by S. A. Austin
Arriving at the area where he was pretty sure she had ducked in, he focused on the thick-stemmed weeds. The wind moved some of them in one direction, while a few weeds were shoved another way.
It’s her. She’s heading for the state highway? But why?
A deafening thunder boom.
Rapid lightning strikes helped him see that she hadn’t changed course. He remained on the road, running parallel to her. Nothing stood in his way, unlike her with weeds and brush to contend with. Jacob was confident he’d be the first to arrive at the end of the road.
Heavy rain transformed the dirt road to a slippery sheet of mud. His feet went out from under him, and he fell flat on his stomach. Instinctively wiped his face, realizing too late his hand was dripping with mud.
“Damn you,” he shouted, shaking a fist at the sky.
He ran to the barn, the storm in a furor by the time he reached his car. When he opened the driver’s door a gust shoved it backward, nearly ripping it off the hinges. He hopped in. White smoke spewed out of the tailpipe as he gunned the engine. Rear tires spinning on saturated ground, it took a moment or two for them to gain traction.
He slithered across wet grass to the front of the house, then leaped onto the road. He drove dangerously fast toward the highway for about a mile. Eased off the accelerator, and rolled to a stop. Put the gear shift in Park. Sheets of rain blurred his view outside the windshield.
* * *
BJ hobbled through the semidarkness, carefully finding her way out of the overgrown brush. She winced as hard rain stung her face like pins and needles. Suppressed a moan each time pointed twigs got caught on her hoodie or shoelaces and caused her to stumble.
This is stupid.
She changed course. Going west, keeping the roof of the house in sight, she aimed for her car. Feet pounding the ground, mud splashing on her legs, she ran faster.
A sharp pain in her side stopped her. She bent forward, clasped her kneecaps, drew in lungfuls of air. Alma needs to stop smoking. She raised her head, questioned her surroundings. Shot straight up. Somehow she’d made it to the rear of the farmhouse.
Sheltered from view by the weeds she inspected the place from top to bottom. Rain blurring her vision made the house appear in motion. Her attention was drawn to an upstairs window. She’d swear one half of a set of see-through curtains had been pulled aside. She was sure it wasn’t that way a second ago. Emerging from the tangle of weeds and into an open area, the set now hung straight and motionless.
Jeebus.
On the run again, she tripped over a bent weed stalk and splashed mud on her eyes. Using the rain to wash away the dirt and grit, the wind blew with enough force BJ felt her heels rise up off the ground.
The barely audible sound of severe weather alert sirens broke through the cacophony.
She watched the darkening sky for the swirling and dipping finger, the start of a tornado. Standing in a field trying to spot a tornado, before it suddenly dropped out of the sky and swept her up, was insane. Getting in her car and trying to outrun a tornado was doubly insane. She looked at the upstairs window again. Uneasy about going in the house, she ran to the outhouse.
Any port in the storm!
Shelter in sight, she dashed in. Rainwater puddled at her feet. The small cubicle, with only a crescent moon carved into the door to let in the light, was near pitch black.
BJ fought the urge to panic when claustrophobia began to set in. Her imagination kicked into overdrive. Goosebumps broke out on her arms and legs when she allowed herself to think about what might be sharing the confined space with her.
CHAPTER 70
Paralyzed by fear, only her brain continued to function. She just knew that the most venomous spider in Louisiana was either crawling up from the floor or dangling down off the ceiling.
The hell with this.
As soon as she opened the door the wind smacked it shut. She threw her weight against it and tumbled out onto the ground. Gaining a foothold, she started running.
In the waning daylight an out of place figure appeared ahead of her, bringing her to a halt. The silhouette of a woman. Wearing old-fashioned clothes. Dark hair hanging to her waist.
What new hell is this?
The mud had a fierce grip on her shoes, but she managed to get free. Her teeth chattered so hard her mouth hurt. BJ ran, no longer caring which path she was on.
* * *
Jacob had driven part of the way between the house and the highway. Aimed for the wrong side of the road, then stopped. Rain pummeled the roof with a deafening roar. A cigarette dangling from his lips, ashes falling on his leg, he was alert for any unnatural signs of movement.
Refused to turn his head and set eyes on the woods.
Readied himself to take off like a guided missile, the moment she set foot on the road.
Dammit, show yourself. It’s going to be too dark soon.
The longer he waited the more he came to despise her.
He had a hunch she wanted him to think she’s heading for the highway when in reality she’d be running the opposite way, even though the chances of flagging down a cop or a Good Samaritan were better on the highway.
“Right?”
I hate this shit.
He put down his window a little to flick out the cigarette butt. The rain was so much louder out there. He turned the pack upside down, dumping loose tobacco on his wet jeans, and tried to shake out another cigarette before understanding the pack was empty.
Jacob popped open the glove compartment. Something bounced out. He reached down far enough to pick the object up off the floorboard. “Yikes!” Without looking at it he knew what it was just by the shape of the thing. A plastic hair clip.
He held it up. “A red claw-shaped plastic hair clip. Who put this here?”
