Forever Road

by Catie Rhodes

  “I don’t know.” My chest was tight, like I needed to cry or scream. I dug in my pocket and got out my cigarettes. Despite the dire circumstances, Chase grinned when he saw them. “If it was your knife they found—with your prints all over it—you’re going to have a hard time proving you didn’t do it. So you better figure out who did kill Rae.”

  Chase looked the same way he did the day his mother’s dog got run over. His mouth worked, but he said nothing and turned away from me. The man has more of a flare for the dramatic than most women. It had probably fueled attraction between him and Rae.

  “Come on. Who did this? You spent more time with Rae than anybody else.” I gripped his arm and pulled him around to face me.

  The roar of glass pack mufflers interrupted me, so loud it drowned out anything else I said. I let go of Chase and turned to watch the car approach.

  It was an old GTO, restored and glossed to the nines. The white moon of the driver’s face turned to stare at Chase and me standing on the roadside. The engine gave a throaty roar as it picked up speed, and the taillights disappeared into the deepening twilight.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood up. Chase, wanted by the law, shouldn’t be out in the open. I started to suggest we go somewhere else, but Chase began talking as soon as the muffler’s roar faded.

  “Rae had another boyfriend.” He snorted at the expression on my face. “Come on. We were just, you know, partying together. It wasn’t true love. You saw her all beat up.” Chase frowned. “She wouldn’t say who did it, but I got my ideas.”

  “Did she say what instigated the beating?”

  “Instigated? Oh, no. She just kept saying everything was ruined.” Chase paced back and forth.

  Ruined. The drama level sounded about right. But what had Rae meant? She had needed money. She confirmed her pregnancy on Thursday. She might have tried to squeeze the baby’s father for money. Maybe he beat her. Then, Sunday morning, she asked me about the treasure. For her to be interested in such a long shot, she must have been desperate.

  “Do you know if she owed anybody money? Or needed money for something?”

  “Rae owed somebody money?” Chase shook his head. That was answer enough.

  “Well, who was the other boyfriend?” I asked. Even giving Deputy Turgeau someone other than Chase to investigate would help.

  “No clue. I saw them together once, didn’t know the guy. He wore a leather vest and cap. I never mentioned it to Rae because—”

  “She wasn’t the love of your life,” I finished for him.

  “Hell, Peri Jean, you don’t have to say it that way.” His mouth twisted. “You make it sound like I’m glad she’s dead.”

  “I know you’re not glad.” I paced too, massaging my temples. “Can you tell me anything that would help find this other boyfriend?”

  “He used to text message her all the time.” Chase shrugged. “She’d get all secretive and brush me off when one came in.”

  “So his number has to be on her cellphone.” Then, I remembered. “You know, her cellphone was ringing when I found her.”

  “If that nutsack who hit you did come back for something, it could have been the phone. ‘Cuz he knew his number was on it.” Chase resumed pacing.

  Numb disgust spread through me. Even though I had no idea if Rae’s cellphone had been found and taken into evidence, I knew in my gut Chase was right. The phone was gone. The camo man took it after he beat me up. The one easy out for Chase had dried up before I even knew about it.

  “Did she have an address book or a journal? Anything that might have his name in it?” I scanned the road for more cars. We needed to wrap this up. Anybody—including Sheriff Joey Fatbutt—could drive by and spot us.

  “No. But won’t the cops pull her cellphone records?” Chase had a sad, hopeful look on his face.

  “Rae had one of those pay-as-you-go phones you buy at the gas station. I know because I bought it for her. The sheriff’s office probably can’t even obtain her records.” I closed my eyes and ran my hands through my hair. Jeezum crow. These dead ends would send Chase to death row.

  “Sunday morning, after you left, Rae got a text message. Right after that, she wanted me to leave.” All that was visible of Chase was the glow of his cigarette. I couldn’t see the expression on his face, which would have told me a great deal more than his words.

  “She didn’t say what was up?”

  “Nope. She just said I had to go right then.” Chase dragged hard on his cigarette and crushed the butt under his work boot. Red embers flew up around his boot and went dark in an instant. “I saw who sent the text message.”

