by Erin Hayes
Jackson rested his briefcase on the arm of a chair, his expression grim. “This isn’t a parking ticket violation we’re dealing with. We’re talking homicide. Jim’s a sworn officer, he’s obligated to be on the side of the law.” He paused, and glanced at Kyra before continuing. “You don’t have any friends at the station anymore. Jim will have to recuse himself from this case if it goes any further.”
In the small, windowless interview room at the police station, Kyra sat beside her lawyer on a hard, brown plastic chair in front of a chrome-legged, laminate table. A vent fan in the corner of the room whirred as if it were breathing its last. The whole scenario smacked of a macabre dream from which she couldn’t escape. How could this be happening? It was surreal to think Brian was dead. She hadn’t even shed a tear for him, yet. She was too numb, too consumed with her own predicament.
She twisted her hands in her lap, half-ashamed of the warm blood that ran through them. Brian’s hands would never move again. She could still feel the heat of his skin when she’d interlaced her fingers with his at dinner a week ago. How could he be cold and lifeless, his eyes closed forever in their sockets, like retired parts on an obsolete machine? That’s all he’d ever believed he was, a cog in an evolutionary process that ended at death. A sob shuddered in Kyra’s throat.
The door opened and Jim walked in with Officer Romero. He adjusted his side-handle baton before seating himself across the table and nodding unsmilingly at the group.
“Kyra, I just want to remind you,” he began, “that you are here voluntarily, and you are free to leave at any time. Naturally, we’ve impounded your vehicle under the circumstances.”
“In other words,” said Jackson, “he’ll be taking notes for an unsigned statement.”
Jim shot Jackson a hostile look, and then directed his attention back to Kyra. “Can you tell me when you last saw Brian Ferguson alive?”
“Friday before last. And we talked on the phone a few days ago.”
“What did you talk about?”
Kyra stole a glance at Jackson. He gave a nod, and leaned back, twirling a pen between his fingers.
“Work, mostly ... I had just lost my job.”
“What was the tone of that conversation?”
Jackson leaned forward. “My client doesn’t have to answer that.”
“Did Brian have any enemies?”
Kyra shook her head. “Not that I know of.”
“Anyone who disliked him?”
Jackson tapped the tip of his pen on the table. “My client has already answered that question.”
Jim continued without acknowledging the interruption. “You admitted earlier that you and Brian Ferguson argued on the phone.” He let the accusation hang in the air for a moment. “So, to the best of your knowledge, you were the only person he was not on good terms with at the time of his death. Would that be a fair statement?”
Kyra looked questioningly over at Jackson.
“Don’t answer that, Ms. Williams.”
“Is there anything else at all you can think of that might help us with the investigation? Anyone we should talk to, perhaps?” Jim tilted his head, scratching at the stubble on his chin.
She could think of two strong possibilities. Hal? Soul Stalkers? But, nothing she said would help Brian now. It would only make her sound crazy. And she had to avoid that at all costs. She shook her head. “No.”
“Well then,” said Jackson, twisting his pen between his fingers. “If you have no further questions for my client, let’s wrap this up, detective.” He slid his chair back, and looked expectantly at Jim.
Before Jim could respond, a heavyset female officer opened the door, and beckoned to him with a pudgy finger. He strode over, and pulled something out of a bag she handed him. Kyra stared at the black, nylon duffle bag for a moment, trying to jog her memory. Jim stood at the door with his back to her, talking to the officer in hushed tones. After a few minutes, he sauntered back to the table and sat back down, a strange look on his face. “We impounded your rental vehicle for forensics.” He drummed his fingers on the duffel bag in his lap for a moment before fixing his gaze on Kyra. “One of our officers found this in the trunk.”
Her throat closed over in panic. Taggert’s bag. In one swift movement Jim unzipped it, extracted a Ziploc, and tossed it onto the desk. She stared at the plastic bag of dried out weed, blood pumping in her ears. Jim leaned back on two legs of his chair, one arm dangling over the back. “Marijuana,” he said, nodding. “Close to three ounces.”
