Death Benefits

by Jennifer Becton

  “Oh, come on,” Calvin said with a combination of rage and sarcasm. “Does that ever work on anybody?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at him and winced at the cold expression in his eyes. Still, I managed to quip, “To tell you the truth, Calvin, I’m beginning to have my doubts about some of this stuff myself, but I really do want to try to help us find a way out of this.”

  Without anyone dying, I added mentally.

  “Yeah, yeah, don’t act like we’re in this together or that you’re here to help me. You ain’t here to help!”

  Well, he was right. I wasn’t here to help him. I was here to save Vincent’s life and to help the poor families of the deceased men and women whose bodies Calvin had wedged in the crematory building.

  We trudged on, and soon I was looking down into the pit.

  I sucked in a breath at what I saw, and all pretense of hostage negotiation flew out of my head.

  “What is this?” I asked.

  “What does it look like?”

  It looked like pure hell. Bodies in various stages of decay were piled one on top of the other, and their limbs were tangled together. I closed my eyes against the discolored flesh and the frozen faces that were somehow crying out for help even in death.

  “Mass grave,” I whispered.

  “And you are about to join them.”

  I stepped back involuntarily into Calvin’s rifle and looked at him over my shoulder. His eyes narrowed at me, and I thought it best to keep moving—keep him off balance as much as I could—so I began to walk around the edge of the pit, trying to get him to think of something other than shooting me and dropping me into the hole.

  “You didn’t kill all these people, did you, Calvin?” I asked, and then rushed to answer for him. “I know you didn’t. I saw the crematory.”

  “Hell, no, I never wanted to kill no one or nothing,” Calvin said, turning me so I could look him in the eye, as if he wanted me to understand. “The only killing I ever did was because he forced me to.”

  I remained silent for a moment and then asked, “Who? Who forced you to kill?”

  “Daddy,” he admitted, surprising me.

  “Your father made you kill these people?”

  His eyebrows dropped menacingly. “I didn’t kill these people.”

  “But you have killed before?” I thought of the knife in his belt line and the surgical precision of the wound that had killed Theo. Calvin had trained as a mortician. Maybe he wasn’t the best embalmer, or maybe Morton underestimated his skill, but clearly, he knew how to exsanguinate a person with one cut. “You killed Theo Vanderbilt.”

  “I had to.”

  “Why?”

  “My daddy would have found out the secret, and I couldn’t have that. It was better to do it this way, protect the secret.”

  “About the broken crematory?” I asked. “And the bodies? What happened to start all this? The crematory looks like it’s in pretty bad shape. How did it get into that condition?”

  “The crematory hasn’t run in two months,” he said. “I figured I could fix it, so I just stored the bodies until I could order the parts. At first. Then, I had to give the families something. So I gave them campfire ashes, cement, whatever I could find.”

  “It sounds like you’ve had a hard road,” I said, moving again, but this time facing him. “But I can help you out of it.”

  “No, I don’t want help. I can do this myself.”

  I did not like the way Calvin’s face was beginning to contort into a sneer. “Why don’t you just put the rifle away?” I suggested. “You don’t like it anyway, and besides, it sounds like you can resolve this with your father.”

  “Oh, I’ll put the rifle away,” he said, “but I don’t think you’ll like my knife any better.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” Calvin’s voice was resigned, and the sound sent fear pricking up my spine. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stall him much longer. “I’ve never had a choice. I have to kill. I’ve been surrounded by death since I was a kid.”

  He appeared to be about to wax poetic about his childhood and give me some sob story about how he’d turned into a psycho killer, and, frankly, I didn’t give a good goddamn.

  Time slowed down as I reached forward with my left hand, pushing the barrel of the rifle away from my chest and grabbing Calvin around the back of the neck with my right hand. I raised my knee to his abdomen and yanked his head down as hard as I could.

  I had landed a few good blows with my knee, hoping it was enough to lay him out, when I felt the rifle fly from my grip, and suddenly Calvin’s hands were on my throat.

  Tears leapt to my eyes as he crushed my windpipe, and my hands scrabbled at his, trying to find purchase so that I could tear him off me. I tried to use my knee to drive him backward, but soon breathing became impossible, and the world began to dissolve into a tiny pinprick of light.

  I felt Calvin turn me in his arms, sparing me momentarily, and I gasped for air as I felt the knife come to my throat.

  I could feel blood dripping from my neck now, and I was sure I was going to die.

  With one last burst of energy, my hands grasped at the knife, and I threw my weight forward, trying to unbalance Calvin enough to gain some sort of advantage.

  And suddenly, Calvin dropped like a sack of grain.

  Totally shocked, my hands flew to my throat, and I knew my eyes were wild as I turned to look at the dead man. He’d fallen in a heap beside the mass grave he created, and his head was turned as if he were staring down at the bodies he’d collected.

  But Calvin saw nothing now; the bullet had landed between his eyes, leaving them completely sightless.

  I knew Calvin Ivey was well and truly dead, but my momma didn’t raise no fool. I pulled the knife from his unresisting grip and picked up the rifle from the leaves where it had fallen in the struggle.

