?” Susan asked.
“It looks empty. Let’s try the back door.” I led the way to a large screened-in porch and pulled out my knife. I planted a foot on the wooden steps, and they rocked beneath my weight. When I’d reached the top step, I cut the screen along the edge of the wooden frame—where it wouldn’t be as noticeable—and squeezed my arm through the opening until I felt the lock. I flipped it up and pulled on the screen door. Susan sucked her breath and I froze as the vintage hinges squawked loudly and shattered the stillness of the night. Sweat poured from my forehead and dripped into my eyes. I blinked it away, but didn’t move. I strained to hold the door in its half-open position, while listening for the slightest movement from inside. I heard none.
After a minute or two, we both relaxed. Susan said, “It’s got to be empty. I’m pretty sure those hinges woke every dead person in the cemetery at the other end of town.”
I rubbed the sweat from my forehead and slipped through the doorway and onto the wooden porch. My boots echoed on the hollow surface as I made my way to the back door. Susan joined me and pulled a flashlight from her back pocket to illuminate the doorknob. I pointed to the shiny deadbolt and knob combination that was oddly out of place on the weathered door. “That’s fresh.”
Susan nodded, her face appearing ghostly against the light from her phone. “Someone’s definitely using this old place for something.”
I shook on the handle, but the door was solid, and I wouldn’t be able to fit a credit card in the crack. The top portion of the door was constructed of quarter panel glass. A thick curtain prevented us from being able to see inside. I pulled out my pistol. “Step back, Susan. This is going to be loud.”
“Are you sure you have to—”
I smashed the barrel of my pistol into the bottom right panel and glass exploded. We waited for a few more minutes, but my actions evoked no response from inside. “We’re good.” I eased my hand into the broken window and unlocked the door from the inside.
Once I’d pulled my hand out, Susan turned the knob and walked in first. She shone her flashlight around. We were in a large family room. It was unfurnished and looked abandoned, as did the surrounding rooms. A spiral staircase was directly in front of us, and I walked toward it. “I’ll check upstairs.”
“I’m going with you,” Susan said. “Haven’t you watched scary movies? You never split up—ever.”
The stairs creaked as we made our ascent, Susan’s flashlight stabbing at the darkness and lighting our way. When we reached the top, we found ourselves in a small room that opened into a larger room to the right. To the left was a doorway tha
t opened into another room. A staircase extended upward in front of us.
“Where does that go?” Susan asked.
“Who knows? Maybe it’s—”
A solid thump and a muffled cry sounded from above, and we both jumped back and drew our weapons. My heart pounded in my chest. I glanced over at Susan. Her eyes were wide and her pistol trained on the door at the top of the stairs. I waved to her, got her attention. “I’m going up,” I whispered. “Cover me.”
Susan nodded, moving her pistol down so I could cross in front of her. As I passed her, she handed me her flashlight, and I aimed it up the staircase. I took the stairs one painstaking step at a time. My muscles were tense. My breathing was shallow. The thumping sound occurred at least twice more as I approached the door and tested the knob—it was locked. Taking a deep breath, I leaned back and shot a front kick that landed inches from the inside of the knob. The door crashed open. Slivers of splintered wood shot into the air. I rushed in, gun at the ready, and quickly scanned the room. When the flashlight swept the center of the otherwise empty attic, I gulped out loud. “What the hell?”
CHAPTER 38
“What’s going on?” Susan asked from below.
I rushed to the squirming figures wrapped in tarpaulins, dropping to my knees beside them. I put my pistol on the ground and whipped out my knife. “Susan, radio for Jack and William to get out here right away!”
“I don’t have my radio,” Susan hollered, stomping up the stairs. “You told me we were going dark ops or some shit!”
“Hold still,” I told the first figure, as I felt around to find what was holding the tarp in place. The flashlight had rolled to the other side of the attic and it was hard to see what I was doing. Whoever was inside was mumbling and struggling. “It’s the police…calm down.”
“Holy shit,” Susan said when she stepped into the room. “Is that—”
“Grab the light!” I indicated with my head. “It’s over in the corner.”
