by Lisa Jackson
The deputies hadn’t gotten any closer as they’d seen a dog through the window, so they’d kept their distance while watching the cabin. The lane was, according to all maps, the only way in and out of the property, and the deputies had a view of the front and back doors as the cabin sat at an angle.
“Came home, let the dog out, went back in, cut the lights,” the taller deputy, Marcel Van Houten, told him. “We got lucky, the dog didn’t notice us.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Reed said to Delacroix, and together they walked to the front door. As anticipated, the dog inside began going nuts, barking its fool head off, and a man responded, “Fender! Stop! No barking! Enough.” But the dog ignored him, making a ruckus. “I said, enough already. Holy shit, stop!”
Reed rapped loudly on the front door as Delacroix stood a step to the side, her weapon drawn. Just in case.
Inside the rough-hewn home, the dog was growling, snarling and yapping out of control. But the man had turned quiet.
“Police!” Reed said to the door, pounding again. “Bruno Cravens, this is Detective Pierce Reed. Savannah-Chatham Police Department. Open up!”
Then he waited.
No response.
“Bronco!” Reed shouted, and this time he heard something other than the dog.
“Yeah, I’m comin’. You! Fender! Sit and shut up.”
Finally, the dog went quiet and footsteps could be heard before the single bulb of the porch light turned on, a lock was turned, the door opened a crack, and Bronco, his brown hair mussed, one bleary eye peering past a small chain that connected the door to the jamb, asked, “Whadda ya want?”
“I think you know,” Reed said. “We want to talk to you about what you know about the bodies discovered in the basement of the Beaumont home, downriver. We know you called in the report.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did, Bruno. We know it. Can prove it.” Reed was too tired for the other man’s denials. “So, don’t argue. You won’t win. Why don’t you just open the door, let me and my partner, Detective Delacroix, in and you can tell us all about it?”
The eye just stayed focused on Reed.
“Otherwise, Bronco, we’ll have this conversation down at the station. Your choice.”
“Oh, man,” Bronco whined as a moth, drawn to the light overhead, began flitting around. Bronco was distracted by the movement for a moment.
Reed brought him back to the conversation. “Work with us and you won’t find yourself behind bars for trespassing.”
“Behind—? Hey, look! Without me, you wouldn’t have . . . oh, shit,” he said, realizing he’d just admitted to the call. His eye refocused on Reed.
Reed nodded. “Right.”
“Crap.” Bronco let out a defeated sigh, waited a beat and finally said, “Fine. Okay. Just give me a sec to put on some pants.”
“Two minutes,” Reed said, and as Bronco turned from the door, added, “Just so you know, we’re watching the front, back and sides of the house.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.” Bronco pulled the door behind him, leaving the porch light glowing and a second moth to join the first. Reed waited, Delacroix at his side, he watching the digital readout on his watch, she still focused on the door, her service weapon drawn.
Bronco snapped on interior lights and opened the door twelve seconds short of the two-minute limit. In a pair of battered jeans and a T-shirt, his hair still uncombed, he unlatched the chain and stepped aside, allowing them to pass into the squalor of his living area.
Reed stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning the small pine-paneled living room for the dog, who turned out to be a docile hound of some kind. Curled up on a small rag rug near the end of a stained couch, he watched the newcomers but couldn’t keep his tail from wagging.
Delacroix was edgy, though she tried her best to keep her case of nerves under control as Bronco waved them into two beat-up recliners and settled onto a corner of the couch near his dog. The place smelled of old tobacco, stale beer and dog, ashtrays overflowing, beer cans left on a center coffee table that had seen better days.
“I figured you’d show up here,” Bronco admitted. “Shit, man, it didn’t take you long.” He lit a cigarette and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. Exhaling in defeat, he let the smoke drift up to the yellowed ceiling and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“You called in the bodies?” Delacroix asked. She was sitting tentatively on the edge of her seat, a battle-scarred brown recliner, her eyes laser-focused on Bronco, the fingers of her left hand rubbing together nervously, as if she were contemplating reaching for her service weapon.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved off the question as if it were a given. “I was up to the old house and I went into the basement and found the graves.”