  Only then did I look around for the shooter. Had the Cranford Sheriff’s Department arrived and found us? Did they have a sniper in the department?

  Who shot Calvin?

  Then I saw movement in the underbrush and heard a rough voice say, “Here.”

  And in the next heartbeat, I was running through the brush toward Vincent.

  Before I reached him, I heard the sirens of the sheriff’s cars, and they were a sweet sound to my ears. I threw myself onto the ground beside Vincent. He was lying prone on his stomach, his Sig clutched in his left hand.

  “Can you turn over?” I asked hoarsely and then helped him roll to his back.

  He looked like hell. The wound on his right shoulder was bleeding more heavily now, and his face and lips were turning blue.

  Even though I’d just heard the sirens, they didn’t know about Vincent’s condition, didn’t know we needed an ambulance. So I grabbed for my cell phone and dialed 911. “Officer down,” I shouted into the operator’s ear. I calmed enough to identify myself to the dispatcher and provided my location. The operator assured me that EMS would be on the property within minutes.

  After disconnecting, I tried desperately to staunch the blood flowing from Vincent’s shoulder. My hands were coated in blood—probably some of mine and some of Vincent’s—but I needed something to absorb it and keep pressure on the wound. So I yanked my new sweater over my head, pressed the woven cloth into his shoulder, and held it there.

  “Listen to me, Mark,” I said as I leaned onto his wound. “You’re going to be okay. The paramedics are coming. The sheriff’s department is already here. I heard the sirens.”

  Honestly, I don’t know what I said after that, but I’m fairly sure it was a tight race between thanking him for saving my life and chastising him for dragging himself off that driveway.

  Soon the EMS crew appeared all around me, trying to remove my hands from the sweater on Vincent’s shoulder, pushing me aside. “Okay, ma’am, we’ll take it from here,” I heard a female paramedic say, but I never looked at her. I felt her hands
taking over my place on the wound.

  Then she said to Vincent, “Sir, can you hear me?”

  He groaned in response.

  And even though the EMS personnel were huddled around him, Vincent was looking only toward me, his blue eyes hazy and seemingly unfocused.

  “Tell me what happened,” a male paramedic said, breaking my eye contact with Vincent.

  “Shot once. Clean through, I think,” I said. “He can’t breathe.”

  “Collapsed lung,” the female said, followed by a string of medical jargon I didn’t catch. “What about you?” she asked me. “You’re bruised and bleeding.”

  I touched my neck and discovered she was right. “I’m fine,” I said even though my throat was burning. “Take care of him first.” I directed my attention back to Vincent. “You idiot,” I said gently to him. “You came all the way out here with a collapsed lung. What were you thinking?”

  Of course, I was probably an even bigger idiot for trying to lead a sniper into the woods and away from Vincent in the first place.

  Despite the oxygen mask the paramedics had placed over his nose and mouth, Vincent managed to give me a strong look and say, “Totally worth it.”

  I smiled. “To me too.”

  “Ma’am,” the male paramedic said, “please step back and let us work.”

  That’s when I realized I was still leaning over Vincent with just my white lace camisole to cover my upper body. It was a modest fit, and no more revealing than a tank top, but still, I blushed as I stood.

  I crossed my arms in front of me and looked back down to see Vincent still watching me.

  “But now you owe me a sweater,” I said to his prone form. “And a meal.”

  I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure Vincent said, “Done.”

  Thirty-one

  “Hello, ladies,” Tripp said as he sauntered through the door of Tricia’s hospital room a few days later. He was still dressed in his work clothes—suit and loosened tie—and as usual, his presence alone seemed to ignite the hormones of all the women in the room.

  No matter their age.

  Me included. But only a little.

  I may not think of him in a romantic sense anymore, but I’m not dead.

  Two out of three of us jumped up to greet him, and my mother reached him first, throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek with a loud, motherly smack. She was just wiping the pink lipstick from his skin when Tricia rasped, “Tripp Carver!” from her place on the bed.

  I gave him a quick hug to gain a measure of comfort from his physical presence, but not long enough to savor the scent of his woodsy cologne.

  I swear.

  “Hey, Jules,” he said softly in my ear as he stepped back, pulled one rose out of the bouquet he held, and handed it to me. “You doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking the rose and holding it close to my face so I could inhale its delicate scent. “Thanks for coming by and for the flower.”

  Then Tripp strode across the room with great ceremony and presented the rest of the bouquet of fresh yellow roses to Tricia. My sister giggled, and my mother took the flowers from his hand even before Tricia had a moment to enjoy them.

  “These are beautiful,” my mother said, burying her nose in the blooms and sighing as if they’d been meant for her all along. “Thank you, Tripp. You were always such a good boy, weren’t you?”

  He winked at her. “Well, that’s what I wanted my girlfriends’ mothers to believe, anyway.”

  Now it was my mother who was reduced to giggles, and I rolled my eyes. Tripp was a good boy, and more than once I’d felt guilty for risking his reputation by pulling him into my personal investigation of Tricia’s rape.

  Of course, it was a bit late for that kind of thinking, given that I’d stolen evidence and already asked Tripp to use his influence in Orr County.

