Tell No Lies

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Cody resisted the urge to open his eyes.

  He was so thirsty . . . the rag in his mouth felt like a ball of fire. The water against his face felt good. The man nudged his chest with his boot and he stifled a whimper, his chest heaving. He kept his eyes closed, praying harder.

  Please, please, God . . . I’ll be good!

  The man said nothing, and Cody hoped that if he didn’t look, the man wouldn’t kill him. In the movies, the minute you saw the killer, you were a dead man. Cody didn’t want to be a dead man. He wanted to live.

  Desperately.

  He heard the sound of knuckles cracking as the wet puddle gathered around his face, cooling the fever in his cheek. Resisting the urge to sob, he lay thinking about his mama and his grandma and the pool in their backyard.

  Don’t worry, Mama. I’m real smart. Like Daddy.

  Cody had learned to swim in that pool. He could float on his back like an otter, his mom said.

  Against his will, Cody shivered as the man toed his chest again, nudging gently, as though he were inspecting him. Still he resisted the urge to open his eyes, focusing on his sister, Lila. He thought about her Barbie doll, the one he’d burned the hair off, and tried to recall how much money he had in his little piggy bank at home. His grandmother had given him the freckled pig with the sunglasses, and he’d thought it was a real dumb gift, until he’d begun to stick in the spare change he’d found lying around the house. He always made sure to ask first, and now maybe he had enough to buy Lila a new doll. She would like that, he thought. Maybe he had enough to get her two . . .

  “Thank you, Cody,” he heard her sweet voice say in his head. “Do you want to play dolls with me?”

  Next time, Cody would say yes.

  He would sit with her and enjoy it and he would talk his dad into showing him how to build a dollhouse for her—like the ones some people built with wooden furniture and shingles on the roof. Lila loved her dolls, and Cody wondered if that was because he wouldn’t play with her. He would from now on, he promised himself. He would even let her come and play with him and his friends if she wanted to and he wouldn’t complain when his mom asked him to watch over her. Now he understood . . . she needed watching over and he would never, ever let anyone steal her . . . like they had stolen him.

  He would keep her safe.

  Always.

  As soon as he got home.

  He saw himself removing his handcuff and ropes, tearing the tape from his mouth and getting up and walking home. It was probably a long ways through the plough mud with the smell of the marsh caked up in his nose.

  A little delirious from lack of food and water, he disappeared into his head for a while. When he came back out, he found his cheek swimming in stinky water. The puddle had worked its way down to the lower spot in the warped floor and the tape was getting wet on one side of his face. Slowly, he cracked his lid and found himself alone again, but he was uncertain how much time had passed.

  The sun was softer in the sky now, like it was late afternoon, and he wriggled into a more comfortable position, scraping a piece of the tape away from his cheek into the water.

  His heart kicked against his ribs in surprise.

  He wriggled his cheek a little harder and the tape loosened a little more.

  His heart beat even faster.

  Suddenly, he was like a mindless animal, working furiously to scrape the tape away from his blistering skin. Scraping his face into the puddle he rubbed until his skin was raw and finally the tape popped away and Cody spat the cloth out of his mouth, turning his lips into the puddle and lapping it up like a dog.

  Water, water, water!

  Yes! He was going to go home!

  Chapter 13

  It was more than a simple attraction. Ian realized that now. Despite everything going on, the taste of her lingered on his tongue. Every so often his memory zeroed in on the two of them lying in the sand, her legs wrapped around him. It had been all he could do to turn her away when he wanted more than anything to make love to her right there on the beach.

  Again.

  Despite the fact that he’d had sand chafing his ass for hours after the first time. She was one hell of a little seductress and it was a good thing she hadn’t come into his life while he wore the white collar. Or maybe it would have been exactly the thing to show him how unsuited he was to the life of a priest. But he knew that now. That was all that mattered.

  He’d gotten a call from Jack Shaw. He was on his way into the Lockwood station to pick up the paperwork to retrieve his car—a good sign, he thought. Maybe, finally, they had decided to spend their energy looking for the real killer.

  Inside the station, he asked after Shaw and was instructed to wait for the detective to come out and fetch him, which he did in his own sweet time, Ian noticed. When Shaw finally appeared, he looked haggard and far less presumptuous than he had during their last meeting.

  “Have a moment?”

  “Sure.” Ian stood, ready to follow. “As long as you aren’t still looking for ways to dress me in green. It’s not really my color.”

  Smiling without mirth, Shaw waved him down the hall, reassuring him, “In fact, you won’t be wearing any jumpsuits at this point,” he said, leading him down the hall.

  Ian followed. “Does that disappoint you?”

  Shaw didn’t bother to look at him, but said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe in the death penalty.”

  “Your employer does,” Ian suggested, referring to the state.

  “Let’s get to the point,” Shaw said, leading him into a tiny, airless office that Ian assumed belong to him.

  “Nice. You must be important,” Ian baited.

  Shaw eyed him pointedly. “Cut the crap before I decide to take my time about dropping these charges.”