“Why?” Delacroix asked. “What were you doing there?”
That’s when the lies began weaving in with the truth. Reed read it on the other man’s face.
Bronco looked to one side, trying to come up with a plausible answer as he scratched his chin and took another drag. “Well, y’see I had the key. From my granddaddy.”
“Wynn,” Delacroix supplied.
“Yeah, he’d been the caretaker up there for years, y’know. Anyway, he, um, he passed away a few weeks back and I ended up with the keys to the place. I thought I should go up and see if everything was okay.” He glanced to the window and the dark night beyond. “Because of the hurricane, y’know.”
“And?” Reed pushed.
“And nothin’. I was checkin’ out the basement and I found those bodies.” He took a long pull on his cigarette again, and Reed noticed his hands shook a bit. “Scared the bejeezus out of me, if ya want to know the truth. Spooky as hell. I saw ’em, took off, and made the call. Figured I had to. Them two little bodies . . . shit.” After a final drag, he shot a stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth and jabbed his cigarette out in the already-full ashtray. “Hope I never see a thing like that again.” He looked up at Reed and motioned to the two cops. “You all. You see that kind of shit all the time, but me? I don’t. And I sure as hell don’t want to again. Not if I live to be a hundred!”
That part Reed believed.
But Delacroix wasn’t moved. “So you waded through the muck in the basement to the far wall and found the latch to the crypt.”
“Yeah, that’s about it.” He was nodding.
“Kind of intricate, isn’t it?” she pointed out. “Not all that easy to get into.”
Bronco frowned and Reed noticed a bead of sweat running from his temple. “Well, the damned door was open and I . . . I peeked in and damn, but one of those skulls seemed to be starin’ straight at me!” He gave a shudder.
She asked, “What time was this?”
“’Bout ten minutes before I made the call. I got in my truck and me and the dog came here, I called, took a shower and . . . and drove into town.”
“To the Red Knuckle?” Reed asked.
“Yeah.” Bronco’s head snapped up. “You had me followed?”
“Well, yeah. After we figured out who made the call, we started looking for you,” Reed explained. “Do you have any idea how long those bodies have been up there?”
“Hell, no! I didn’t know they were there.”
Delacroix interjected, “What about identifying them? Do you know who they were?”
“Shit, no! They looked like girls, I guess. I mean, they were wearin’ girl things, but . . . wait!” He focused on Reed. “What is this? How would I know who they were? Wait a minute? Are you . . . ? Are you suggestin’ I knew something about how they got up there? What happened to them? Shit, I got no fuckin’ . . . no clue!” He scraped his pack of Winstons from the table and shook out another cigarette. His hands visibly trembled as he snapped his lighter over the end of his filter tip. “What the hell are you trying to pull here?” He squinted through the smoke. “I did you all a favor. I found the bodies, got the hell out, called fu—effin’ 911 and that’s all I know.”
&nbs
p; Delacroix said, “But your grandfather, he might have—”
“He’s fuckin’ dead!”
“—might have told you about them?”
“No way! Wynn didn’t know nothin’ . . . or at least he didn’t tell me ’bout any damned dead girls. The only dead one I know who died up there was that girl whose ghost that’s hangin’ out there. Nell or Nellie or whatever. But no.”
“You know the bodies are girls?” Delacroix asked, dead serious.
“Well, hell, I think so. Like I just told you! One of ’em was wearin’ a locket and a bra . . . oh, shit, I want a lawyer!”
“No need for that,” Reed said, “though, of course, you could call one and we can go downtown, make this real official. But we’re just asking about what you found.”
“You’re not arresting me?” he asked.
Delacroix asked, “Should we?”
“Hell, no! If I was guilty, would I have called the goddamned police? Huh? I was doin’ my civic duty.”
“Anonymously,” she pointed out, and didn’t bother to hide the irritation in her voice.
