“It had to be someone from town. No one wants to talk when it concerns the damn Scions.”
“I suppose not.”
They were silent again, and in the silence, she heard the river flowing behind the house. A flock of geese honked as they made their way south for the winter. A clock ticked, the sound coming from somewhere in the kitchen. Her head felt heavy. She struggled holding it up.
Parker sat on the coffee table in front of her, his forearms resting on the top of his thighs, his eyes full of concern. “Do you understand that you’re a key witness in my case? And that I’m going to have to take an official statement from you?”
“I understand, but there’s something else you need to know, something that happened this morning.” Her tongue was thick, clunky.
Parker continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “I can’t bury evidence. I can’t.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “It’s my job. I have to do my job. But I promise I’ll protect you. I promise I won’t let him hurt you.”
Outside, an engine rumbled.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Parker jumped up from the coffee table where he’d been sitting, knocked over Becca’s empty water glass. Someone had pulled into his driveway.
“Don’t move,” he said and darted into the bedroom. He walked back into the living room with his Glock in his hand.
Becca stared at him wide-eyed, her body curled against the back of his couch. Becca’s dog was on her feet, ears alert. Parker moved toward the window. He pushed the curtain aside with the tip of the barrel, peeked out. He didn’t recognize the vehicle parked outside his cabin.
There was a knock at the front door.
He put his finger to his lips, signaling Becca and her dog to stay quiet. Becca whispered to the dog to sit, stay.
Parker eased his way over to the door. “Who is it?” he asked, gripping the gun.
“It’s Rick Smith.”
He let out a sigh and lowered his weapon, opened the door.
Rick stepped inside, took one look at Parker and the gun, and said, “I gather you were expecting someone else?”
“Something like that,” Parker said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“That’s a first,” Rick said and gazed at Becca. He didn’t look surprised to find her on Parker’s couch.
Becca’s dog stood in front of her as though she was guarding her.
“Beautiful dog,” Rick said. “Do you mind if I pet him? Is he friendly?”
“She’s a girl. Her name is Romy,” Becca said.
Rick stuck out his hand. The dog sniffed his fingers and arm. She licked his palm. He knelt on one knee and scratched her chest and back.
“She’s a beauty,” Rick said. “I knew a couple of guys on the force in the canine unit who had German shepherds. I’ve always respected what these dogs can do.” He continued petting Romy, not making eye contact with Becca when he asked in a casual way, as though it wasn’t his intention to pry, although that was exactly what he was doing, “You’re Clint Kingsley’s daughter, right? I told you I was pretty sure we met before. I never forget a face, and you, my girl, haven’t changed since you were little.”
Becca glanced at Parker.
“It’s okay,” he said.
Rick looked back and forth between them.
“He should know,” Parker said.
“You mind telling me what’s going on?” Rick put his hand on the coffee table for support as he pulled himself up. His joints cracked and popped. He released a little groan, a sign of his years.
Becca’s eyes had closed; her head rested against the pillow.
“Follow me,” Parker said to Rick, leading him into the kitchen, where he had both river body cases opened and the files spread out in an organized mess.
Rick smiled. “It looks like someone’s been working hard,” he said. “And by the way, you look like hell.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Parker said, echoing the exact words Becca had used earlier on him.
He laid the Glock on the counter and cleared some of the papers. The two men sat at the table. Parker told him Becca’s version of the facts. While he filled Rick in on the details, he also jotted down notes, connecting the pieces of the puzzle of the cases as he went. There was still some information he didn’t have, like who the original witness was that Clint had interviewed and kept hidden.
“I’ll be damned,” Rick said when Parker had finished. “I really thought Russell was our guy back then. But I was right about Clint protecting someone, and she’s sitting right in there.” He pointed toward the living room, where Becca and her dog were resting. “It all makes sense now.”
“Yeah, except one thing. What was John Jackson’s motive?” Parker stood and started pacing, rubbing his hand over the top of his head. “This might sound crazy, and I know this guy is in deep with the Scions, but I think there’s more to it than a connection with this group. I think whatever happened, whatever his reason for killing those two men, was personal to this guy. Otherwise, why not just dump the bodies in the river? Why gut them? It seems like a really personal thing to do.”
“That, my friend, is what a forensic psychologist is for,” Rick said. “I’m more concerned with the physical evidence so we can put this guy away.”
Parker stopped pacing. “We lifted a partial print off one of the rounds that was in the clip. But it doesn’t look like this guy’s prints are in our system. Somehow, I doubt Clint or the other cops in town ever fingerprinted any of these guys.” He was already thinking about how he was going to go about getting a search warrant. He doubted any of the judges would be happy to be pulled away from their regular order of business to expedite his request. He would plead if he had to, but even a warrant to search the guy’s house, taking him in for questioning, wasn’t good enough. What he really needed was to put this guy behind bars as quickly as possible. It was the only way he was going to keep Becca safe.
Rick smiled his biggest smile yet. “Today is your lucky day,” he said and pulled a plastic bag from the inside pocket of his jacket.
“What’s that?” Parker asked.
