He glanced at her and nodded toward a chalkboard at the end of the bar. She looked that way and then walked over toward it. She read the short list, and then came back to the bar, and sat down on a stool. She placed her arms on the bar, leaned in, and watched him a moment as he served a bottle of beer to customer.
When he’d finished, she asked, “What’s your name?”
He tossed the bar rag across his shoulder. “Who wants to know?” He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray, took a drag, and then put it out.
She thought a moment and then said, “Raven, Raven Sawyer.” She took a strand of hair and twisted it around her finger as she eyed him.
He stepped in front of her and leaned on the bar. He studied her a moment and then said, “Raven, huh? You’ve got red hair, and your folks named you Raven?”
She stiffened her shoulders. “I’d like to order now.”
“Order what? Another beer? You haven’t finished the one you got.”
“Food.”
“Kitchen’s closed.”
“What? I smelled something cooking on the grill a few minutes ago.”
“That was a few minutes ago. The kitchen’s closed.”
“But I’m starving.” She pointed at the chalkboard. “Y’all have potato chips. Couldn’t I buy a bag of those?”
“I don’t sell potato chips, I sell beer. The kitchen’s closed, lady. If you’re hungry, go over to the store and buy yourself a bag of chips and a moon pie.”
“I don’t want a moon pie, and why must you be so mean?”
“Mean?”
“Yes, your voice is … mean.”
“Good. Now, I don’t have to work on that anymore.”
Her shoulders slumped. “Are you mean like this to all the women who come in here?”
“Why do you care?” He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, stuck it in his mouth, and pocketed the pack. He took a lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lit it.
She poked out her bottom lip. “I’ve been nice to you, so I don’t understand why you’re so grumpy.” She’d never had to work this hard before to get the kind of attention she liked from a man. She grabbed her glass and took a sip of her beer. It was warm. She snarled her upper lip.
He pocketed his lighter and walked a short ways down the bar to an ashtray.
A few minutes later, the bar began to empty out. She eyed several bikers as they walked out the door.
“Are y’all fixing to close?” she asked the bartender.
“Nope.” He rung up the last biker, opened the cash register, and gave him his change.
“Why is everyone leaving then?”
“Rain.”
She looked at him long enough that he turned toward her and said, “Most bikers don’t like to ride in the rain.”
“Oh.” She watched him wipe down the bar. “Are you a biker?”
He fixed his eyes on her but said nothing.
“I meant to say, do you own a bike?”
He walked down the length of the bar and stood across from her. “Do you always ask so many damned questions?”
She tilted her head. “I’m just trying to be friendly. All the bartenders I’ve ever known have been friendly.”
His gaze dropped to her cleavage and then back up to her face. “Friendly, huh?”
She smiled. “Of course.” She batted her eyelashes at him.
An hour and a half later, the storm was over with and long gone, and so was the bartender, and—so was her wallet as well as the envelope of money in her purse. She’d seen him take her car keys too. He had left her naked on the bed in her motel room. She struggled to free herself from the duct tape wrapped around her wrists and a wooden post on the headboard. She couldn’t yell for help because of the strip of tape across her mouth.
She fought against the restraint for over an hour. She twisted her body around until she was on her knees and faced the headboard. She yanked several times, but the post wouldn’t give. She leaned down and held her face close to her hands. She fingered the edges of the tape across her mouth and managed to get a good grip. She had to lean back and use her head to pull the tape loose.
She winced. The tape peeled off of her lips but dangled from her cheek. She leaned down and chewed at the tape around her wrists. She made a face at the taste of the sticky fabric. She continued to chew on and off for almost an hour until she broke through. She tore it loose from her wrists with a quick yank. She fumbled with the tape until she had it off of her.
She ripped the dangling piece from her cheek and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and fumed. “If I ever see him again, I’ll kill him.” She crossed the room and looked through her purse. “You bastard!”
She stepped over to the window and peered through the curtains. Her car was parked in front of her room.
“Hmmm! I thought he’d stolen it.”
She slipped on some clothes and hurried outside. She looked in through the passenger side window of her car. Her glove compartment was opened and stuff was strewn in the passenger seat and the floorboard. She spotted her car keys on the driver’s seat. She opened the door, reached across the seat, and grabbed the keys.
She went back inside, and got her things, and headed back to the car. She tossed her suitcase in the passenger side and hurried around to the driver’s side. She started the car, backed out of the parking space, and then drove away.
She’d never been handled so rough. The sex had been good, and she didn’t mind rough sex, but she wasn’t accustomed to be left tied up afterwards with no way of escape. If he needed money, she would have been glad to have paid him. He’d been far better than most. But he didn’t have to steal from her. That was just wrong, taking her hard earned money.
Well, he didn’t get all my money.
At least she still had the duffle bag in the trunk.
A hundred miles down the road and she was still livid. A light on her dashboard got her attention. It was her fuel light.
“Oh, that’s just freakin’ great! There’s not a damn thing open on this piece of shit road at this time of night.”
