Sacrificial Ground fc-1

by Thomas H. Cook

  Frank took the program and put it in his pocket.

  They were exactly where Jameson had said they would be, slouched around a large oak tree just outside the auditorium, two boys in white tennis outfits, and a girl in a white blouse and bright red shorts.

  Frank pulled out his badge as he stepped up to them.

  “You’ve all heard about Angelica Devereaux,” he said.

  The three students nodded and glanced apprehensively at each other.

  “Were all of you in the play with her?” Frank asked quietly.

  “Yes,” the girl said.

  Frank took out his notebook. “What is your name?”

  “Danielle Baxter.”

  Frank looked at the two boys. “And how about you?”

  “Philip Jeffers,” the taller boy said.

  “Aaron Shapiro,” said the other.

  “There were six people in the cast,” Frank said. “Where are the other two?”

  “Joanna’s in Europe for the summer,” Danielle said. “She’s spending it with her father.”

  “And Stan Doyle couldn’t do the summer show,” Aaron added.

  “Yeah,” Danielle said, “he had to take a summer job.” Her voice was almost mournful, as if no worse fate could be imagined.

  “I’m trying to find out as much as I can about Angelica,” Frank said. “And to tell you the truth, so far I haven’t been able to come up with very much.”

  Danielle nodded. “Yeah, well, she was sort of strange.”

  “In what way?”

  “She wasn’t friendly,” Philip said. “She wasn’t a joiner.”

  “She joined this cast,” Frank noted.

  “Well, that’s the only thing,” Danielle said, almost scornfully.

  “She wasn’t very well liked then?” Frank said.

  Aaron shrugged. “We’d probably have liked her if she’d given us half a chance,” he said defensively. “But it’s like Philip and Danielle said, she was sort of strange, and she didn’t really socialize very much.” He thought about it for a moment. “I don’t think she liked us very much. The kids at Northfield, I mean.”

  Philip laughed. “I mean, the way she looked, you can bet she would have been popular. Especially with the guys, right, Aaron?”

  “Yes,” Aaron said. He looked at Frank. “All the guys were hitting on her.”

  “Yeah, like crazy,” Danielle said. She smiled cunningly. “Even you, Philip.”

  Philip bristled slightly. “That was before Tina.”

  “How did she react to being hit on all the time?” Frank asked, trying to get them back on track.

  Aaron faked a shiver. “Brrrrrrr. She was a cold fish.”

  Philip sighed painfully. “Yeah. It was tragic, the chill she could put on you.”

  Danielle laughed self-consciously.

  Frank turned to her. “How did the girls feel about her?”

  “Maybe a little jealous at first,” Danielle admitted with some reluctance. “I mean, the way she looked, she was a sort of threat to everybody. Philip and Aaron are right, all the boys were hitting on her. But then, when she froze them out, she just sort of disappeared in our minds.”

  “Because she wasn’t a threat anymore,” Aaron said confidently. “Right, Danielle?”

  “I guess so,” Danielle said. “I guess that’s the way it was.”

  “Did she have any friends at the school?” Frank asked.

  “Not really,” Danielle said.

  “How about during the play?” Frank said. “Did she get close to anyone in the cast?”

  Almost simultaneously, the three students shook their heads.

  “When rehearsals were over,” Frank said, “didn’t the cast go out together?”

  “Sometimes,” Aaron said, “but not Angelica.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “She always left by herself,” Aaron said.

  “What about teachers?” Frank asked. “Was she friendly with any of them?”

  “No,” Danielle said. “She didn’t really talk in class.” She looked at the two boys. “Were her grades any good?”

  Aaron shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I never saw her name on the honor roll,” Philip added, “so I guess they couldn’t have been that great.”

  Frank could tell that the well was drying up, and that if he were going to find out anything about Angelica Devereaux, he would have to look outside the campus of Northfield Academy. Still, he decided to try one more question.