Jackson sat stiffly in his chair, a stony look on his lined face. “Inadmissible. You didn’t have a warrant to search the trunk of my client’s vehicle.”
Jim shook his head slowly before looking up with an air of condescension. He let his chair back down on all four legs, his eyes dark and hard. “There was a body in the car. That gives me the right to tear that vehicle apart, with or without a lousy warrant.”
Jackson’s features realigned themselves like tempered steel. Kyra swallowed hard, her shallow breathing like a death rattle in her ears as she met his gaze. There can be no surprises down at the station.
Chapter Forty-Three
Kyra sat stiffly in the plastic chair, every muscle tense. Drugs. She’d been driving around with marijuana in the trunk of her rental car like some kind of two-bit dealer. She’d completely forgotten the duffel bag was in there. Three ounces of marijuana. Nausea gripped her. “I have to use the restroom,” she muttered, staggering to her feet.
Locked in a bathroom stall, she emptied her stomach, then closed the lid and sat down. She was lost in a maze where every turn led to destruction. Dangerously close to cracking, exactly what the Soul Stalkers were counting on. They were closing in like an invasive species, and if they couldn’t kill her, they would crush her mind to powder.
How was she going to explain the duffel bag? It would be like betraying Martina if she turned Taggert in. Maybe she could claim the bag was Brian’s. She studied the lock on the stall door. Had she really sunk this low to consider using him even in death?
If only there was a way to hit the rewind button and unravel this tangled mess. She pulled a few shaky breaths together, willing herself to stay focused. Coming up with a plausible explanation for how the drugs had ended up in her car was her first priority. The autopsy results would prove Brian hadn’t been using anything, but if she hinted the bag was his, it could buy her some time.
A few days earlier she wouldn’t have thought twice about turning Taggert in, but she felt protective of him now that his mother was missing. She owed Martina, even if it meant perjury. If Martina hadn’t talked her dad out of signing the commitment papers, she’d be in a psychiatric lockdown facility right now.
“Ms. Williams? Everything all right?”
Kyra jerked up, startled by the voice. How long had she been sitting here? She stood and unlocked the stall, her mind made up. It was too late for Brian, but Taggert had his whole life ahead of him. This was all wrong for so many different reasons, but she was Taggert’s only advocate.
“Coming, I’m … okay.” She dampened a paper towel, wiped the sweat from her forehead, and left the restroom.
Seated back in her chair in the interview room, Kyra looked hesitantly at Jackson. He nodded at her, and then threw Jim a steely look. “You have nothing you can charge my client with, detective. The drugs weren’t in her possession. That means your investigating officer’s first line of inquiry is to examine the link between the marijuana and the homicide.”
“I don’t need your help on police procedure,” Jim snapped, the knob in his throat bobbing up and down. “Your client’s been showing signs of extreme paranoia. A common side effect of a schedule-one drug. I’m gonna need to have her tested.”
Kyra gasped. “But ... Jim ...”
Jackson gave a dismissive wave of his hand and got to his feet, his long, suited frame overshadowing Jim’s hunched form. “I’ll discuss this in private with my client. In the meantime, detective, we’r
e going to leave you to do your job and find the bad guys.”
Jim stood abruptly. “You’ll be hearing from me,” he said, and stomped out.
“Be right back,” said Jackson, turning to Kyra. “I need a copy of the interview transcript.”
“He seems competent,” Kyra said numbly, staring after her lawyer.
“Marijuana,” her dad rasped.
“It wasn’t mine. I’ve never used drugs. That test will prove it.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t know it was in your car?” He paused for a moment and stared at her, a bewildered look on his face. “What if the scum who sold you that crap killed Brian? How does that make you feel?”
“Are you accusing me of lying?”
“I’m asking you. Put yourself in my shoes. If it wasn’t yours, whose was it?”
Kyra grimaced. She couldn’t trust him with the truth. “I have a hunch.”