“No shit. Because of this. I didn’t want to go through all this.” Bronco rolled his eyes to the ceiling and let out a lungful of smoke on a sigh. “I shouldn’t of done it. I knew it. Calling the cops is always a bad, bad idea.”
“No one’s arresting anyone,” Reed said, sending a pointed look to his newbie of a partner. “We’re just talking. That’s all. Just trying to figure out what’s going on.”
“The way I look at it, you all should be grateful I even made the call,” Bronco said.
“We are.”
Delacroix shot him a glare that accused him of being a liar, but Reed ignored it and Bronco relaxed a little. “Fine then.” Leaning back on the couch, he glowered at Delacroix, then focused on Reed and, with urging, told them what he knew, though Reed thought he was still holding back. On the way back to the station, Delacroix said, “He’s lying. Not about everything, but he’s holding something back.” She rolled down the passenger window. “And I smell like an old cigarette butt. He was nervous, couldn’t keep from playing with his pack and lighting one after another. He knows more than he’s saying.”
“Maybe he’ll have a come-to-Jesus moment and tell us everything.”
“That guy?” Delacroix snorted and pulled a face. “I’m not putting any money on that. He lies like that rug his dog was sleeping on.”
Reed couldn’t argue. He dropped her off at the station to pick up her car, then swung by the hospital to check on Morrisette.
But he was too late.
As he started for the main doors, Reed noticed Bart Yelkis huddled with Morrisette’s two kids, both of whom were crying and crossing the parking area. Toby, a string bean with a Mohawk, was almost as tall as his spark plug of a father. He was sniffing and dashing away tears while trying to suck it up. Priscilla, as petite as her mother, was sobbing, hiding her head beneath a curtain of blond hair and refusing to be comforted by her father. Bart’s expression was dark, a mixture of anger and angst.
Reed’s stomach dropped. He felt the bad news. Knew, with sickening insight, what was to come.
Bart zeroed in on Reed and shepherded his kids into a jacked-up Dodge Ram, a black king cab with amber lights mounted on the roof of the cab. He slammed the door behind them, then whirled and, fists clenched, crossed the parking lot to square off with Reed.
“I’m suing your ass, Reed. You and that fucking department you work for. It’s your fault she’s dead.”
Dead? Morrisette is dead? Oh. Jesus. “No . . .” He didn’t want to believe it, though the truth was evident in the shorter man’s eyes. “But I thought she was . . .” His voice trailed off. Hoping against hope he was reading Morrisette’s ex all wrong, he wanted to deny what was becoming horribly evident, with a sinking sense of dread that Yelkis, for once, was telling the truth.
Sylvie Morrisette, his partner for over a decade, was gone.
“What? Wait. You didn’t know?” Yelkis stepped over a raised flower bed separating one area of the lot from the next. To drive the point home, he said, “She died, Reed. Right there on the operating table.” Advancing on Reed, he fought to keep control and failed. “Her life was snuffed out, just like that.” He snapped his fat fingers as beneath the brim of his cap a vein throbbed visibly at one temple. “The way I hear it, your wife killed her.” His jaw worked and his fists opened and closed, and Reed detected the lingering odor of his last beer on Yelkis’s breath. “Did you hear me?” he demanded, pointing a finger at Reed’s chest, his lips twisted in fury. “Your damned wife.” For a second Reed thought Yelkis was going to take a swing at him, sucker-punch him right then and there.
But as his fists balled, the passenger window of his truck rolled down and Toby yelled, “Dad? You comin’?”
Yelkis held up an index finger and yelled over his shoulder, “In a sec!”
“No one killed anyone,” Reed argued as a heavyset woman walked across the lot, aimed her remote at a silver Toyota, pressed a button and the little car beeped a response, its lights blinking.
“Hell, yeah, she did,” Yelkis insisted. “Your reporter wife? She killed Sylvie just as sure as if she steered that damn boat right into her head.” He pointed an accusing finger at Reed. “Sylvie dived in to save your bitch of a wife. And let me tell you, Nikki Gillette ain’t gonna get away with it.” He sneered Nikki’s name and the muscles in Reed’s back tightened reflexively even though he told himself not to take the bait.