  “We have reason to believe that Angelica had a boyfriend of some kind,” he said curiously. “Any idea who that might have been?”

  The three faces stared back at him blankly.

  “Maybe a boy from college,” Frank added. “Somebody like that.”

  The blank stares remained in place.

  “Okay,” Frank said wearily. “If you think of anything that might help me, give me a call.” He gave each of the students one of his cards. Then he stepped back and looked at each of them pointedly. “I know that none of you was close to Angelica,” he said, “but remember that she was young, like you, and that she had her whole life ahead of her, like you do. Now she won’t get a chance to live that life, maybe even to turn into someone you would have liked better.” He stopped, and allowed his eyes to settle on them. “I need to find out why that chance was taken from her.”

  The three young faces softened somewhat, and for the first time, Frank thought he saw something other than the self-centeredness of youth in them: a little bit of sympathy, a little bit of fear.

  12

  It was almost noon by the time Frank reached the downtown headquarters, and the streets were already baking in the same unrelenting heat that had plagued the city for the last few days. The cool of the air-conditioned interior of the building swept over him soothingly as he entered it, and for a moment he wondered why he’d not been able to live the life of an office worker or junior executive, a calm, climate-controlled life in rooms where blood never dripped from the walls.

  The elevator door opened and Caleb walked out into the lobby. “I left a note on your desk, Frank,” he said.

  “What’d it say?”

  “Just to let you know where I was headed.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Toward Marietta. A little past the Chattahoochee.”

  “What for?”

  Caleb grabbed Frank’s upper arm and tugged him forward. “Come on along with me,” he said, “I’ll fill you in.” Frank had intended to go out to Karen’s to check Angelica’s room, but he let Caleb carry him along instead.

  Traffic was moving briskly on the northbound side of the expressway, and before long, even the faintest outline of the city had disappeared behind them.

  Caleb flung his arm out the window as he drove, and the rushing air flapped loudly in his sleeve.

  “Anybody ever mention to you whether or not Angelica had a car?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Turns out she did,” Caleb said. “But that’s getting a little ahead of things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, about an hour ago, I got a call from an old hometown buddy of mine,” Caleb said. “Name’s Luther Simpson. A regular good old boy. He moved to Atlanta about the same time I did. We was both just kids. I got hooked up with the police, and Luther, well, he took a different way altogether.”

  “What way was that?”

  “A life of crime, you might say,” Caleb told him. “Oh, nothing big-time or really that bad. Petty stuff. A whole yellow sheet of it wouldn’t add to much. We’re talking about a little bootleggin’, maybe some gambling on the side.” He looked at Frank. “Nowadays, he’s mostly a car cutter.”

  “Where does he do it?” Frank asked.

  “He don’t steal them, you understand,” Caleb said, “he just cuts them.”

  Frank nodded. “Out this way?”

  “About ten miles out,” Caleb said. He pressed down on the accelerator and the
car surged ahead. “He works for Dave Goggins. Goggins runs four or five cut operations. He’s been doing it for years. Everybody knows it, but nobody’s been able to nail him yet.” He stared about the steadily thickening countryside. “Sometimes I do think about getting back to the woods, Frank,” he said. “Just think how nice it would be to have a place out here.”

  Frank stared straight ahead. He could see a line of gently rolling hills in the distance and, beside their quiet beauty, the city did sometimes appear as little more than a steel and cement canker on the surface of the earth. Perhaps that was why Sarah had chosen to leave it behind, to take the very same road out of town and head toward the very same rolling hills that stretched before him now. They were calm, green, utterly silent. But as they grew larger as he approached them, they also seemed to take on an odd, stalking life. He could feel a puzzled rage building in him, squeezing his throat. He had felt it before, and it seemed little worse now than at those other times, when he’d relieved it with a long night in some grim, honky-tonk bar.

  “Well, Luther gave me a call about an hour ago,” Caleb said.

  “What for?”

  “Because he got a car in this morning that gave him a little scare.”

