Dead Giveaway yrm-3

by Leann Sweeney

  "The place?" I said, confused.

  "Verna Mae's storage unit. In Houston. I'm on my way there."

  "Can I meet you?" I asked.

  "Sure." After he gave me the address, I hung up and looked at Mrs. Rankin. "Thanks for talking to me. I know it wasn't easy."

  "Can you find your way out?" she asked.

  "No problem," I answered.

  As I hurried to my car, I was willing to bet Sara had left home to hide a pregnancy and gave birth, maybe in that Mexican village. Was Mrs. Rankin telling the truth? Or did Sara's parents guess the real reason she left? They might have made up the mission trip story and the mysterious fall to keep the church from learning the truth about their daughter's sin— and they surely would have considered her behavior a sin. Maybe they hoped Sara would return after time passed—their "lost child" miraculously found. But then a real tragedy occurred—teenage pregnancies can be dangerous, and Sara could have died in childbirth. The Rankins found out somehow and left the baby with Verna Mae.

  Then I thought of another scenario. Jessica Roman could have been Will's mother and was lying through her teeth today, thinking she could get busted for abandoning a child.

  You don't know enough to be sure of anything, I thought, as I climbed into my Camry. I pulled out of the parking lot hoping that storage unit would yield something to tie everything together. I needed more than wild guesses.

  21

  The address Burl gave me was off the toll road that Jeff mentioned Verna Mae traveled every week. Had the storage facility been her regular destination? Would Burl and I find some important truth hidden there?

  My heart was thudding against my chest as I made a conscious effort to stay within the speed limit. The last thing I wanted was to be delayed by a ticket. With it being past nine p.m. on a Sunday night, the highways were deserted. Burl thought he'd be arriving about nine-thirty, but I knew I'd get there before him.

  Indeed, I arrived at the U-Store-It at nine-twenty, just as my cell phone rang. It was Burl. He was tied up in traffic thanks to a major accident on the Baytown Bridge. He told me I could wait in my car until he arrived, or go on home and he'd let me know what he'd found tomorrow. Yeah, right. Like I would do that.

  He had no idea I had copies of those keys to unit B-109—the number I remembered from the tag—and since I was as fidgety as a zoo animal at feeding time, I had to use them.

  I got out of my car and bypassed the card swipe– equipped barrier, a wooden arm blocking a direct drive-in route to the rows of storage units. Instead, I used the key similar to a house key and opened a tall iron gate.

  I soon learned the B row was at the end of the A row to my far right. As I walked toward the B units, doubts began to creep in. Burl would play this by the book, which meant he'd want a warrant or the manager out here. In fact, he might have a warrant in hand and a manager on the way to meet us.

  Damn. I'd been chasing cookie crumbs for days and I knew in my gut this place was important. I wouldn't let a traffic jam make me wait while I chewed my fingernails down to the quick, not when I could be in and out before Burl knew the difference.

  The front entrance had been well lit, and though each unit was supplied with a halogen light over its wide door, the farther back I walked, the darker it seemed. Hurricane fencing ran behind all the units at the edge of the property, but it wasn't tall enough to keep anyone out. Heck, I could have crawled over if I wanted to risk scratches and bug bites from the overgrown weeds. Could be an electric fence, though, or one that triggered an alarm.

  I finally reached B-109 and used the hem of my shirt to hold onto the padlock securing the door, not wanting to destroy any prints that might belong to someone other than Verna Mae.

  I keyed the lock, and the padlock snapped open. I slid open the door, and a blast of air-conditioning hit me as I peered into the darkness, the halogen light worthless since it was mounted to illuminate the driveway. I used the small flashlight on my key chain to hunt for a light switch. If there was air-conditioning, there was electricity. I focused my light on the left wall and saw what I was looking for. I flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

  Great. No lights.

  I swept my meager tool from left to right, and even with such little light, what I saw raised chill bumps on my arms.

  "Damn," I whispered. The whole place had been set up as a shrine to Will.