He thumped the table with his fist and swore. “You can’t even give me a straightforward answer. I’m not playing along with your delusions anymore. You could be implicated in a murder, Kyra. A murder! I’m calling Dr. Brenner. We can still get you out of this mess if we agree to an in-house treatment program.”
His eyes, overcast and jumpy, penetrated hers. A wave of fear coursed through her. He was playing right into the will of the Soul Stalkers. She couldn’t trust anyone.
The door opened and Jackson strode back in. “Okay, that’s taken care of. Next, we need to make that unwanted surprise, which I told you not to hit me with, go away. Ever touched marijuana, Kyra?” he asked, sliding his paperwork into his briefcase.
“Never.”
“Any other illegal drug use, past or present?”
“Nothing,” she said, shaking her head.
“Excellent. We’ll arrange for a voluntary drug test on the way out. Hair samples will show several months of history. It’s unlikely the police will attempt to file possession charges after that. They’ll pursue it as a drug deal gone bad.”
Kyra fumbled with the clasp on her purse. “I had no idea ... Brian was dealing drugs.”
Jackson frowned. “Don’t say anything more in here. We’ll talk about this back at your house.”
Kyra nodded demurely and followed him out of the room. It wasn’t a lie as such, more of a seed that had to be planted. But she was fairly certain she’d just bought herself a one-way ticket to hell.
Chapter Forty-Four
Her throat tight with fear, Martina studied the strange car idling at the edge of the lake. After a gut-churning few minutes, the vehicle slowly pulled back out onto the road and drove off.
She backed away from the window and collapsed onto the bed. Probably just some kids making out. She rubbed her aching forehead and then tensed, her fingers half-tented over her eyes. Something inched into her peripheral vision. She lifted her head, her face tingling with apprehension. In the doorway, smirking and holding a McDonalds bag up like he’d just struck gold, stood Hal.
The breath in Martina’s throat chilled and slowed to a whooshing that seemed to empty out her lungs. After a long moment an involuntary gurgle came out through her lips.
“That all you got to say?” Hal narrowed his eyes at her and smashed his fist into the fast food bag with a loud pop. He hurled it at her, spilling the contents into her lap and onto the floor. Her stomach heaved as the whiff of cold grease reached her nostrils.
“Know what I hate most about you? That thankless look you wear all dang day.”
Trembling, Martina began picking fries out of the folds in her sweater and shoving then back into the soggy paper bag as best she could. “Thank you, Hal.”
“Ain’t that nice to hear.” He hitched up his lip in a cheap smile. “Now all of a sudden you wanna get along.”
“Did you bring me a drink?”
He rolled his lip at her. “It’s a long ride up to the lake.” He crossed the space between them and stood in front of her, thick arms folded tight across his chest. “You wouldn’t a wanted me going thirsty now, would you?”
Martina looked up at him, her heart knocking against her ribs. She shook her head, mentally preparing for his fist to connect. Her vision blurred. She swallowed her sour breath, wondering if his menacing, dark outline would be the last thing she remembered. He bent over her and she sealed her eyes tight and held still.
Her head jerked involuntarily as his hot breath tickled her ear. “I have a job for you,” he whispered. “Seeing as we’re getting along so good now.”
Terror tore into Martina’s mind. “I—”
Hal’s sweaty palm clamped across her lips.
“Shh. Don’t say nothin’ yet. You ain’t heard what I’m asking.” He released her and straightened up. “How ‘bout we go downstairs and get you a drink?”
Martina squinted at him in surprise. If he was going to kill her, why not here? Maybe he had a knife in the kitchen. She winced when he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet, a wild look in his eyes.
“Let’s go.”
Half-dragged, she shuffled across the floor, squished fries sticking to the underside of her tennis shoes. Her knees almost gave way when Hal forced her down the first few stairs, and she reached for the handrail to steady herself. “Wait! I’m dizzy.”