BJ Donovan?
“Had to be.”
If she knows about Kelly, what else does she know?
“Whoa. Fifteen feet deep.”
Wasn’t that what she said the day I told her about the old well? The well where three boys found a body on the bottom?
He recalled her words: “Fifteen feet deep? Sitting on the edge, perhaps leaning over to grab the bucket to....”
“I am positive I never gave her any dimensions.”
About to pitch the hair clip to the floor, he noticed the clip wasn’t sticky like the one he’d sent to the bottom of the pond. Thinking this clip was brand new only deepened the mystery.
* * *
BJ didn’t understand why she wasn’t hearing highway traffic. Surely she’d run the whole three miles, and surely she should at least be hearing eighteen-wheelers.
Was it really because of the howling wind?
Or were there dark forces at work?
She was too far away from the house to see the roof and chimney. Help wasn’t waiting for her on the highway, either. More than likely, she’d get run over and end up flatter than a flapjack. Motorists wouldn’t be expecting to see anybody on foot in a heavy downpour.
Treading slowly, she did her best not to disturb the Joe Pye. She’d only gone a short distance before she heard an unconnected sound. The steady hum of a car engine. Childhood memories of being scared clouded her mind. On instinct, she sat low to the ground, eyes downcast.
Several minutes passed, leaving her unharmed.
She crawled toward the sound until she was at the last row of weeds separating her and the car. Stretched out flat on her stomach. Digging in with her arms, she pulled herself closer. Three feet from the road, she estimated she was about twenty feet from his rear bumper.
Every few seconds, there was a bright flare of red ash each time he took a drag off a cigarette. He blew smoke out a one-inch gap in his window. BJ could see him, just barely, in the weak lights of the dashboard. It was strange his headlights were off. In an instant she knew why.
The rain chilled her to the bone but she dared not move. Knowing where all the players were, she sorted through the only three choices she had.
One. Make an about-face, run in the opposite direction of the road a little ways, turn right and head to the highway.
Two. Turn left, stay behind the weeds and run headlong to the highway, and flag somebody down. Hope they aren’t so surprised they skid on the wet payment and kill her.
Three. Remain where she was and wait him out. Sooner or later, he’d fall asleep, or give up and go away. He might even run out of gas.
Why is he even here?
A fourth option popped into her head. Go to the house, find a decent hiding place where she’d be warm and dry, and stay there until morning.
She didn’t much care for the last idea. Outside, she’d have a much better chance of running away if he came too close. He clearly intended to harm her.
Before she made up her mind, his door flew open. He put a gun in his hand. Extended his arm high above his head, and fired five shots in rapid succession.
“Where are you, dammit,” he said in a menacing voice.
He drove forward until his taillights were nothing more than a tiny red blip. Made a U-turn, gunned the engine and sped past her, splattering her head with mud.
Shortly after that, there was a loud crash.
Fear seemed to strangle the life out of her. Wind, rain, and thunder were the only sounds. Nightfall had descended so solidly she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.
BJ mentally counted to ninety-nine. Waited for any sounds above and beyond the storm.
“One hundred.”
Keeping her fear at bay, she stepped out onto the road. To her left, the state highway was less than two miles away.
Sweet freedom.
The other way, someone might be hurt. Did she care?
Nearly all her life, other people made her decisions for her. On her own, she often found it difficult to make even the smallest choice.
But in this case, no, she didn’t care if someone was hurt.
She was curious if they were not.
BJ guardedly followed the road to the house with the aid of infrequent bursts of lightning which, thank goodness, hadn’t shown any signs of tapering off. She felt peculiar stumbling in the pitch-blackness. As though she walked through the valley of death? The shadow of evil? Had the missus misinformed her or misread the passages?
Up a little ways, a red light shined dully. It helped orient her in the darkness. A buoy bobbing in the Gulf of Mexico. A beacon. She kept her eyes on it, speeded up.
Almost there, BJ slowed her pace. Proceeded with extreme caution. Duck-waddled along the passenger side of the vehicle. Saw him in the light of the dashboard. The side of his head leaned against the steering wheel. His eyes were closed. Blood rolled off his chin and dripped on his pant leg. His arms hung limp at his sides. He had plowed headlong into the bole of a palm tree.
Is he dead?
She wasn’t sure. Cared even less.
Her stare shifted to the police radio. She swallowed bile rising from the pit of her stomach. Yes, she’d have to get in there beside him if she wanted to call for help.
Her cell phone was in her purse in her car. The handgun was not. Either go to Homer’s grocery store, use their phone to call a cab, and go home where a hot shower and a shot of tequila, that unaged liquid gold she so enjoyed, were waiting for her. Or, go to her car.
If I get my car and head back this way, I’d have to go past him to get to the highway. There’s no other way. And he’d be waiting for me.
“With a gun.”
The sudden crackle and static of the radio took her by surprise.
“Wentzel? Are you there?”
He didn’t move.
“Wentzel?”
The radio went silent.