  On a small low table near the back wall sat Will's high school graduation picture. I went there first and squatted in front of the table, saw that the photo was flanked by candles... and so much more. To the left were snapshots of Will as an infant, held by a smiling Verna Mae. Definitely the same baby I'd seen in Verna Mae's albums before they disappeared. The blanket he was wrapped in grabbed my attention, too. I didn't need to see the POSH PRAMS label to know I had taken a picture of this blanket and had held its twin at Marjorie McGrady's house. To the right were photos of Will holding a baseball bat, playing basketball as a teenager, and the most recent of him in his UT basketball uniform.

  When I started to get up, I noticed the velvet kneeling rail along the front of the table, the kind you see in church. A whole platoon of goose bumps climbed my neck this time. Verna Mae Olsen had more than a few spokes missing from her wheels. Did she come here and pray in front of this altar she'd made? Make the trip week after week for the last nineteen years?

  I tried to ignore the sick feeling in my stomach and swept my light to the right and saw another set of framed pictures on a small covered table. I stepped over there. The large one in the center was Sara Rankin dressed in a white ball gown—the kind Mardi Gras princesses and debutantes wear. Her unsmiling expression made me think she might also have had on barbed wire underwear. I could think of only one reason Verna Mae Olsen had that picture here in the Church of Will Knight.

  The photo next to it interested me, too. I picked up the framed picture and held my light directly over it, squinting in thought. Two women, one of them a much younger, trimmer Verna Mae than the one I'd met. She had her arm around a teenage girl about her same age. A sister or a friend, or—

  I heard a muffled voice behind me say, "Thanks."

  "Burl," I said, whirling, my face already heating up with embarrassment.

  Uh-oh. Not Burl.

  The man was dressed in black, his face hidden by a ski mask. I stepped back, wishing I could melt through the wall like a ghost.

  "Turn back around the way you were," whispered the man. A harsh stage whisper. Nasty voice. However, the gun he held offered far better incentive for me to do as I was told.

  I moved slowly, my legs rubbery and reluctant to comply. I hung on to my puny flashlight and keys while thinking about the gun I'd left in my glove compartment. Man, I could use that .38 about now.

  If he got close enough, I could use a key to gouge this guy's eyes—but he was breathing down my neck before I even finished the thought. He wrapped a forearm around my chest, his gun hand and weapon crushing into my left shoulder. He quickly snatched my keychain and light and tossed them away, then yanked my hands behind me. I felt plastic cuffs being snapped on.

  The adrenaline had kicked in, that all-over shaky feeling like after I've avoided a major collision. Except I'd avoided nothing. I was in a wild bull's pasture without a tree.

  "Down on your knees," he said.

  My stomach tightened, and the image of Verna Mae's battered face flashed through my mind. This was her killer. My turn now. Would he put a bullet in the back of my head or—

  "I said get down," he rasped.

  "Can we talk first? We—"

  "Do it."

  Damn hard to use your brain when you're so scared even your underwear is quivering.

  I bent one knee, ready to do what he commanded, but apparently not fast enough. He pushed me, and I fell forward onto the floor. I tasted dirt first, then the blood from my busted lip. He sat on my back and tied my ankles together.

  Then a soothing mantra started in my head, a mantra born of common sense. "H
e could have shot you already. He could have shot you already."

  He got off me, and I heard him walking around. I turned my head in his direction but could only see dark feet traveling the perimeter of the unit. What the hell was he doing? Then came the sound of breaking glass. Now I got it. He was smashing open the picture frames. Yes, but—

  I smelled the gasoline before I heard it splashing around me, the odor so strong instant nausea rolled in my gut.

  Holy shit. A bullet would be welcome compared to burning to death. One by one, small crackling fires were springing up within a few feet of my head, their flames jumping in the darkness.

  Then he lit the cloths draped over Verna Mae's makeshift altars and the whole unit brightened with a horrible whoosh. I took in a deep breath and held it, not wanting to inhale the smoke.

  If being scared out of my mind wasn't bad enough, the worst moment came a second later.