Rick dropped the baggie onto the table in front of him. “That is a cup with John Jackson’s fingerprints.”
Parker picked up the bag and turned it over, looking at the cup and spoon inside. He recognized it as one of the cups the soup lady handed out at the farmers market. “How did you get this?” he asked.
“He threw it in the trash, and I just happened to pick it out.”
“How do you know it’s his?”
“Oh, it’s his. And it’s all perfectly legal.”
Parker picked up his cell phone from the counter. “Mara, I know you’re busy, but I need you to lift some fingerprints for me, ASAP. I think we found our match.”
She groaned, pretending to be annoyed, but she wasn’t, not really. She lived for this stuff. “Bring it,” she said.
“I’m on my way.” Parker hung up the phone. “I’m heading out,” he said to Rick. “With any luck, I’ll have an arrest warrant and this guy in custody in a few hours.”
“I’m coming with you,” Rick said.
Parker shook his head. “I need you to stay here with Becca. I don’t want you to let her out of your sight. Are you armed?”
Rick reached behind him where he kept a snub nose shoved in the waistband of his jeans. “Are you worried our guy might come after her?”
“Yes,” Parker said. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
“He won’t come after me,” Becca said.
Both men turned to find her standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Her face was drawn, her skin pale. She stared at the papers strewn about, her gaze stopping on the photos of the victims’ bodies that Parker had tossed onto the counter. He quickly picked them up and shoved them into a folder. It wasn’t something she needed to see.
“He won’t hurt me,” she said.
Parker exchanged a look with Rick.
“There’s something else you need to know,” she said. “I tried.” She paused. “I tried to tell you earlier.” Before either Parker or Rick could reply, she told them about the events of the morning that had led her straight to Parker’s place, how there was another body lying at the river’s edge.
“I don’t know whose bullet hit him, or if both did,” she said, shaking. “I dropped my dad’s gun on the way here.”
Parker was too stunned to move. But Rick had listened and jotted down everything Becca had said. It was only when her shoulders started to shake violently that Parker went to her and held her. He carried her back to the couch.
He smoothed the hair from her forehead as though she were a child. “I’ve got to call this in,” he said. He needed to get his team back out to the clearing and the river. “I promise you, I’m going to get this guy.”
She nodded, too exhausted to offer much else.
Rick walked into the living room. He handed Parker the Glock. Parker touched Rick’s arm, letting him know he trusted him to stay with her and protect her if necessary.
Rick nodded.
On Parker’s way out the door, he heard Becca say again, “He won’t hurt me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
John didn’t remember how he’d come to be sitting on the stool in the barn or how the traitor’s bloody clothes had ended up in a pile at his feet. He wondered where the bloody knife in his hand had come from. And then he heard a voice, a sweet, soft sound coming from outside the barn door, a little girl’s voice, Becca’s voice. She’d been calling the name Sheba. He turned toward her, seeing her pale face and large gray eyes. And then he heard the dogs, one growling and one cowering. And whatever place he’d gone to, a place where he’d lost track of events and time, he was pulled out of, ripped away, rescued by the little girl with the face of an angel.
“Rubes,” he called and yanked on the Doberman’s spiked collar, pulling him away from the puppy, commanding him to stay before scooping the little pup into his arms. “Is this your dog?” he asked her.
John walked out of the woods, stopped next to Hap’s hog. Hap must’ve parked it outside of John’s barn sometime earlier that morning. He touched the leather seat with his fingers, closed his eyes for a second. He thought about sitting on the bike, putting the rifle to his head, ending this once and for all.
Instead, he left the bike where it was and walked into the barn, setting the rifle down inside the door. He removed the sheath that held the hunting knife from his belt and dropped it onto the workbench. He went to the cabinet and pulled out one of his father’s clean white cloths and began wiping down the chopper. He took his time, polishing the chrome, removing all evidence of having ridden the bike in the last few days. While he worked, he mentally checked off a list of the things he had to do, losing himself in the preparation of chores, not allowing his thoughts to venture too far ahead or, more to the point, not allowing his mind to wander back.
When he finished polishing the chopper, he rolled it to the corner of the barn where it had sat after his father had passed. He covered it with the same drop cloths, careful not to let the dust and dirt get in. It was then he thought of his own motorcycle, wishing he’d ridden it one more time before tossing the keys to the prospect. In hindsight, he’d known he’d never see the bike again. Somewhere in his furthest thoughts, he’d known before he’d really known what action he would take, what he’d intended all along, how he wouldn’t be able to harm Becca after all. If only he’d come to the realization sooner. He hated himself for putting her through it.
He hated himself for what he’d done to Hap.
John picked up the rifle and slung it on his shoulder as he made his way back to the house. He set it down inside the door, pausing to look around. The place felt strange and wrong, as though he were a trespasser in his own home. The air had a peculiar energy, thick and uninviting. He listened for any sound, but there was nothing but the ghosts he’d been living with, the ones he’d carried for most of his adult life.
