by BJ Bourg
Once the bicycle was loaded, I finished packing up my gear, drove to the street nearest where I’d discovered the blood, and started knocking on doors. As I expected, not many people were home. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving and lots of folks were leaving town to be with family.
As I walked back to my truck after knocking on the last house down that street, I frowned and thought about our young victim. There was never a good time to die, but it always seemed especially difficult when loved ones passed away around the holidays. Of course, this poor kid didn’t pass away. He had been brutally murdered, and it was now my mission to catch the bastard who killed him.
I drove to the next street and began knocking on doors again, working my way toward the back. This street was called Pasture Wood and it lived up to its name. Most of the houses were spaced out nicely and there were lots of trees scattered about the properties that separated the houses. Behind the houses to the north, there were rows and rows of cow pastures, and the houses to the south bordered a large patch of thick forest land.
I parked my truck in front of another home that looked deserted and was about to walk up the driveway when I saw movement toward the very end of the street. I raised my hand to my forehead to shield the sun from my eyes and smiled. The paved street ended at a dirt road that continued westward toward another patch of forest land, and there were two figures walking along the dirt road. I couldn’t make out much from that distance, but it looked like they were getting closer to the pavement.
Abandoning the door-to-door search, I jumped in my truck and headed for the back of the street. When I reached the dirt road, the two figures came into view and I could make out two boys carrying fishing rods and tackle boxes. One was much taller than the other, but they both looked to be the same age; seventeen or eighteen—just like my victim.
I stepped out of my truck and leaned against the front bumper, waiting for them to reach me. When they got close enough to see my badge, the shorter one lifted a hand and waved.
“It was me, officer,” he hollered, his long dark hair waving in the breeze.
I grunted, amused. It never failed, whenever I’d walk into an establishment or approach a group of people, someone would invariably yell, “It wasn’t me!” This kid was taking the opposite tack, and I couldn’t wait to see where he would go with it.
“So, it was you, eh?” I asked.
“Yes, sir, it was me.” He stopped a few feet from me and rested the butt of the fishing rod on the ground. Patches of brown hair grew along the jaw line of his pale face, as though attempting to become a beard. He stuck out his hand. “The name’s Charlie Rickman and it was me who called the law.”
I stifled a chuckle and shook his hand. His friend, who was at least a head taller than him and a couple inches taller than my five-ten self, smirked and shook his head. His brown hair was a little shorter than Charlie’s, but he was just as pale—well, except for the slight sunburn forming on his cheeks and forehead.
“I’m Abe,” the taller one said. “Abraham Wilson.”
I shook his hand, too, and then looked down at Charlie. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I need to report a crime.” He nodded for emphasis.
“Oh, yeah?” I asked, playing along. “What kind of crime?”
“Well, I need this girl named Joy Vincent arrested for robbery.”
“Robbery, eh?”
“Yep, Heart Robbery, because she stole Abe’s heart and won’t give it back—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Abraham backhanded him across his shoulder, and Charlie cried out in pain, dropping his fishing rod and tackle box.
“That’s assault, officer!” Charlie said in objection.
We all laughed and Abraham begged me to forgive his friend. “He’s got jokes, detective, but it’s not his fault. I think his mom put drugs in his baby bottles.”
After introducing myself, I made small talk with them for a few seconds and then asked Abraham for his last name again.
“Wilson,” he said knowingly, as though expecting what was coming.
“Is your dad Dudley Wilson?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir…formerly Detective Dudley Wilson of the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office.”
“How long’s he been out of it again?” I asked.
Abraham scrunched up his face and stared toward the sky, mumbling something I couldn’t understand. Once he was done, he nodded. “About four years. I was in eighth grade when he retired.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“He’s a safety supervisor for one of the biggest oilfield companies in the south.” He grunted. “But he misses law enforcement…a lot! He’s always talking about his old cases and he threatens to go back to the sheriff’s office when I go off to college next year.”
“Are both of you seniors this year?” I asked.
When they nodded, I told them that they might be able to help me with something. I waved them toward the back of my truck and, as I dropped the tailgate, said, “I need help finding the kid who rides this bicycle.”
Abraham’s brow furrowed. “That’s Denny’s bike.”
“Denny? Is he a friend yours?”
“Yeah, we go to school together and he lives right over there”—he nodded toward the last house on the left down the street—“in that gray barn-looking house.”
“Are you sure this is his bike?”
“Positive.” He pointed to a long scratch down the front fork. “That happened when he tried to jump my dad’s riding mower.”
I wanted to ask for more details about the Evel Knievel stunt, but resisted the urge. “When’s the last time you saw him?”
Abraham eyed me suspiciously. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”
“Like, did he do something wrong?” I shook my head. “No, he didn’t do anything wrong.”
He relaxed a little. “I saw him yesterday. He went camp out down the road with one of his cousins. They hiked to the canal in the back to sleep under the stars—roughing it—and they won’t be back until tomorrow. Where’d you find his bike?”