  He caressed the back of my head, his gloved fingers trailing down my back.

  "Sorry," he whispered.

  22

  I heard him run away, and it only took about a nanosecond for me to realize he'd left the door open. Between the wind and air-conditioning, the fire was spreading, engulfing the contents of B-109.

  The door is open, Abby. Open. As in you can get the hell out.

  I didn't have to stop, drop and roll: I only needed the roll part. Trouble was, I was facing the back of the unit. Rolling would only take me left or right and not away from the fire, and its heat was already making me sweat.

  I quickly turned over onto my back and sat up. Pretty damn easily, too. Bless you, Jeff, for getting me in shape, I thought, as I scooted on my butt out of that place.

  I'd made it all the way to the A units when Burl found me. Thank God he didn't ask questions. He just uttered, "Damnation," before cutting me loose. Ever the careful cop, he took a Baggie from his pocket and stashed the plastic cuffs inside before pulling me to my feet. Then we ran.

  Flames were flicking into the sky by the time we reached the entry gate. Burl helped me into the passenger seat of his Land Rover and called 9-1-1. The station must have been close, because we heard sirens almost immediately and the first fire truck pulled in only minutes later.

  They had a swipe card—probably fire code regulations or something—and drove their truck in. Burl spoke to the cops who'd come barreling in on the heels of firemen and then returned to me.

  He pulled a bottled water from the back floorboard. "Here. Drink this."

  I twisted open the top and drank greedily.

  "We need a paramedic for you, Abby?" he asked.

  "No. I have a busted lip and a bruised ego, but other than that, I'm fine."

  "Were you in B-109 when the fire started?" he asked.

  "Yes. And I am so sorry, Burl. I—"

  "How's your breathing? You inhale any smoke?"

  "I got out of there pretty fast, so I'm really okay," I said.

  "Good. Now what the hell do you think you were doing, girl?" The anger had finally surfaced, and I couldn't blame him. I was pretty mad at myself.

  "I know I should have waited for you, but—"

  "You got more buts than an acre of monkeys. You could have been killed."

  "But I wasn't," I said. "And you know something? That's weird. He had a gun. He could have put a bullet in me."

  "Maybe he thought you'd die in the fire."

  "He left the door open, Burl. He knew I could get out. He didn't want me. He wanted to destroy that place."

  Burl nodded in agreement. "Makes sense, and from the looks of that fire, we may never know what was so important."

  "I saw some of it. Had a little flashlight and—oh, no."

  "What?"

  "My car keys. They're in there."

  "Don't count on finding them anytime soon," said Burl, looking up at the black cloud hanging over us.

  * * *

  After I filled in the cops and the firemen on everything that happened, Burl drove me to Kate's place so I could get a house key. I'd lost that, too.

  On the way, I explained everything I could remember about the inside of the unit, and Burl said he'd get with the firemen tomorrow about examining whatever could be salvaged from the fire. As expected, Burl had a warrant to search the contents, and I guess that still counted even if there was nothing but ashes left. I called Jeff, but got his voice mail, so I didn't leave any message aside from asking him to call. Some things you do not leave as a recording.

  I rapped on Kate's back door. She must have been in the kitchen, because she answered right away.

  "What happened to you?" she said, focusing on my fat lip. She pulled me inside by the wrist, and I winced. Plastic cuffs are brutal, I'd learned.

  She looked down and saw the red abrasions. "Oh, my God. Where have you been? Who hurt you?"

  "I'll explain everything, but I will need my house key before I leave. Lost my car keys, too, but I have a spare at home."

  She put an arm around me and gently led me to the kitchen barstool. "You need help getting up?"

  "I'm fine, Kate."

  "I have something to help heal your lip, so—"

  "Do I have to drink it? Because I'd rather have coffee than drink any of your—coffee! Yes. I want a huge mug of dark, strong coffee."

  "You're not making sense. You've been saying for the last week that you might never drink another cup of coffee in your life. Were you hit on the head or—"

  "Go get your magic potions and fix me up, doc. Then I'll explain."