  The man who’d stumbled upon Sarah’s car had been scared too, Frank remembered. But by then the car hardly mattered. Sarah had been gone for days, and he’d already convinced himself of the worst, that she was dead, dead, dead, and that nothing could reclaim her. It was Alvin who’d finally come to tell him, his hat in his hand, standing glumly in the doorway: We found her, Frank. He had not needed to say another word, and Frank had only answered: Where?

  In those hills, he thought now, as they began to loom sullenly above him. He’d gotten into the car with Alvin, and sat silently for the short ride. Then he’d gotten out and staggered off into the woods, slowly at first, following Alvin, then more quickly, passing him and moving still more swiftly until he was running at full speed toward a place he had never seen and could not have known about, running so fast, plunging through the thick undergrowth so loudly that he could barely hear his brother struggling far behind him, and then could not hear him at all, but only the sound of his own body as it crashed through low-slung limbs, until, at last, he broke through the last of them and saw her in the little clearing, her body framed by the river, and rushed to her there, dropping to his knees, lost in a silence that seemed to last forever and that was broken only by the breathless, exhausted sound of Alvin’s voice: Sweet Jesus, Frank, how did you know she was here?

  “Just over the river, here,” Caleb said as the car nosed down a small hill and headed toward a narrow, concrete bridge. “That’s where Luther does the cutting.”

  Frank struggled to bring his attention back to the case. “What about the car, the one that’s bothering him?”

  “Well, Luther’d read about Angelica in the paper,” Caleb said. “And early this morning a red BMW comes in, and it’s got the initials LAD right on the dashboard, and inside the glove compartment, there’s a program of some play or something that was given at Northfield.”

  “So he thinks the car’s Angelica’s?” Frank asked.

  Caleb turned toward him. “Yeah,” he said. “And it turns out he’s right.”

  “Angelica had a car?”

  “Yes, she did,” Caleb said. “I called her sister. What’s her name?”

  “Karen.”

  “Yeah, Karen. She knew about it. She figures Angelica bought it with her new money.”

  “Why didn’t she report it missing?”

  “I guess she didn’t think about it,” Caleb said. “But I asked her to check the garage, and when she got back to me, she said the car was gone. That’s when I went back to Luther and got the serial numbers on the BMW. I ran them through the computer and it comes up owned by Angelica.” He gave the wheel a sharp turn to the left and the car headed off onto a dusty, unpaved road. “Cutters don’t exactly stay right on the beaten track,” he said.

  The car lurched forward down the winding road. Low-slung limbs slapped loudly against the windshield, and glancing in his mirror, Frank could see a long trail of dust as it wound behind like a furry orange tail.

  “Guess you haven’t been on roads like this since you left the piney woods, have you, Frank?” Caleb asked. He pressed the accelerator a little harder, and the car slammed loudly into an enormous pothole, then plowed out of it effortlessly.

  “I did a little dirt racing,” Frank said, “but we stuck to better roads for that.”

  “There was a few nights in those days, Frank, when I’m not sure we even bothered with a road.”

  Frank smiled, but his youth now seemed so far away that he felt as if it had been lived by someone else. “How far to this place?” he asked.

  “Maybe another mile or two,” Caleb said brightly. He slammed down into another hole, and a huge smile spread across his face. “God, I love this,” he said with a laugh.

  Frank closed his eyes for a moment, and felt himself go back involuntarily to the farm country of his youth. He remembered the clear, cold streams and granite cliffs, the long summer nights with Sheila beneath him, her back on the cool ground, her breath in his face, the moon above them like a kind, unsleeping eye. His mind shot forward and he saw Karen in the darkness before her house, her arms at her sides.

  “Yonder it is,” Caleb said.

  Frank opened his eyes. Through a wall of thick leaves he could see a large building. It was made of corrugated tin, and much of it had rusted over the years. Several cannibalized cars rested here and there in the surrounding brush and gave the woods the eerie appearance of a long-abandoned town.