She drove on, all the while hoping she was wrong. Thirty-five minutes later the car slowed and then the engine died. She steered it to the side of the highway onto the grassy area near the ditch. She beat her fist on the steering wheel, and then sat there for a long moment before turning on the radio. Tammy Wynette sang “Stand by Your Man.” Callie rolled her eyes and changed the station. A voice came in loud and clear.
“Mississippi Highway Patrol Officers were busy in the early hours this morning in a high speed chase along highway 61 southbound. The chase began in Sharkey County, two miles south of Rolling Fork, when a patrolman tried to pull over a vehicle driving seventy-five in a fifty-five zone. Another patrol officer was called to assist. The chase ended in Warren County outside the city limits of Vicksburg when the suspect was run off the road. He was apprehended and it was soon discovered that he was James Belcher, the prisoner, who had escaped from Rankin County several weeks ago. Upon search of his vehicle, they found a duffle bag containing an estimated amount of two million dollars along with a woman’s wallet containing bank and credit cards as well as a forty caliber handgun. Belcher was serving a life sentence without parole for capital murder. He is being questioned as to the whereabouts of the owner of the wallet.”
She stared straight ahead.
I am so screwed.
76
She hid behind a tree and watched the squad car turn onto the next street and then disappear around the corner. They were looking for her. She had been keeping all the lights out in her apartment and the television off. The deputies had been at her door several times.
She hurried down the sidewalk and cut between the duplexes and around to the back. She stopped at the patio, flipped on her penlight, and looked down at the dirt on the concrete beside the planter. She hurried over and looked inside. The gun and knife were gone.
&nbs
p; Salvador had told her to get rid of the gun and the knife—so she did. She smiled. After taking the key out of the front pocket of her jeans, she shone the light on the doorknob and unlocked the door. She opened the door, stepped inside the kitchen, and then closed it behind her. She flashed her penlight around the room. The place was a mess. The kitchen drawers and cabinet doors were all open. She hurried on into the living room and then into the bedroom. The dresser drawers were all open and Salvador’s clothes were strewn on the floor. She walked over to the dresser and picked up his portable stereo. She sat on the edge of the bed and jiggled the battery door open. She laid it aside and then pulled out a wad of bills. She set the stereo on the bed, got up, stuffed the money in her pocket, and hurried into the living area. She directed the light to the coffee table and the end tables. She glanced around the room and then went into the kitchen. She scanned the counter top and spotted a set of keys. She snatched them up, pocketed them, and then hurried out of the house.
At a quick pace, she walked between the duplexes to the corner of the house and then peered around the corner. Salvador’s car sat at the curb. She hurried across the lawn, opened the door, and slid into the driver’s seat. After several attempts, the car started.
She drove to her apartment. She backed the car into a slot that was shaded from the streetlight by an ornamental pear tree. She got out, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and went inside. She went to her windowless bathroom, closed the door, and flipped on the light. She pulled the money out of her pocket and began to count it.
Five hundred and fifty-five dollars, it wasn’t much, but more than enough to get her a bus ticket out of the area and a cheap motel for awhile. Her small suitcase was packed, and she planned to leave after midnight. She wasn’t sure if they had a bus station in town. She didn’t want to have to hitchhike, but knew if she wanted to get out of town without getting caught, then she needed a ride from a truck driver or someone. Men had a way of knowing which women were worth their time and those that weren’t.
Salvador had really messed up the plan as she figured he would. He’d let that rich lady turn his head. He’d become weak just like Jorge. She’d thought that she was the only one that could make Salvador weak like that. He deserved to be in jail.
She knew Salvador was in jail. She had been crouched down in the shadows between two duplexes across the street from his when they had arrested him. She knew that Salvador wouldn’t turn on her. If he did, then he’d be turning on himself.
Jorge had been weak for women. He had been with the rich lady and had bragged to Lupe about it. He’d said that he’d met her when he went to see Salvador at her big house. She had been out by her big fancy pool and wearing nothing but two tiny pieces of material. She’d suggested they meet somewhere for a drink, and he—like the man he was—drooled all the way to the bar. Lupe had been at work when he’d taken her to their motel room that they’d shared.
All three of them had at one time lived at the Deluxe Inn. Salvador had moved out not long afterwards when he’d found the duplex, but he didn’t want them living with him. He’d said it was too much of a risk. But she’d known why. She wasn’t stupid by any means. He wanted a nice quiet place where he and the rich bitch could meet without any interruptions. Lupe and Jorge had had a hard time finding an apartment, but the day they’d moved out of the Inn was the last time she’d seen Jorge.
The three of them had arrived in Cypress from Mexico less than a year ago. Other than a few odd jobs, they had eventually found steady work, Salvador at the Wallaces’, Jorge at the Mayor Evan’s home, both as gardeners. She had worked for the Rayburns. She had hated every minute of it. Mrs. Rayburn was kind enough, but such a weak woman to put up with that pitiful excuse for a man.
Remembering his meaty hands on her body, she shivered in disgust. He had expected much from her, more than Salvador had ever expected from her. She did his bidding to get what she wanted in return. He had always slipped her a large bill for her services. The more she had satisfied his needs, the more he’d paid up. Salvador never knew what she’d had to sacrifice.