  My heart picked up speed. Why hadn’t he told me straight away? “So who was it?”

  “It was a nickname.” Chase blew out a long sigh. “Low Ryder.”

  Another ugly nickname. Maybe someone had killed her over those. Her code name for Chase had been John Holmes.

  “Wait a second. You said Low Rider? Like the song by War?” The first night Rae appeared to me popped into my memory. That night, the clock radio came on by itself and played that very song.

  “No,” Chase said. “All one word separated by a line and spelled with y.”

  I was out of ideas and told Chase so. Finding out this Low_Ryder character’s identity was key, but I didn’t know where to start.

  “They catch me, I’ll get the lethal injection.” Chase interrupted my train of thought.

  “You won’t either. Even if I have to help you escape the country.” My oldest friend was definitely not going to be convicted of a murder he didn’t commit.

  Chase pulled me into a hug. He stank of fear. I hugged him back, my memory replaying the highlights of our long relationship. He was both an albatross and a blessing. I considered mentioning Rae’s pregnancy but decided against it. If he didn’t know, he didn’t need to.

  “Listen to me.” I pulled back from Chase. “You stay out of sight. I’ll work on this. Call me if you think of anything that will help.” I gripped his shoulders and shook him. “Stop ignoring my calls.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Let’s just get in your car and drive.” He grabbed both my hands. “Start over somewhere. We could try again…you know, being together. Take that forever road.”

  Chase and I emerging from the ashes of our teenage romance as friends was a fluke. The fact our friendship survived our most recent attempt at romance tested fate. Chase couldn’t clean his life up for me or anybody else, and I wasn’t going to give my heart to a man who partied like a teenager. Hell, I could find a guy a lot younger than Chase if I wanted to settle for that.

  “You don’t want to spend the rest of your life hiding.” I hoped this response would divert the topic from Chase and I running away together. “And neither do I.”

  “You’re right.” Chase nodded. “We’ll save running away for a last resort.”

  He didn’t understand when I snorted laughter, and I suppose it was part of his charm. I hugged him again, and we said our goodbyes.

  As I drove the rest of the way to Memaw’s, I mulled over what little I knew. Low_Ryder. Rae’s quest for money. Her pregnancy. The rocking chair and the trunk from my vision. None of it tied together in a way that made sense.

  A few times, movement flickered in the seat beside me. I didn’t turn my head to look beside me because I knew it was Rae. A cold wave of horror crept over me and stayed for the trip’s duration. The idea of her never going away scared me.

  6

  Gaslight City dated back to the early days of Texas’s statehood. A great deal of effort was made to preserve the city’s older structures. The Chamber of Commerce played up the historic angle, selling it and tales of the Mace Treasure to tourists.

  Once a year, Gaslight City hosted an event called Heritage and History Week—better known by the residents as H & H Week. Events always ran the final week of October through the first weekend of November.

  Vi
sitors took candlelight tours of the historic homes, ghost tours, participated in mock treasure hunts, silent auctions, and perused classic car shows. At all these events, there would be many opportunities to spend money. The festivities culminated with a costume party and street dance in the downtown area on Saturday night.

  People came from all over the United States to revisit their roots or imagine having roots in East Texas, where the atmosphere was just as much the Deep South as it was Old West.

  As luck would have it, Rae had been murdered exactly one week before the kickoff of H & H Week. This was my busiest time of year. If things went right, I’d make more during this two-week period than I usually cleared in three months. Rae’s murder made it hard to concentrate on earning money I’d need and hustling the way I usually did.

  Tuesday morning, I had an early appointment to clean one of the town’s many bed and breakfasts. Afterward, I canvassed the downtown area and left a flyer advertising my services with every business owner who would take one.

  I purposefully planned my route so I’d end up in front of Dottie’s Burgers and Rings. Dottie served the crispiest onion rings I had ever eaten. By the time I headed down the alley leading to Dottie’s entrance, my stomach grumbled in anticipation. Just as I reached for the door, it opened in my face. I jumped out of the way.