He made his way to the living room and picked up one of the few pictures he had of Beth. She’d been sitting on the porch of Sweeney’s Bar, her feet propped on the railing, reading a book, the same position he’d found her in when he’d first laid eyes on her. It was one of his favorite pictures of her, the serenity on her face as she gave herself over to the words on the page, the fearlessness of sitting outside a biker bar with something other than a drink or cigarette in her hand. What he liked most about the photo was how natural she’d looked, as opposed to the falseness often found in posed shots; how she’d been captured unaware that the picture had been taken at all. He wasn’t sure who had taken the photo, but it was Hap who had given it to him. “Which of these things doesn’t belong?” he’d asked John, referring to the book in Beth’s hands.
Now, John wondered if he was the one who didn’t belong, if he’d ever belonged to the club his father had loved above all else. But in the end, like it or not, it was all John had known.
He set Beth’s picture down and removed his leather cut, laid it on the table. He traced the patches with his fingertip, the symbols and colors signifying who and what he was. In one swift movement, he ripped them from the leather, feeling as though he were tearing out pieces of his own heart. He howled, the sound deep, primal, like an animal in pain. He tossed the torn patches next to the jacket.
John picked up the rifle and left the house then, walked outside a free man, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. The crisp air felt cool on his skin, the sun’s rays unable to touch the chill of autumn. He lit a fire in the fire pit and watched the flames flicker, the smoke staining the air black.
All around him the trees sprinkled a rainbow of leaves on the ground, the colors of autumn clear and sharp and beautiful. He took a deep breath of air and held it, storing it, wondered if there would ever come a time when his bones would become at once old and brittle and his mind soft, or if he’d remain forever unchanged. But whatever was waiting for him on the other side, he hoped he’d be able to remember what the mountain air had tasted like, the freshness of morning dew, the earthiness on his tongue, the scent of leaves. He tried to stow it away along with the images of the changing seasons—the new-leaf green of spring, the darker greens of summer, the vibrant colors of autumn, and the stark cold of winter.
How he loved them all.
He continued watching the fire burn. Somewhere behind him patrol cars surrounded his yard, car doors slammed, police officers swarmed his house. He strained to hear beyond the storm of law enforcement, listening hard for the sound of the river, yearning for the rapids to drown the noise in his mind. But it was as if the river itself had refused to grant his last wish, punishing him for what he’d done for having soiled her with his own hands, drowning him in her silence because of it.
He sat with his back against the barn, put the butt of the rifle on the ground between his legs. He thought of Becca again. He thought of her as a child, the one who had stepped into his barn, wide-eyed and trusting, frightened for her little dog’s life. And he thought about the woman she’d become, smart and kind and good, the same qualities he’d loved in his late wife, Beth.
But also, he was ashamed to admit, there was a second when she crossed his mind that he felt something close to rage, wanting nothing more than to return to the river with his rifle aimed at her chest, to blame her for all that had happened, to do what Hap had asked him to do.
But the anger was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it had come. Becca was the one, the only one, who had been innocent in all that had taken place. She had been the one to save him.
He ignored the detective who had started shouting for him to put the gun down, his voice nothing but white noise.
John was a man who lived his life outdoors. And he’d die that same man, on his own terms. He put the barrel under his chin. And pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
After the sun had set and the last rays had cast shadows across Parker’s woode
n floor, Rick’s phone went off. Becca sat up on the couch where she’d spent that last several hours sleeping, although she couldn’t say it had been a restful sleep. In her dreams she’d been running, looking over her shoulder, not knowing who or what was chasing her, but hearing her father calling, hearing the rush of the river rapids.
Rick walked out of the room. Then after a brief conversation, he returned. “That was Parker,” he said. “It’s over.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her arm. Romy stood at her side.
“Take me home,” she said.
Becca stepped through the door of her father’s house. She could barely remember having left it that morning; the hours in between stretched and blurred. The house was quiet, but she had the feeling she wasn’t alone.
“Jackie,” she called and walked into the kitchen. She didn’t get an answer.
Romy sat next to her dish. Becca fed her and refilled her water bowl. When she put the bag of dog food back into the lower cabinet, she heard someone walking around upstairs.
Slowly, she made her way up the steps. At the end of the hall, her father’s bedroom door stood open. As she approached, her chest tightened, and the pressure of something she’d not yet acknowledged pressed down on her shoulders. She had to force each foot in front of the other, but once she reached his bedroom and peered inside, she found it empty. The bed was stripped of comfort. The imprint on the mattress was the only evidence her father’s body had once rested there. The smell of something old and stale lingered. She went to the window and opened it. A gust of fresh air blew the curtains into the room, air that was meant for the lungs of the living. She felt lost, displaced, not knowing where she should go, what she should do next.
A loud thump came from the guest room, as though something heavy had been dropped on the floor. There was the sound of a zipper being opened or closed—which, she couldn’t be sure. She walked out of her father’s bedroom, leaving the window wide open, and stood inside the doorway of the guest room. Jackie was hunched over a suitcase next to a heaping pile of clothes.
River Bodies (Northampton County Book 1) Page 25