  Ian sucked in a breath and sank down into one of the two chairs facing Shaw’s desk. “You’re dropping charges? No shit?” he asked. It wasn’t meant as a question. The fact nearly bowled him over. Shaw was watching him intently. “Wow,” Ian said, sobering, and scratched the back of his neck to hide the burn of tears in his eyes. He felt suddenly like a little girl, emotional as hell and ready to cry. He swallowed, crossing his hands, and peering down at his fingers, trying to regain control. He sat there like that for a good minute, and to his credit, Shaw allowed it, sharing the space with him but saying nothing.

  “I didn’t think you were guilty to begin with,” Shaw offered finally, when it was clear Ian wasn’t going to break down like a baby and bawl.

  Anything Ian might have said in response just didn’t seem appropriate. But he still couldn’t talk over the lump in his throat.

  “I need you to square up with me,” Shaw said, settling behind his desk. “I need you to tell me everything you know, Patterson—everything.”

  Ian nodded, regaining his composure.

  “Help me catch this guy,” he pleaded. “Before an innocent kid is killed.”

  Ian met his gaze straight-on. “Just tell me what you need me to do.”

  So much for working up the nerve to talk to Caroline—her sister wasn’t in her office. Apparently, she had met Jack for lunch and had yet to return to work.

  This was the first time Augusta had returned to the Tribune’s offices since the day she’d come in to do her inventory for the fund-raiser—the same day she’d found Ian’s name and information among her sister’s notes—notes that all pointed to his guilt. It was strange to walk in and see someone new at the reception desk that Pamela Baker had once manned.

  The gaudy chandelier was still hanging in the reception area, its massive bulk dangling from thick black iron chains. As beautiful as the ironwork appeared, the antebellum-era contraption gave her a sick feeling in her gut, because it reminded her of galley chains and irons clapped around the ankles of slaves. But it was simply a light fixture—a stupid, expensive one, but hardly worth getting upset over. When the time came, she’d have them haul it down and sell it to some wealthy banker with questi
onable political motives who might hang it above his private collection of fake Fabergé eggs.

  She was still standing there, peering up at the monstrosity, when Brad Bessett came up and stood beside her.

  “I heard the thing cost twenty-two thousand just to have it restored.”

  Augusta peered at him over her shoulder and sighed. “I wouldn’t doubt it.” But that was all she said. The fact that their mother hadn’t blinked an eye over such an extravagance, while asking her for fifty dollars was an ordeal, wasn’t any of his business. It wasn’t Augusta’s style to share her family’s dirty laundry. Ignoring it—as she did her own—was more her style. Proof of that fact was sitting in a heap in her closet. It was crazy that she was an heir to this legacy, yet she couldn’t bring herself to wear clean clothes.

  Realizing suddenly that as annoying as the guy was, he might be able to help her find out what she needed to know, she turned to face him. Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with Caroline?

  “Hey, it’s Brad, right?”

  A smile spread across his face, and he nodded, his hands immediately going into his pockets.

  “You’re exactly the person who can help me. How long have you been here?”

  His brows drew together. “Working?”

  Augusta resisted the urge to ask him if that was what he was doing. “Yeah. How long have you worked for the paper?”

  “Going on five years now,” he said, peering over at the receptionist, who got up suddenly.

  Augusta waited for the girl to leave before asking. “Yeah . . . so, maybe you can tell me if Jennifer Williams ever applied for a job here?”

  His face suddenly tightened. “Jennifer Williams? As in the missing girl?”

  Augusta nodded. “Yeah,” she said, watching his body language. His hands came out of his pockets, and he crossed his arms. “I got a tip that maybe she did.”

  He shook his head, but his lips thinned, as though the question perturbed him.

  Either he didn’t know. Or he did. Either way, Augusta knew how to handle him. She was a gifted middle child, after all, and knew how to play both sides. “You realize, if somehow the Tribune missed that bit of information, Caroline will see red,” she suggested. “You’re the investigating reporter, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said, clearly irritated now.

  “Then you would probably know, right?”

  He tipped his head back and cracked his knuckles. Augusta couldn’t tell if it was a nervous gesture or if he simply felt uncomfortable over having been caught with his pants down, so to speak. “I can look into it,” he offered.

  “Alright. Well, if you find out, let me know, please. I’ll let you be the one to share that bit of info with Caroline. I know what a pill my sister can be. Let me give you my number,” she offered, and dove into her purse for a pen and piece of paper. She walked over to the receptionist’s desk and scribbled her name and number on an old business card, then handed it to him as the receptionist returned.

  “Frank wants to see you in his office,” she said.

  “Me?” Brad asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “Thanks,” Augusta offered, and winked at him. “Just give me a ring when you figure it all out.”

  “I will,” he said, and left without another word.

  “Do you want to wait in Caroline’s office?” the receptionist asked.

  “Nah. I’ll catch up with her at home. Thanks,” she said, and turned away, indulging in a private smile. She had a feeling Brad would look into it at once. So now, with a second task accomplished, she set her sights on Sadie. Two down, one to go.

  Maybe she would have better luck this time.

  Some said the dead could not cross over water. So that’s where he put them, his flock of wayward souls, who in life had been nothing more than vessels filled with the putrid stench of hate and fear.

