The Journey of B.J. Donovan (Moonlight Murder Duology Book 1)

by S. A. Austin

  She shined the beam on the wall next to her. Cockroaches scurried every which way, searching for the darkness. She immediately played the light across the ceiling, flattened a protective hand on top of her head. Quite a few bugs, but nowhere near as many as the wall. There’s definitely a hell of a lot more of them than there were the last time she was there. Damn things reproduced at an alarming rate.

  She directed the light to her computer table. Winced at the sight of small droppings of fecal matter. Mice? In the middle of the filthy mess was something she never knew she’d forgotten. A sheet of paper with the names and addresses of every television station in Lake Charles, Louisiana was folded in half and tucked under the keyboard. She recalled how angry Frank became after hearing his surname linked to a serial killer.

  “Served him right.”

  BJ reached out to unplug the equipment and quickly pulled her hand back. Using the penlight, she whacked the cords a few times to bounce the bugs off. Calculated the size and weight of the equipment. Thought about how to carry it all out of the house in one trip.

  She no longer had a use for the computer. For now, she’d gotten everything out of Louisiana she was going to get for her story, so there wasn’t any reason to continue sending bogus emails to herself from that address.

  But just walking off and leaving everything as it was made her uneasy.

  How long before the damn computer’s traced back to me?

  “I need to find a half full dumpster somewhere on the other side of the city.”

  She carried the monitor at arm’s length to the kitchen, set it on the floor to unlock and open the rear door. Poked her head out, made sure she was still alone before setting the heavy piece in the yard. Hurried back to retrieve the hard drive, keyboard, and the printer. Damn bugs totally freaked her out. Had she disturbed them enough they were now preparing to retaliate en masse?

  About to lock the door she thought of the lamp, the phone, and the sheet of plastic she’d used to keep her fingerprints off the folding table while also giving her a clear window to see if bugs were on the underside.

  She put them with the other things.

  A mental picture of the infested equipment sitting in her car was disturbing. If bugs were hiding inside, in particular tiny newly hatched ones, she’d rather have them running loose in the trunk than in her back seat.

  She closed the trunk lid gently to keep from shaking bugs out of the computer stuff, being reminded of that time when she bought an old 13-inch TV at a flea market. Before going home, she had stopped at a store and bought a clear plastic bag. Sealed the TV inside, and let it sit for a week to make sure there were no bugs in it. Smart idea. The thing had more than a few.

  BJ instantly came up with a better plan to get rid of the computer stuff forever. A better place, rather, to dump it where no one in his or her right mind would have the nerve to search.

  “The swampland of Chalmette.”

  * * *

  An oncoming car sped out of Caulfield Lane with their brights on, temporarily blinding Officer Wentzel as he drove his patrol car across Claude Street. He believed he caught a glimpse of blond hair, though, when the driver turned onto Claude in the opposite direction.

  He wasn’t good at identifying every make and model of cars like most guys could. By the time he found a safe place to make a U-turn and go back to Caulfield the driver was long gone.

  Jacob debated about sharing his observations with Northcutt and Cantin. Would it prove, once and for all, he has what it takes to become a detective?

  Nope.

  He seriously doubted they’d come looking for him to question him about his vague descriptions of a car and a blond, so he put the thought out of his head.

  In its place a sneaky plan on how to change the course of the investigation, whereby he’d be the first to solve the mystery troubling the department, played itself out in his mind.

  CHAPTER 66

  The moment she opened the back door, Evelyn Adrian heard their laughter seconds ahead of seeing their faces. Two teenagers. Before long they’ll break in and run upstairs to drink beer and have sex, just like they do in horror movies.

  Goshdurnit. It was the worst time possible to remember that she had planned to rig up a homemade burglar alarm by stacking empty tin cans against the downstairs doors.

  Empty cans make the most noise, she’d read on a wooden plaque at the gift shop.

  Then again, since she had no way to cook anything coming from a can she wouldn’t have purchased any can goods. So there’s that.

  She rushed to the bathroom. A ghost story and horror film addict, she knew just what to do. She thrust her arms and head inside of the dress she had found in the attic and hung on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. Painted her face with fast-drying white facepaint. Using a fine-tipped red marker she drew broken veins across her cheeks. Applied a thick layer of grayish-blue lipstick. Outlined her eyes with black eyebrow powder. Smoothed and spread out the uneven lines with her fingertips.

  She pulled a rubber band off her dull black hair, shook it loose and let it fall to her waist. Their voices had grown louder and closer. She bent over fast, throwing her hair forward. Stood straight up and flung it back just enough to leave half of her face hidden. She stuffed a plastic set of vampire teeth in her mouth, squirted little globs of fake blood in the corners.

  Evelyn went to the master bedroom. Parted the sheers with both hands. Keeping her arms up, she stood close to the window staring down at the teens, stretching her eyes to their limit.

  The girl pointed at her and screamed. Ran to the field.

  The boy looked from the frightening apparition to the backside of his girlfriend, seemingly unable to come to a decision over which was more important. Boldly investigate the house so he’d have something to brag about to his friends? Go somewhere else and have sex with his girlfriend so he’d have something better to brag about?