  After my lip had been slathered with goo and some different homeopathic ointment had been applied to my wrists and ankles, I told her everything over freshly brewed Starbucks Kenyan. It tasted so good, and I was thankful my coffee aversion had ended. Near-death experiences tend to make you appreciate what's important in life, I guess.

  "Verna Mae had created a shrine to Will?" Kate asked after I told her what I'd seen tonight.

  "I can't think of a better word. She must have gone there and prayed for him, what with the kneeling rail and candles. But with the picture of Sara Rankin there, too, she obviously knew way more than she let on when Will and I visited her—the visit right before she was found beaten and shot. I'm wondering now if that's why she called to meet with me that Friday— to tell me about Sara."

  "How did Verna Mae learn what's been so hard for you to discover?" Kate asked.

  "She knew from the beginning, is my guess. Knew exactly whose baby had been left in her care."

  "Left by Sara? I'm confused. I thought she died in May and Will was born in the fall."

  "I'm guessing Sara died during childbirth or right after, not in a fall. The Rankins had that service in December because they knew she was dead."

  "And they gave the baby to Verna Mae?" she asked.

  "I don't know."

  Kate said, "Maybe Sara did fall. She could have been in a coma from a head injury. I've heard of comatose women being kept alive so they can deliver at term. What if her parents pulled the plug on life support after Will was born? Are they the type who would do that?"

  "I can't answer that. I only know that something, maybe something more than grief, drove the pastor to the edge. Could his grief be mixed with guilt for pulling that plug?"

  "Certainly. Especially if his religious teachings told him to keep her on a machine and he didn't," Kate said.

  "Okay. That makes sense. Now, is there a connection between the Rankins and Verna Mae?"

  "Maybe she attended their church," Kate said.

  "I never explored that possibility," I said. "It's on my to-do list now, though."

  Kate stared at me, her coffee cup held between her hands. "I'm still confused. Why would the Rankins manufacture such an elaborate cover-up before Will was born?"

  I explained my theory about their daughter being a sinner. "I think they would have been humiliated and embarrassed by Sara's behavior, don't you?"

  "From all you've told me about them, yes."

  "There's more
, Kate. Verna Mae is dead because she knew something I don't. At least something I don't know yet.

  "I'm worried, Abby. Please turn this over to Jeff? You got lucky tonight, but—"

  "This is my life, now. This is what I do. A woman died an awful death. Lawrence Washington has been sitting in prison for a crime he didn't commit. Someone set him up, and that has to be made right. For Will, for Thaddeus and for Joelle Simpson."

  Kate leaned over and took my face in her warm hands. "Okay. I understand.... But please be careful, Abby."

  The call from Jeff woke me at three a.m, so I knew he'd heard about the fire or he would have waited until morning.

  "Still have your eyelashes?" he asked. He was joking, but I could hear concern beneath the humor.

  "I'm fine. Are you working twenty-four shifts now?"

  "I crashed here at the precinct. Then I get a wakeup call from someone saying Burl Rollins wanted to talk to me. I think you know the rest."

  "Too well. More excitement than I planned on."

  "You get a read on the bad guy?"

  "Not really. He was all in black and a man of few words."

  "Could he have been someone you've interviewed along the way?"

  "The only thing I can say with certainty is that he was male. Probably the same person who's been following me like a coyote after a lost calf since day one."

  "I need to teach you a few things about busting a tail."

  "Not tonight, please. But if the offer is still good to get back into the prison, I want to talk to Lawrence Washington, find out why he kept quiet about Sara all these years, figure out why he won't help himself if he's innocent."

  "I'd like to hear those answers myself. We'll go tomorrow. Bring the father, if possible."

  "You want that leverage, huh?"

  "Yup. We might even have Thaddeus's DNA results by the time we get to Huntsville," Jeff said.

  "I know what the test will show, but if we can convince Lawrence he has a son—"

  "He'll talk about his relationship with Sara," Jeff finished. "Her story, what happened to her, is key."