She jerked the door open, sat down sideways with her feet on the ground, and snatched the microphone off its holder. Jacob lunged at her, pinning her against the headrest. She was shocked and speechless as he thrashed about, determined to get hold of the microphone. She let go of it, shoved him off of her.
Running in the middle of the road, she instinctively dove into the Joe Pye that had protected her so well earlier. Out of breath, she told herself not to give in to the burning sensation in her calves before reaching the highway.
She stopped dead in her tracks.
CHAPTER 71
Detective Northcutt approached his desk, his eyes going straight to the sheet of paper, folded in two and slanted against his phone. It was an unsigned note stating someone was seen leaving the house on Caulfield Lane late last night.
Gary observed familiar faces in the room. None stole a glance at the paper in his hand.
He zeroed in on the large wood-framed wall clock. Five-thirty. Guessed that Lucas was already gone for the day. He palmed the car keys in his pocket.
Before backing his car out of his assigned slot, he made sure he had a working flashlight. His stomach gurgled noisily, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
He stopped at the end of Caulfield Lane.
Observed the house with a sharp eye, unable to imagine any human being willingly living in so much filth. He stood on the crumbling concrete driveway where sprigs of grass poked up out of every available crack. Grabbed the flashlight off the dashboard. Went around to the back.
Caw, caw, caw!
“Not again.” Gary looked high and low. No sign of the bird anywhere.
At the far end of the house, to his great surprise, was a partly open window. He climbed through. Fell handsfirst into the bathtub, nearly sliding into the faucet on moisture that had seeped in. He shut and locked the window.
Because of the open window, before entering the living room he knew he was going to find an empty folding table. And, sure enough, he did. However, he didn’t expect to find the clear plastic sheet gone. Only logical explanation for it’s removal was the possibility of fingerprints.
Somebody had come in during the night, and cleared everything out.
And if someone else knew this, and obviously they did, why didn’t they try to reach me by phone? Why was a note put on my desk?
“I don’t know what Lucas and I were thinking, leaving it here unguarded.” So much had happened since the day they burst in waving a search warrant in the air that he’d forgotten their big master plan. “Must not have been much of one.”
On the verge of leaving, he saw something on the floor wedged between the wall and the metal table leg. A snapshot. Him and BJ. Taken last night after the writers meeting, in the well-lit parking lot of her restaurant. But it wasn’t the subject of the photo that struck a chord with him. It was the instant camera photo itself that had an alarming note of familiarity about it.
Was the photo accidentally dropped?
“Or deliberately positioned?”
Gary sent a text message to Lucas Cantin. Secured the house. He wasn’t coming back.
The key to this mystery lies elsewhere.
En route to Wild Capers, he called BJ’s cell phone. No response. No surprise. Still uneasy about calling her house, and getting her in trouble in the event her husband may have finally come home, he set the phone in the cup holder between the bucket seats of his Mustang, and then accelerated.
Beau greeted him at the entrance of Wild Capers. “Bonswa!”
“Good evening, Beau. Is BJ, um, Chef Donovan here by any chance?”
Well aware now that Gary’s a New Orleans homicide detective, Beau eyed him with suspicion. “Poukisa? Why do you want to know this, again?”
Gary slouched a bit to appear less threatening to the skinny little man with slicked-back greasy hair and a pencil moustache. He understood Beau’s need to protect his boss. He also understood Beau knows his boss has a husband.
“I’m taking a cooking course. Chef Donovan has been kind enough to help me with my homework. I was given a new assignment today, and I-I need her help with some of the cooking terms.” Gary grinned, sheepishly.
Beau stared at him.
The guy isn’t dumb, not the way he pretends. “All right. Trut
h is, I’m working on a case in which Mrs. Donovan has a direct connection. Is she, or isn’t she, here?”
“Non. She’s off tonight.”
Gary started to ask him why didn’t he just say that to begin with, but it wasn’t worth the time or the effort. “Thank you, Beau. G’night.”
Where to now?
Gary fitted the key in the ignition. A flash of lightning.
Time to visit BJ’s new home.
He couldn’t help but smile when he presumed her husband moped around their house in a bad mood after finding out that she and her things were long gone.
“Jeez. It wasn’t so funny when Genette did the same thing to me.”
He didn’t have to wonder what’d become of her. Last he heard, she and her boyfriend had moved east, somewhere cooler.
“Somewhere far from me.”
Maybe now that BJ and her husband have split up she’ll give me a chance. Even though I’m fully aware I don’t deserve one.
“Like Franklin Donovan, I didn’t make my wife happy.”
Gary pulled into a vacant slot. Walked across the grounds with his hands in his pockets, hoping to look less like a cop and more like an average Joe.
A middle-aged Mexican couple approached him. “Hola! Can we help you?” asked the woman. The man beside her nodded hello, then walked away,
Gary saw him disappear through a door marked Managers Office. He turned his attention to the woman. She was staring at his midsection. Gary released a short laugh when he understood she had seen his badge, the same badge he’d forgotten to hide.
That explains the questioning look in her eyes.
“BJ Donovan. Her apartment.”
“Si!” She turned and rapidly waved her hand for him to follow her.