  His libido won. He hightailed it out of there.

  Evelyn slid the sheers to their original position. Flung the dress on the bed.

  Washing her face with bottled water at the sink, she looked at the bathtub by way of the cracked mirror and yearned for a long, hot shower.

  One of these days.

  * * *

  Evelyn awoke from an afternoon nap. Her head hurt because she’d stayed up too late. She had spent the night drinking alone in a bar across the street from the gift shop.

  A familiar burning smell made her think the transmission on her car went out. She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t even know about it until a minute or so after her boss waved goodnight and drove away. The store was locked up tight. She didn’t have a key.

  Music spilling out of the bar, when the door was opened by a departing customer, drew her in. She wanted a place to sit and think. Or was it sit and drink? Should she spend her savings to get the car fixed, thereby having to wait even longer to leave Louisiana? Or leave it parked at her place of employment until her boss either raised holy hell or quietly had it towed away?

  Once she stopped stressing over it, the choice was clear.

  She already had enough money to make the trip to Maine. Waiting until she had enough to rent a house or an apartment was the thing that was taking too long. She’d stay with her sister if she had to. A few kids and cats weren’t that bad, compared to what she currently lived with.

  She never belonged there. Not in that farmhouse. Not in Louisiana.

  If she spent the money on a repair bill, a bill she knew would be inflated just because she’s a she, it might be another six months to a year before she could afford to leave. She’d gone long enough without the comforts of electricity and running water. Somebody recently pointed out the baldness of her tires. She had forgotten about them. They’d have to be replaced, along with the spare. Another expense to put up with, if she wanted to drive to Maine.

  After she worked out a solution to the problem she had, she found it hard to believe she didn’t think of an answer sooner. “
I’ll buy a bus ticket.” The ticket would cost a whole lot less than parts, labor, gas and oil for an old junker that probably wouldn’t even make it out of the state. And if it didn’t, then what?

  “I seriously doubt I’ll find another place like this one.”

  Evelyn went outdoors for a relaxing walk around the yard. She refused to let the gloomy gray sky of a chilly day bother her.

  I suppose I’ll have to find a new way to dispose of my trash since I can’t put it in my car and take it to a dumpster.

  She laughed. “Do I honestly care?”

  Inspired by a newfound sense of freedom, she burst into song. A Janis Joplin song. A song her aging flower-child boss warmly called a golden oldie. “Freedom’s just another word for....”

  Leaving town. It’s as close as my next paycheck. I can hardly believe it.

  “If I don’t spend it all on cab fare first.”

  An uncommonly large raven swooped down, landed close by. He hopped forward three times. She backed up. He seemed to be wanting to put a little distance between her and the road.

  Caw, caw, caw!

  He flew up high, circled above her three times. Headed east.

  “Bad things come in threes.”

  She heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Ran to the corner of the house, looked to her left, the same direction the psychotic bird had flown. A trail of rising dust from a speeding car.

  She ran into the house through the back way, locked the door behind her.

  Evelyn came to a halt near the table. A key that used to hang on a nail in the kitchen wall was missing. Had someone come in one day when she was at work? She never knew what lock the key was for. She only knew that there was a key, an old timey one.

  She ran up the hallway, her gaze sweeping over the rest of the first floor. Charging up the stairs, she thought of the things the visitor was about to find. Her things. A pie covered with aluminum foil on the kitchen table. A trash can half full of takeout containers. Magazines and newspapers with recent dates. She didn’t stop running until she reached the master bedroom.

  Wheezing loudly, she clamped a hand over her nose and mouth, being careful not to do anything to make the sheers move.

  He made a sudden appearance at the edge of the hayloft, looked at her window. She leaned back without thinking. Evelyn was grateful her car had broken down. Otherwise, it would’ve been in the barn where she had started hiding it after teenagers began invading her privacy.

  She looked closer at his face.

  Oh my gosh.

  She recognized him.

  “And this makes the third time I’ve seen him. The next time....”

  CHAPTER 67

  “Hello.” She refused to say his ridiculous name. “This is BJ Donovan. You haven’t returned my call, so I can only assume that you’re no longer interested in helping me with my nonfiction story. That’s fine. I no longer want your help. I’m going to the farmhouse this afternoon. I, I know where the place is, so I don’t need a tour guide. Thanks for the story idea and whatnot.”

  She didn’t care if the message was too long for Raynor Schein’s answering machine. She did care, however, that he got the message. At long last, she’d learn the identity of this very mysterious, very phony detective. She counted on his inflated ego bringing him to the farm.

  BJ rifled the closet and the chest of drawers for an outfit suitable enough for traipsing around an abandoned farm. Tying up the laces on a scuffed pair of hiking shoes, she got an idea. She’d stop at the library on the way to the farm, and search the archives for articles about the dead body found in the well. She might even run across old newspaper accounts of other unsolved mysteries to use in future stories.

  Detective Cantin can go to Hell.

  She put on a zippered hoodie. Changed her mind about wearing gloves.