“Yeah,” Yelkis went on. “That wife of yours? Rich from the get-go. She’s skated all her life, the daughter of a big-time judge and then married to a cop, but it ain’t gonna work. Not this time!” His jaw jutted forward, silently daring Reed to lunge at him.
Reed’s jaw was so tight it ached. “I don’t think—”
“Good! Don’t think and don’t goddamned argue with me.” Yelkis jabbed his finger straight at Reed’s chest. “Nikki Gillette is the reason my Sylvie’s gone! She’s the reason my kids don’t have a mother no more.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said automatically, still seething inside.
“Yeah, sure.”
From the corner of his eye, Reed saw Priscilla’s pale face pressed against the truck’s rear window and he hurt for the girl, understood Yelkis’s frustration, but deep down wanted to argue with the man, defend Nikki, tell Yelkis to fuck the hell off. He didn’t. Not when he noticed the streaks of mascara running down Priscilla’s wan face.
Bart Yelkis was still raving. “You and your wife and the whole goddamned police department are going to pay. That was my kids’ mama who died in there tonight.” He hooked a thumb toward the hospital. “Don’t think l’m gonna forget who’s responsible!” With that he stalked back to his truck, snarled at his kids as he climbed in, then started the truck and backed up. He threw the pickup into gear. Tires chirped as he tore out of the lot, barely slowing to wheel onto the quiet street.
Reed wanted to disbelieve Yelkis.
But he knew it was the truth.
He wanted to rail at the heavens but didn’t figure God was listening.
And he wanted to throttle his wayward, bullheaded wife. Instead he climbed behind the wheel of his Jeep and stared at the hospital through the bug-spattered windshield. Four stories of windows— patches glowing dimly in the night. Wide glass doors beneath a portico where a glowing red sign read: EMERGENCY ENTRANCE. Sprawled before it all, a wide, nearly empty parking lot illuminated by lampposts and the blue of moonlight.
His cell phone buzzed and he saw it was Delacroix. The word, it seemed, was out. He hesitated, then answered.
“You heard?” she asked. “About Detective Morrisette?”
“Yeah.” A knot swelled in his throat.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” he forced out. “Me too.” Tears stung at the back of his eyes. Hot, unwanted drops of anger, frustration and grief.
“You okay?”
No! I’m not okay.
I don’t even know what “okay” is right now! “Yeah,” he lied. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
Shit no. I’m not sure about any damned thing right now.
“Reed?” she asked.
“I said I’m fine,” he said sharply. His chin wobbled, and tears began to drizzle down his face. But he kept his voice steady. Somehow. “I’m good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He swiped the hot tears away.
“Okay. Hang in there.”
He clicked off and slid a glance at the passenger seat, where Morrisette had spent so many hours navigating, swearing, checking her phone, confiding in him and just bullshitting about the world. He could almost see her spiked platinum hair, the eyebrow stud she once wore and the ever-present snakeskin boots.
Shit. He pounded a fist into the dash.
Shit, shit, shit!
She was gone.
The idea was nearly inconceivable that someone so vibrant, so passionate, so full of life could be dead.
Pull yourself together. You see life and death all the time. In your job, it’s what you deal with. Everyone dies. You can deal with this. You’ve got a wife and a kid on the way. And a damned case to solve. Get on with it, Reed.
He started the engine, dropped the Jeep into gear, then stopped. Even though he knew the truth, believed what he’d heard from Yelkis and had the information confirmed by Delacroix, he had to hear it for himself. He shoved the Jeep into park, cut the engine and got out of the Jeep. Pocketing his keys, he half jogged to the wide glass doors of the ER.
Maybe, just maybe this was all a mistake.
Or a bad dream.
He had to hear it for himself.
But even as he showed his badge to bully his way to see the doctor who had been tending to his partner, he knew deep in his gut it was an exercise in futility.
Detective Sylvie Morrisette, four times married, four times divorced, mother of two, with her west Texas drawl and caustic sense of humor was dead.