  Still, I would never forgive myself if he were somehow implicated in any of my less-than-perfectly-legal decisions. But Tripp hadn’t done anything even slightly unlawful.

  “Oh, now we all know that’s not true,” my mother said as she unwrapped the bouquet and began arranging the flowers in an unused hospital water pitcher.

  At first I wondered if she had somehow read my mind, but then I realized she was still talking about the past. As usual.

  Tripp grinned, but instead of responding, he perched on the edge of Tricia’s bed and gave her a little squeeze on the shoulder. “What did you do to land in here?” he asked.

  “I just took a tumble down a little staircase. I can’t believe it ended up with all this fuss,” she said as she gestured around the room, ending on the IV bag of detox drugs that was still properly inserted in her vein and taped down. “I had surgery.”

  “Then you’ll be out of here in no time, so you might as well enjoy the attention while you’ve got it,” Tripp said. “You’ve got a whole hospital full of doctors and nurses at your beck and call. Have fun with it.”

  “Great,” I said, giving him a gentle shove with my foot from my place in the recliner beside the bed. “Leave it to you to encourage her. Fortunately for everyone involved, Tricia’s being discharged today.”

  And she had been fortunate in sorting out her enormous medical bills. Apparently, a social worker had connected her with a private charity that helped people just like Tricia.

  At least that was one less thing for our family to worry about.

  My mother finished arranging the flowers and also took a seat on Tricia’s bed, again leaving me with the impression of a pleasant family scene.

  And if I’d made a few different decisions—like not stealing evidence—this could very well have been a family scene. Tripp and I might have married.

  But there was no use thinking about that. I couldn’t change the past, and I didn’t really want to change it. Still, I decided to let myself enjoy the moment. I closed my eyes and just listened as the three of them talked.

  If it couldn’t be a family scene, at least it was a hopeful scene. My sister was clean, and she was leaving with a prescription to help her through the rest of the transition to sobriety.

  Feeling peaceful and secure for the first time in a while, I dozed off in the chair.

  Hey, I still had a concussion and, added to that, stitches in the small knife wound on my neck. I was allowed to catnap, right?

  When I woke up sometime later, I found my mother gone, my sister dozing too, and Tripp watching TV.

  “What are we watching?” I asked groggily.

  “Nothing good,” Tripp said. “Can I have a word outside? I have news.”

  At that, I reached out for Tripp’s arm and let him pull me into the hallway. “There’s news?” I asked, trying to keep the desperate hope from my voice.

  “Yeah.” Tripp let out a breath. “Atkins gave us the name.”

  Holy crap, I thought.

  I was about to learn the name of the man who had raped my sister. Right here in the middle of the hospital hallway.

  My heart began to beat faster, and inexplicably, my eyes filled with tears. I held them back and looked up at Tripp. “Okay, let’s have it.”

  “Before I tell you,” Tripp said earnestly, “you’ve got to promise that you’re not going to do anything crazy.”

  I frowned at him. “Of course I’m not going to do anything crazy. I’m doing everything by the book.”

  Mostly.

  At least from here on out.

  He frowned at me in return, and I figured he had probably guessed my thoughts, but he handed me the envelope he’d been holding under his left arm.

  I reached for it with a shaking hand.

  Here was the end of my life’s work—or at least the beginning of the end. Right here in this manila envelope.

  How strange that the goals of a lifetime could be so neatly and efficiently packaged.

  Unable to prevent myself, I immediately opened the envelope and reached inside, where I found a copy of a police record.

  “You g
ot a copy of the file for me?” I asked, surprised. Tripp was always so honorable. I wasn’t technically supposed to have this.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I figured it was okay because you’re a state LEO. Besides, you could just find a way to get it yourself. It’s not like I’m giving you anything you couldn’t get on your own.”

  I stared at him. What he said was true. I would have found a way to access this information through my DOI connections. It wouldn’t have been ethical exactly, since the suspect was not involved in any DOI investigations, but this method involving Tripp wasn’t exactly ethical either.

  And I hated that.

  “Thank you,” I said. “But are you sure you want to give this to me? Maybe you should just tell me his name.”

  He studied me for a long moment.

  “Look, don’t get too excited over this,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair. “There’s not much in there. We don’t even have an address on the guy, and most of what is there is based on your sister’s file, which you already know, and the assault, which you also already know about. A public records request will get you basically what’s in that file. My conscience is clean enough.”

  I nodded, figuring if he was okay with it, so was I.

  “But there’s a name?” I asked, not caring about the scarcity of the information at the moment. If I had a name, I was one step closer to locating Tricia’s rapist.

  And once I located him….

  “Yeah, there’s a name: Clayton Leslie Slidell.”

  Just hearing the name, a rush of adrenaline washed through me.

  No, I had no idea who the guy was. He wasn’t some big name in the state or anyone important. He was a nobody. But he was now a nobody with a name.

  “You shouldn’t really thank me,” Tripp said.

  Through my adrenaline haze, I blinked at him.

  “What?” I asked, frowning. “Of course I should thank you. You worked with the prosecuting attorney about the plea deal.”

  “Yeah, I did, but he was resistant, and I was just as surprised as you were to find that the deal had been made.”