“Down the road.” I asked him a few more questions, but he wasn’t able to offer more than he already had. I thanked them and backed down the street until I came to the barn-style house. I pulled into the driveway and was about to exit my truck when I noticed the car parked under the overhang. I thought I recognized it.
Is that—?
My heart suddenly fell to my boots. “Oh, God, it is!”
CHAPTER 8
“Hey, London, what are you doing here?”
I forced a grin and nodded at Uma Menard. “Can I come in?”
“Well, of course you can come on…” The smile that was ever present on her face slowly began to fade. “Wait a minute…what’s going on, London? Why are you here? Why are you at my house on a Saturday?” Her voice began to grow higher as panic set in. “Is it about that boy they found under the bridge? Is it Denny? Oh, my God, is it my baby boy?”
Although I didn’t play poker, I would normally have been good at it—but not that day and not under those circumstances. “Uma, we don’t know anything for sure. I need to see a picture of your son—”
Uma let out a bloodcurdling scream and rushed into the house, scrambling about the living room, searching for something. Finally, she located her cell phone on the sofa and began fumbling with it. I stood nearby watching as she prayed out loud that it wasn’t Denny. Tears were streaming down her face and glistened against her dark skin. I wanted to comfort her, to make her pain go away, but I didn’t know the right words to say. My own heart was breaking for her and I felt helpless.
Hoping it was all just a big mistake, I began scanning the walls of the living room, searching for photos of her son. There was one of him when he was in middle school, but I couldn’t be sure. I turned toward the television and, like a swift kick to the gut, the wind left my body and I nearly sank to the floor. There, atop the entertainment center, was a large high school picture of
her son, Denny Menard, and I realized it was definitely the kid we’d found under the bridge.
“Denny! Denny, answer your phone!” Uma cried loudly, her voice shrill and desperate. “Damn it, son, answer your phone!”
I quickly pulled out my own phone and texted Rachael, asking her to get someone from our social services department out to Uma’s house right away. She asked what was going on, but I didn’t reply. Instead, I walked around the sofa and put a hand on Uma’s shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice as she pulled the phone from her ear and called Denny’s number again.
“God, please let him answer! Please let him answer!” She walked away from me and made circles around the coffee table, praying out loud, her eyes half closed, tears falling like giant raindrops to the carpeted floor.
I was awestruck at how frail she looked. The Uma I knew could calmly joke with a sadistic murderer on the phone and have him laughing all the way out the door and into the waiting arms of the SWAT team. I had seen her walk boldly to the front of a library and negotiate face to face with a man who had killed his wife, mother-in-law, and two children—and she never batted an eye. It was right then that I realized how special—and dangerous—it was to be a parent.
I’d once heard a mother say that nothing could bring her to her knees like her children, and I was witnessing it happen before my very eyes. Having never been a father, I could only imagine how she was feeling, and my imagination told me it would’ve been better to be slowly burned alive than to experience what she was feeling at that moment.
“Uma, let me help you.” I didn’t even recognize my own voice. It sounded cracked and hollow, ineffective.
She turned to face me—the phone still pressed against her ear—and stared hopelessly into my eyes, her face twisted in pain. “Please tell me it’s not him, London…please!”
I swallowed hard, but then shook my head. “I’m so sorry, Uma, but I can’t.”
She let out a guttural groan and collapsed to the floor, nearly hitting her head on the corner of the coffee table.
CHAPTER 9
Thirty minutes later…
I pulled into the emergency room entrance at Magnolia General Hospital and rushed inside. I flashed my badge at the first nurse I saw and asked for Uma’s room.
“Two-ten, up the elevator and to the right. Can’t miss it.”
I nodded my thanks and jumped in the elevator, punching the button several times, as though it would move faster if I did. When it finally reached the second floor and opened, I rushed out and made my way to Room 210. The door was slightly ajar and I could see one of the deputies from police social services, Margo Lee, sitting beside Uma.
I knocked lightly on the door and Margo looked up. When I waved her over, she quickly got up and tiptoed to the door.
“How’s she doing?” I asked when she reached me. “I mean, considering.”
“They gave her a sedative, which helped to calm her down a little, but she’s not well.” Margo glanced over her shoulder. “She was slipping in and out of sleep while I was talking to her.”
I frowned. “I hate to bother her, but I need to get some information from her as soon as I can.”
“Come on in. I’ll wake her up.”
I followed her into the dimly lit room and stood beside the bed while she gently shook Uma’s shoulder. Uma grunted and groaned, turned her head toward the sound of Margo’s voice. She dragged her eyelids opened and squinted, as though trying to see. “London?”
I leaned closer. “Yeah, Uma, it’s me.”
“I’m so…I…I’m sorry for freaking out on you.”
“Don’t even think about apologizing.” I took the seat that Margo pushed in my direction and scooted close to the bed. “I’m so sorry to have to do this. I just need to find out some information so I can get started on the investigation.”
“No, I understand.” She allowed her head to roll back onto the pillow and her eyelids dragged. “Of all people, I should understand.”
“One of Denny’s friends from the neighborhood said he was going to a camp out with his cousin.”