  “Excuse me.”

  Deputy Dean Turgeau stepped onto the sidewalk. We hadn’t spoken since the day of Rae’s murder.

  “Hey.” In Dottie’s plate glass window, I watched my reflected face stretch into a big, stupid grin. The five days since Rae’s murder hadn’t changed the way Dean filled out his uniform. It never hurt to look, and when a man looked like Dean Turgeau, it might even be considered medicinal.

  Whatever reaction I expected from Dean was a far cry from the one I got. As soon as he realized it was me, the expectant smile faded off his face. His lips thinned, and his eyes narrowed. He shoved his hands in his pockets and completed his transformation with a scowl.

  “Ms. Mace.” Turgeau’s voice was downright icy. So much for the mild attraction I’d sensed the day of Rae’s murder. Now ain’t that a shame.

  “Is there a problem?” My tennis shoes scraped on the sidewalk. I shuffled foot-to-foot. Damn me for letting this guy intimidate me. We hadn’t even slept together.

  “A problem?” He barked out a hateful laugh and cupped his chin between his thumb and forefinger, pretending to think. After a beat, he widened his eyes. “I know! You didn’t tell me you and Chase Fischer were each other’s booty call.”

  “What?” I knew what he meant, but I didn’t understand why he was so upset about it. In a town the size of Gaslight City, people had histories.

  “Y’all were real hot and heavy lovers in high school. And you got insanely jealous when he broke up with you. Charged into the prom, shoved his date into a wall headfirst, and kicked her after she fell down. Lucky you didn’t do jail time for that.”

  Words failed me. That whole nasty scene was twelve years in the past. Losing my first love to my chief tormenter intensified my first taste of rejection. I reacted badly.

  “No snappy reply?” Turgeau’s grin was more like a grimace. “I’ve got more for you. You bailed Chase out of jail two years ago in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

  “It was just a public intoxication and a fight.”

  “Yeah, but it proves you’ve still got your old boyfriend’s back.” Turgeau loomed over me.

  “So what? Look, I can’t help it if you’re too obtuse to understand how Chase and I remained friends after our relationship didn’t work out.” I straightened my spine and stood my ground. Backing down was not an option. Chase and I had done nothing wrong by continuing our friendship after our teen romance crashed and burned. We’d been neighbors and friends long before we were lovers.

  “But did your relationship really end? The two of you went on vacation together summer before last.” Turgeau put his hands on his hips and cocked out his elbows like a rooster getting ready to attack.

  My mouth went dry, and my left eye twitched. Chase and I kept that trip quiet. Or so we thought. Our long relationship had evolved into a romance one last time. The vacation together proved it would never work. Chase’s issues with drugs and alcohol killed us. Turgeau’s knowing about it beslimed an already hurtful memory.

  “So here’s what I see.” His lips curved into a smirk. “You and your lover boy were on the skids. Your pretty, big-tittied cousin gets out of the pen and takes up residence in the back pasture. She and your lover boy get all hot and heavy. You get pissed. And everybody in this town knows what happens when you get pissed.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been overdosing on the Gaslight City rumor mill.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “If that’s what you think happened, why aren’t you questioning me officially?” I waited a beat, widened my eyes, and snapped my fingers. “Oh, is it because you have no proof of anything?”

  “Oh, there’s proof out there somewhere. I just need to find it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And, when I do, your ass is going away forever.”

  “Want some advice? Don’t believe everything those old men playing dominoes in there”—I pointed at Dottie’s— “tell you. They’re worse than a bunch of old women at a sewing circle. It’s just talk, Deputy. Don’t let rumors make a fool of you.”

  Turgeau’s tanned skin flushed to boiling red. “You wanna talk about gossip? Let’s do that. What’s this I hear about you seeing ghosts?” Turgeau raised his eyebrows. His gaze drifted over me, and his nostrils flared. “Is that real or is it just another excuse to feel sorry for yourself?”