She blamed Salvador. He’d decided to get rich quick by robbery. The robbery in Matamoros would have placed her and Jorge on a wanted list too, but nobody had seen Jorge’s face or hers when she’d sped away in the car they had stolen. But later, Salvador had gotten caught and was sentenced to prison. She and Jorge had helped in his escape when he was headed for La Mesa. They’d had to ditch the car and find a way across the border. That had taken weeks of hiding and staying under the radar. After they’d made their way across, they had stolen a car in Brownsville, Texas and all were supposed to wear masks when taking on the armored guard outside the drug store, but Salvador had gotten careless. He had taken his mask off while he waited for the truck to show up. He had been afraid the customers going in and out of the store might notice. She and Jorge had scooted down in the car seat. Salvador had forgotten to put it back on when the armored truck pulled up. He had been in a hurry to get the money and leave. As soon as the armored guard had come back out of the store with the bag of money, Salvador had jumped out of the car and opened fire.
Estúpido!
That money had long been spent to buy a car for Salvador and just to live on while they had looked for work. She had driven the Jaguar. When they’d found work, she had dropped Jorge off at his job at the Mayor’s house on her way to her job at the Rayburns’. After the Jaguar had broken down, she had no means of transportation except for Salvador, but most times she had walked where she needed to go.
Lupe turned off the light and left the bathroom. The streetlight shone in her bedroom well enough for her to see her suitcase. She grabbed it and headed out of the apartment.
77
Reporters were waiting on the front steps of the sheriff’s department for Cal when he arrived that morning. They had questioned him about his father’s arrest, the BOLO that had gone out for Callie, and wanted to know how he felt about being in Raven’s novel.
“How do I feel?” he mumbled as he entered the building. “Stupid question. How do you think I feel?” He never could understand why reporters asked someone how they felt about whatever catastrophe that had happened to them. He’d seen it on the news many times after someone had lost a loved one in a house fire, or they had been killed at the hands of someone else, “How do you feel about … ?” and then shove the microphone in the distraught person’s face. How someone feels is news? He shook his head.
“Did you say something?” Justin looked up from the morning newspaper.
“I can’t believe you’re reading that crap.” Cal looked at him as he made his way to his office.
“I … uh.” Justin stared after him, and then folded the newspaper, and tossed it in a wastebasket beside his desk.
When he went into his office, Cal didn’t bother to shut the door. He tossed his hat on his desk and sat down. He leaned back in his chair with his elbow on the armrest, rubbed his chin, and then yawned. He’d be glad when this was all over. Lack of sleep was catching up with him.
The events of the past week went over in his mind like it had, what seemed to him, a thousand times. He saw movement in his doorway. His mother walked into the room.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Bringing you coffee.” She walked over and held out a to-go cup.
He took it. “Thanks, but how’d you know I didn’t already have coffee this morning?”
“I dropped off your laundry on my way into work. Your coffee pot had mold in the bottom of it.”
“Oh. Yeah, I need to clean that. Thanks.”
“Already did it for you. Well, I got to get back to the diner.” She walked back to the door and sidestepped Justin as he came inside.
He nodded to her as she walked by, and then he looked at Cal. “I had coffee already made.”
“That’s okay,” Cal said.
Justin walked over to his desk and held out a large manila envelope. “Just came in.”
>
Cal took it and opened it. He pulled out the latest forensic report and began to read it. Justin waited.
After a minute of reading, Cal gave Justin the gist of it, “The five sets of fingerprints in the stolen Jaguar belong to Jorge, Salvador, the owner and his girlfriend, and an unknown. The gun found at Salvador’s place is registered to Angus Rayburn. The blood on the knife found at the duplex matches the blood found at the Neals’ place. The blood on the clothing found in the trash bag in Callie’s Mercedes matched that of the Neals’, and the residue on the shovel has been connected to the gravesite where Jorge’s body was discovered.” Cal sat quiet for a moment. “Oh, yeah, the traces of blood on the butcher knife, meat hammer, and the clothing found in the trash can in the gardener’s building belonged to Gaylene.” He looked up at Justin. “And looks like the money that was in the duffle bag belongs to Suzanne. We know Callie had stolen it from our safe and that Angus had stolen that amount from Suzanne. I’m assuming that Virgil Neal was the one that buried it under his trailer, but how in the hell did Virgil Neal get his hands on is beyond me?” He shook his head. “And who killed who? Is everybody guilty here?” He flung the report on his desk and cursed under his breath.
“Nothing on the gun yet?”
He shook his head. “But I’d imagine Angus’ gun was used to kill the Neals. Maybe Jorge too.”
Hendrix poked his head in the door. “Boss?”
Cal peered around Justin and looked at Hendrix.
Hendrix grinned. “We got Lupe.”
Cal leaped up from his chair and headed toward the door. “Where is she?”
“Interrogation room, waiting for you.”
They walked the short distance to the door of the interrogation room.
Hendrix said, “I pulled into the parking lot of her apartment. She was waiting beside Salvador’s car while a neighbor jumped off the battery. Had to chase her down. She had a suitcase inside the car. She was fixing to skip town.”
Diana Anderson - Entering Southern Country 01 - Famous in a Small Town Page 23