“Yeah, he left home on his bike about eight last night and headed for Rory’s house. They live in the neighborhood south of us, on the other side of the woods.” She stifled a yawn and continued. “Denny’s real bad about letting me know where he is, so I wasn’t worried when he didn’t let me know he’d made it there. I sent him a message at about eight-thirty asking if he’d made it yet, and I got an immediate response saying he was there.”
“What exactly did the message say?” I asked.
“It just said, Yes.”
I drummed my fingers on my notepad. The bicycle was found in the ditch north of Pasture Wood and his body was found even farther north than that, so why would he text her and say he was at his cousin’s house? Did he go to his cousin’s house and then leave later in the night? What if something went wrong at the campsite and there was a disagreement that got out of hand?
“Uma, where can I find Rory?”
“With his dad—my brother—Dennis. They live on Pine Avenue in Mathport.” Her eyes were closed and she was slurring her speech. “They live in the last house on the left—just like me. It’s the neighborhood south of us.”
“What’s his last name?” Nothing. “What’s Rory’s last name?”
Uma jerked and mumbled, “Same as mine and Denny’s. I named Denny after my brother and gave him my last name because his dad’s a piece of shit deadbeat…”
Her jaw slackened and she started to drift off again.
“Uma.” I shook her shoulder gently. “This last question is very important.”
She lifted her head and it swayed to the side as though too heavy for her neck to hold up. “What is it?”
“Have you ever had any problems with Denny? Any drug-related problems?”
“He doesn’t drink even.” Her words were getting more difficult to understand. “He parties when he leaves alcohol.”
I started to ask for a clarification, but I figured she meant he leaves parties that have alcohol. I turned to Margo and nodded. “That’s all I need. Please take good care of her.”
I hurried down the elevator and out into the afternoon glow. It was growing cooler now that the sun was setting. The time had recently changed and it was getting darker earlier, so I needed to get to Rory’s as soon as possible. I raced back south on Highway Three and didn’t slow down until I turned onto Pine Avenue.
I found the house just as Uma described and banged on the door. A short man answered and I indentified myself. “And you must be Dennis.”
He nodded slowly and we shook hands. “Do I know you?”
I shook my head. “I work with your sister, Uma. She’s the best negotiator in the south.” I paused and looked around. “Anyway, I need to speak with Rory about his cousin, Denny. It’s urgent.”
Dennis scowled. “They’re out in the woods, down by the little bayou in the back. They’re not due back until tomorrow morning.”
“Does Rory have a phone?”
“He does, but he left it behind. They don’t take technology with them when they go hiking.” He chuckled. “They like to pretend it’s the old days and they have to live off the land.”
“I guess I’ll have to go find them, then.” I turned and hurried back to my truck. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Did they do something wrong?” Dennis asked. “Are they in trouble?”
“Not that I know about,” I called over my shoulder, backing my truck out of the driveway and heading down the street until I reached a large gate that was locked. After parking my truck, I jumped the gate and began jogging toward the woods at the end of a long field. I wasn’t sure how far away the bayou was, but I could jog for miles without rest while wearing my loaded sniper vest and carrying my rifle—so this was a cake walk.
After a few minutes, I made it to the forest and I began following a faint trail through the trees. The mud was damp and packed, and the going was easy. I fig
ured I’d gone a mile through the woods when I caught the glint of sunlight on the water of the small bayou. I slowed to a walk and cocked my head to the side so I could better hear my surroundings. My hand was inches from my pistol. All I knew at this moment was Denny had been murdered. Why or by whom was still a mystery and, until I figured it out, I needed to be prepared to shoot anyone with whom I came into contact.
As I moved forward, a boisterous laugh sounded through the trees toward my left. Something was said and it was followed by more laughs. While I couldn’t decipher the words being spoken, I could tell there were at least two people in the conversation. I zeroed in on that area and slinked from tree to tree, careful not to rustle a leaf or snap a twig. As I drew nearer, I began to make out what they were saying.
“It was you? You’re the one who put the snake in the trashcan?” one of the boys asked. It wasn’t the boy who’d been laughing. This boy’s voice was softer. “I thought it was Charlie.”
“No, it was me. I caught that big king snake behind my house and hid it in my school bag. I lagged behind when we went to recess and slipped it inside.”
“Dude, Mrs. Lee almost had a heart attack. When that thing stuck its head up, she screamed and fell off her chair. I think she hurt herself. Somebody said she got carted off in an ambulance.”
“Shit, she ain’t hurt. She’s just looking for a payday. Bitch wants to retire early.”
“I wish she would,” said the more timid one. “She’s as mean as they get.”
“What’re you talking about, Wish she would. You’re graduating this year…why do you care?”
“We didn’t graduate yet. Imagine how great the rest of the year would be if she left.”
“But who would we mess with if she was—”
“Oh, shit!” screamed Timid One when I stepped out from behind a tree and approached where they were sitting on stumps around a pile of smoldering twigs. He fell over, his legs flying into the air, and he sprawled out awkwardly on the ground.