“Ain’t got forever.” Hal grabbed a fistful of her hair and shoved her in front of him. Disoriented, she tripped her way down the rest of the stairs and hugged the post at the bottom. Her eyes misted. This was the end. She was never going to see Taggert again. She was a dead woman walking. Hal unwrapped her arms and pulled her through a door into a tiny, dated kitchen. Her face felt wet in the damp, airless space, but she couldn’t tell if she was sweating or crying. She fought for breath, blackness closing in. Hal pushed her into a chair with a grunt. She dropped her head between her knees and took several deep breaths. After a few minutes, she heard a rustling sound, and then her head tipped violently backward.
“This’ll help.” Hal put a bottle to her lips and turned it up. Her eyes flooded. She coughed and jerked her head back up, her throat burning.
“That scotch kill the thirst?” Hal loomed over her, eyes flat. She stared at him, wordlessly, trying to make sense of what he wanted from her. He didn’t care if she was thirsty or not. Why give her a drink before he killed her?
Hal grinned and rapped his knuckles on her forehead. “I asked you a question. Nuthin' going on in there, or what?”
She tensed. He was dangerous when he mocked her. Any minute now, something would light him up and this time there would be no neighbors to hear her scream. Maybe he’d strangle her with his bare hands, or smash her head repeatedly into the floor. She glanced hesitantly around the tiny kitchen. Or slice her open with that knife she’d thought about earlier.
Waiting was worse than the pain could ever be. Better to get it over with than drag it out. Mustering all her remaining strength, she leaped up and made a dash for the door. Hal’s arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her like a giant tree root before she took three steps. Numbly, she waited for his hands to find her neck. Instead, he slammed her back down into her chair and snorted with laughter.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, watching her with an amused look in his eyes as he lit up.
A wave of despair passed through her. He wasn’t going to end this quickly. “What do you want, Hal?”
He smiled with one corner of his lips curled around the cigarette. “You do owe me somethin’ fer running off like you did.” He sat down on another chair and slung an arm over the back of it. “It’s simple. I wanna have a little talk with your rich trespasser friend, set the record straight on how I feel ’bout strangers tramping all over my property and making off with my money and my wife.”
“Leave her out of this, Hal. She has nothing to do with us.”
“You’re way too stupid to think all this up yourself. That rich broad put all this in your head.”
“Why would she agree to talk to you?”
“Because you’re gonna call and tell her you need to meet her at our place to pick up some more stuff. And this time when she’s tromping all over my property, I’ll be there to ram her designer heels down her skinny throat.”
“I won’t do it.”
Hal threw his cigarette butt on the floor and ground it out with the toe of his boot, watching her intently.
“It’s past your bedtime.” He stood and grabbed her arm. Leaning into her face, he rubbed the bristle on his chin slowly up and down her cheek. She pulled back but froze at a familiar click. The tip of Hal’s steel switchblade pressed into her windpipe.
“Sleep on it,” he hissed. “It’s her or Taggert.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Kyra watched Jackson Meier accelerate out of her driveway in his silver Mercedes CL600 coupe. Hiring the most expensive lawyer in her zip code wasn’t going to fix the kind of trouble she was in. She tossed aside a cushion and threw herself down on her couch. A plethora of voices swirled in her head.
You can’t win. Why keep fighting? There’s no use.
She was putting everyone around her in danger. The Soul Stalkers had killed once, they could do it again. They were brazen, unapologetic in their demands. Her thoughts flitted to the fuzzy photo she’d seen of Dr. Brenner’s wife on the Internet. Had Rhonda Brenner heard them clamoring the day she jumped from the bridge?
Kyra pulled out her phone and stared at the screen. Two messages from Taggert.
key under red bucket.
r u there yet?
She’d completely forgotten she’d promised to drive out to his house this evening and take a look around. But, that had been before ... Brian. She looked out her window, her heart beginning to hurt like it did every time her thoughts came back to the awful reality of what had happened. There was nothing she could do to turn back the clock for Brian. Maybe in some small way, she could appease her conscience by following through on her promise to Taggert. It was already dark. But, so what? They might come with an arrest warrant for her in the morning. Or, she could be dead herself by then. Tonight, she was free. Still breathing.