  “Don’t mess with me, you braying jackass.” The air between us tightened. He’d gone to no man’s land, and I’d do the same. “That ugly mess of trouble you had back in Louisiana can become common knowledge here.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, you little freak.” Turgeau leaned into my face. Fury ate up the miniscule amount of self-control I possessed.

  “Get the hell out of my face!” My words echoed off the old brick buildings. People on the other side of Houston Street glanced at Turgeau and me standing too close together on the sidewalk yelling at each other. We each took a step backward.

  “Where is Chase?” Turgeau checked his watch.

  “Late for your ass-kissing session with Sheriff Holze?” I couldn’t quit. My pride smarted, and I wanted revenge. “You two are a hell of a pair—stupid is and stupid does.”

  Turgeau picked that moment to deliver the deathblow. “We found the knife Fischer used to murder your cousin. Her blood and his prints were all over the knife. If I can connect you to the murder, I’ve got a slam dunk.”

  Terror crawled over my skin, leaving an aftershock of goose bumps. I suspected the knife would have Chase’s prints on it. Having the worst-case scenario confirmed scared the life out of me.

  Dean watched me, drinking in my reaction. When he spoke, he sounded nice, like a guy who’d never call me a little freak. “Tell me where to find Chase, and I’ll help you all I can.”

  “I don’t know where he is.” Though I told the truth, I’d have never given Chase up to this puffed up pile of monkey vomit. “Please listen to me. Chase didn’t do this. You’re looking for a guy named Low_Ryder.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I could barely breathe, much less answer. I’d thrown my cards on the table, and Turgeau knew Chase and I had talked at some point in the last few days.

  “Listen to me, Ms. Mace.” Turgeau spoke so softly I barely heard him. He took a step closer, and the heat of his words warmed my face. “I know in my bones you’ve been in touch with Fischer. You may not have helped him kill your cousin. But if you’re helping him evade the law, you’re going to jail with him.”

  What I said next, I said way too loud. It started with an f and ended with you.

  Turgeau squared his shoulders, turned and marched away from me. I watched his cute little butt retreat, but the fear beating in my chest kept me from really enjoying it.
I peeked into the plate glass window of Dottie’s. A dozen sets of wide eyes watched me, waiting to see what crazy thing I did next. To hell with having a burger and rings. I turned away and walked the few blocks to my car.

  As I passed the museum, I heard the doors squeal open and slap shut. I tensed. Only one person was likely to come out of the museum to talk to me, and I didn’t want to talk to her.

  “Hey, Peri Jean!” Hannah’s shoes clattered on the walk behind me.

  I kept walking toward my Nova. Maybe she’d give up. We had nothing to say to each other. The sooner she understood that, the sooner we could both get on with our lives. Her hand closed around my arm. Reluctantly, I turned to face her.

  “Long time no see,” she said, smiling ear to ear. Hannah came back to town six months ago after a very public divorce from an MLB Hall of Famer. As the wife of a famous person, a small amount of fame rubbed off on her. She appeared in an issue of Sports Illustrated, had a walk-on part in a TV show, and even did a stint on the Home Shopping Network. Hannah’s life away from Gaslight City may have been impressive, but her return seemed less than victorious.

  Twenty years ago, we were best friends. When we were both eight years old, Hannah’s father died. I knew all about dead fathers and the way it made mothers distant. I tried extra hard to be a good friend to Hannah to keep her from being lonely.

  When her father’s ghost appeared to me, I knew what he was. But I didn’t understand it was taboo to see him and interact with him. He showed me where he’d hidden Hannah’s Christmas gifts. Hoping to cheer my friend, I told her where to find them. Hannah’s mother, who hadn’t known about the gifts, wanted to know how her daughter found them. Hannah told.

  I ended up in a children’s mental hospital where they tested me for schizophrenia. Memaw fought to get me released while my own mother did a great impression of a pile of shit. Hannah never spoke to me again after that day. Her mother moved them to Houston soon after. On their infrequent visits, her uncle—none other than Sheriff Joey Fatass—kept her sequestered. The times we met in public, Hannah wouldn’t even make eye contact with me.