  He’d once read that all actions could be reduced to one of two motivations: fear or love. Killing might be construed as an act of fear or hate, but it wasn’t true, because he loved every member of his growing congregation. With their deaths, they had given him their greatest gift.

  And he returned it tenfold.

  They lay beneath the muck, earthly beauty preserved for the rest of eternity.

  The smell of decay hung in the air. Most would blame it on the plough mud—a ripe Lowcountry stew made of bacteria, water and organic matter decomposing in the muggy Southern climate.

  From experience he knew that if a body was submerged soon after death, the soft tissues—skin, hair and organs—were preserved. Here, the soil was so dense, and the thick mud held so little oxygen, it literally suffocated the life from the microorganisms that caused decay . . . in a way that was what he was doing, too . . . smothering disease . . . the same way Mother Nature did. But he was still perfecting his craft.

  He cast his fishing line out into the water and watched as the weighted bob landed nearly seventy-five feet out, radiating ripples that reflected the late-afternoon sun. Standing nearly knee-deep in the plough mud that caked his beige waders to his thighs, he lifted his boot as a matter of habit. It made a sucking sound as he shifted to a new spot, and he watched idly as the tide pooled into the cast of his leg, washing sediment into his prints until they began again to fill. He’d watched novice fishermen wait too long, and then struggle with the mud, sinking hip-deep before extricating themselves at last. But he knew exactly how far out to go. Knew precisely where not to step. He was so familiar with these salt marshes that he knew the tidal flats like the back of his hand.

  From here he could see for miles.

  He wondered what it must have been like in the old days, when you could see clear to downtown Charleston from the middle of the island, over miles and miles of white cotton fields that looked like snowy tundra in the middle of summer.

  Beyond that blanket of cotton lay black water.

  Not blue. But black.

  Certainly not that washed-out shade of blue that superstitious Southerners splashed on their shutters and porches to keep out the souls of the dead—souls tethered to the material world by forces of revenge.

  The mouth of the righteous brings forth wisdom, but the perverse tongue will be cut out.

  That’s what Proverbs ordained.

  The knife in his leg sheath itched to be used on something bigger than fish.

  There was still time.

  Maybe a good four or five more days.

  At the end of his line, he felt a tug and jerked the line to set the hook, then he reeled in his catch, the blood singing in his veins.

  Patience is a virtue.

  Chapter 14

  Spotting Sadie’s silver BMW in the driveway, Augusta veered toward her cottage instead of continuing on to the main house. The black iron gates closed automatically behind her as she turned down the drive and came to a crunchy halt in front of Sadie’s house. Luckily, Josh’s car was nowhere in sight. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with him today. They had grown apart. They were nothing alike anymore. He cherished his shiny Italian shoes far too much.

  Sadie’s home badly needed a coat of paint, and Augusta decided she would send the painters over when they were through with the main house—a gift from all three of them for everything Sadie had done since their mother’s death. It would be impossible to pay her back for everything she’d done for them throughout their lives. She was certain neither Caroline nor Savannah would protest the added cost to the project.

  On the other hand . . . Sadie was very particular about the shade of blue she used on her porch, shutters and door, so maybe she should send them over here first, and then use the same color on their own porch?

  In Hoodoo folk magic, water and sky were crossroads between heaven and earth, and therefore barriers between the living and the dead. Sadie strongly believed in the power of the dead. It was why she hated that old mirror in their house. She said it had seen far too many deaths.

  Outside her own home, she had constructed a bottle tree ma
de of dead red cedar. It was the real deal, with antique cobalt blue bottles of all types—old canning and medicine jars—nothing like the sculpted creations you might order from a Web site. Sadie’s Geechee roots were stronger than her accent. She used to say that when the wind blew past in the evenings, you could hear the moans of trapped spirits whistling on the breeze. Come morning the rising sun would burn them up, preventing them from coming in to steal the souls of the living.

  Not that Augusta believed in old haint superstitions, but the sight of the bottle tree comforted her somehow.

  On the porch, she recognized the cracked terra-cotta pot she’d painted for Sadie when she was nine. It was still intact after all these years—same crack, same place. How it had remained in one piece after all this time was a mystery. The only explanation Augusta had was that Sadie had cared for it lovingly. She and Josh had dropped it soon after painting it and they had reinforced the cracks with glue and then repainted it, but it could only have made it all these years if it had been cared for by a loving hand. She stood a long moment, lost in reverie, and Sadie answered the door before Augusta got the chance to knock, opening it wide.

  “Hey!” Augusta said, feeling suddenly awkward, despite their history together.

  Sadie lifted a brow and Augusta peered down at the purse in her hand. It could hardly have gone unnoticed that she hadn’t knocked on this door since she was seventeen. “You gonna stand there all day? Come on in, eah!” Turning her back to the door, Sadie wiped her hands on the dishcloth she was holding.

  Augusta followed her inside and back toward the kitchen, where they had an unimpeded view of the spartina flats from the kitchen window. The house sat far enough back from the water that Sadie didn’t have to worry about high tide, but she was still close enough that she could see the end of their dock. Seagulls and terns dotted the skyline. One year, there had been an osprey nest right outside the window.