  From the closet shelf in the study she pulled down a dark green canvas tote bag with an embroidered image of a knife and a rose crisscrossed to form an X. The bag was presented to her by the local writers group when her horror short story won first place in a writing contest.

  She placed pens, highlighters, a paper writing tablet, and Frank’s loaded .22 handgun in the bag, leaving room for a snack, and any papers she printed off their computer. Added a thermos of coffee to sip on while driving. Unsure if the library had one of those deadly weapon detector things, she removed the firearm. Put it back in his den.

  The trip to the library had been fruitful.

  In her mind she scratched out the word fruitful and replaced it with successful.

  About to strap on her seatbelt, she pulled herself forward against the steering wheel to look through the windshield. The sky had grown considerably darker in the past few seconds.

  “Rain? Pa kounye-a!”

  CHAPTER 68

  BJ turned off a state highway and onto a dirt road that competed for space with the surrounding growth. Driving fast, the top of the house soon came into view.

  “Speckled with mildew, the old white farmhouse resembled an alien mushroom growing fat and tall amongst the Joe Pye weed.”

  Yeah, you’re no poet.

  She glanced at her watch. Four-thirty.

  Getting closer to the house, facing west, she clearly saw the line of thunderstorms stretching the length of the horizon. Distant jagged bolts of lightning lit up the sky. She cracked the window a hair to listen. No sound of thunder. Yet. Nighttime won’t be far away, either.

  She slowed her car, then stopped. Slouched down in the seat enough to view the house through the window on the passenger side without first having to make a U-turn.

  House of the Rising Sun? No. Hotel California? Hmm.

  She got out, folded her arms on the top of the car.

  Reflected on why she was so calm about the place.

  “Because. They may have bruised my body and battered my soul but they never broke me. I’m still here. And they are not.”

  Lightning briefly shimmered on an upstairs window with partly open girlish curtains. She continued to stare. The shadowy image did not reappear. Thunder rumbled across the sky. She felt a slight tremor under her feet.

  “No wonder everybody went nuts.”

  BJ resumed driving west until she was at the far end of the property. Steering to the right, she drove over tall grass and weeds. Parked in a field. Uncovered a flashlight buried beneath a couple of road maps and a few gas receipts in the glove compartment. Made sure the batteries were still good because she had no replacements.

  She trudged back to the house.

  “Lightning continued to put on a great show, and was then followed by the raucous applause of thunder.”

  A blasé shrug.

  I definitely don’t have a poetic nature.

  But I know a lot about poetic justice.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she said in a soft singsong voice.

  * * *

  Jacob had been unsuccessful, ever since he was a teenager, in maintaining a successful relationship with girls, and then later with women. Kelly Murphy had been the only girl in his whole life who seemed to genuinely love him. He ambled aimlessly across the back field. Marveled over how the Joe Pye weeds had grown so thick and tall they each resembled a genetically altered cornstalk.

  He was alone and lonely when he met BJ Donovan on the internet. In the beginning he toyed with her until he got her full attention. But he was careful about everything he said to her.

  He had unburdened his soul to another online. And after being together in real life for only a couple of weeks, she hooked up with her old boyfriend. Her actions hurt him far more than he supposed possible, and made him gunshy by the time he met BJ.

  Falling back on old habits, he escalated the relationship between him and BJ because he desperately wanted to meet her and to be with her.

  Once again, he’d made all the mistakes of an overachiever.

  Jacob picked up a stick. Absentmindedly flogged the stems of the weeds as he passed by. He still had stron
g feelings for her, and it had been next to impossible to just leave her alone. He eventually unloaded his heart and soul in his emails to her, but in the end she rejected him.

  He only knew one way to be.

  A thunderbolt illuminated the sky. He turned west.

  If she’s coming, she damn well better hurry. Storm’ll be here soon. So will the night.

  Her last phone message to him replayed itself through his mind. She was cold, impolite, and downright disrespectful, and for no good reason.

  He envisioned the candid shots he’d taken of her and Gary Northcutt. Recalled missed opportunities for photos. Them ambling down the gangway of the cruise ship. The cozy little scene in Sonnier’s kitchen.

  Fuck it. The second I see her I’m going to let her know just what I think of her.

  He detected movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned toward the source. Snippets of pale yellow flickered in and out of the shadows between the weed stems, as the person strode quickly in the direction of the house.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  CHAPTER 69

  BJ remained where she was for a minute, thinking she’d heard someone call out to her. She wasn’t able to see the person, but she did see the cop car beside the barn.

  Without warning, quarter-sized raindrops pelted her. She zipped up the sweatshirt, flipped the hood over her head. Sprinting toward the dirt road, the wind blew the hood back. No time to tie it down. She changed direction, and plowed into the thick maze of Joe Pye weed. Above the sounds of the storm she heard someone chasing after her.

  * * *

  Jacob reached the dirt road in time to see her before she disappeared. The sky had grown significantly darker. He glimpsed at the spooky woods hoping like hell she didn’t want to go in there. Forever terrified of the place he had stayed away. Running forward, he kept his eyes on the spot where she turned off.