  A man in gray work pants and a green khaki shirt walked out of the building as Caleb brought the car to a halt.

  “Howdy, Caleb,” he said as the two of them got out of the car.

  “Hey there, Luther,” Caleb said. The two of them shook hands. “This is my partner, Frank Clemons.”

  Luther offered his hand. “How you?”

  “Fine,” Frank said as he took it.

  “Me and old Luther here, we’ve seen some times,” Caleb said. He glanced at his friend. “You look like you’ve shed some weight since I saw you last.”

  “Must of gone right to you, then,” Luther said with a smile.

  Caleb rubbed his belly. “Well, what the hell. Like the song says, I ain’t built for speed.”

  “How’s Hilda?” Luther asked.

  “She’ll do,” Caleb said dryly. “Listen, Luther, I told Frank here about the car and everything. He’d like to take a look at it.”

  Luther nodded. “Like I said, the minute I thought this might have something to do with that girl, I called you right up.”

  “And we appreciate it, Luther,” Caleb said. “Ain’t that right, Frank?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “I don’t keep nothing from my partner, Luther,” Caleb said. “He knows you’ve not exactly walked the straight and narrow.”

  “But I ain’t never hurt a soul,” Luther said.

  “I told him that, too.”

  “Just so that’s all clear. Sometimes, the cops, you know, they just decide they want somebody, and they go get him. I’ve seen it happen, Caleb.”

  “Well, Frank’s not like that,” Caleb assured him. “Now, where’s that car?”

  “Well, if you say so,” Luther said. He slowly turned toward the building. “Come on, I got it in here.”

  The red BMW could be seen clearly at the back of the shed. It glowed like a bright fire among the other cars, somber late-model luxury automobiles in their conservative blacks and grays.

  “Minute I saw it, I got a little click in my mind,” Luther said as he stepped up to the car. “It came in early this morning, and I’d already read about that girl.” He walked over to the driver’s side and opened the door. “I started to look her over, and that’s when I saw them initials.” He pointed toward the dashboard. “See, right there.”

  Frank
leaned in. The LAD initials were gold-plated and they were attached to the leather dash.

  “Now me, I got girls of my own,” Luther said. “I wouldn’t have nothing to do with hurting somebody like this girl you found dead.” He looked at Caleb. “You know me better than that, don’t you, Caleb?”

  Caleb nodded. “When’d you say this car came in?”

  “’Round nine.”

  Frank pulled himself out of the car and took out his notebook. “You haven’t done anything to it, have you?”

  Luther laughed. “Shit, no. If I’d done something to this car, you’d know. This ain’t no car wash. We break them down to parts.”

  “We’ll send a tow truck for it, Luther,” Caleb told him.

  Luther nodded. “That’s what I figured. I already explained to the bossman. He don’t want nothing to do with it. He said, ‘sooner you take it, the better.’”

  Frank felt a strong urge to examine the car on the spot, turn it inside out, but he knew they could do a better job on it back at the garage. Instead, he took out his notebook. “Who brought it in, Luther?”

  Luther hesitated for a moment. “He ain’t a nice guy. Least that’s what I hear.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Big nigger. Into quite a few things. I hear he spread some queer around a little bit too much, and drew some time for that.”

  “We need a name, Luther,” Frank said. “We can find out about all the rest.”

  “He goes by the name of Davon Little,” Luther said. “Some folks call him Butt. He’s got a big ass on him.” He glanced at Caleb and laughed. “Like he’s toting a bale of hay.”

  “Been doing business with him long?” Caleb asked.

  “Over the years, he’s brought in nine or ten,” Luther said, “usually fancy, like this one. He usually joyrides them awhile, then just turns them over to a cutter.”

  “He didn’t joyride this one for very long,” Frank said.

  “Yeah, well, you know how it is, you kill a girl, you don’t want to keep her car.”

  “You got the keys?” Frank asked. “Or did he hot-wire it?”