by Lisa Jackson
“Let’s see,” she said to herself as she sat down at her computer and googled the old inn once more, searching through the images, which were an array of photographs of the inn in its heyday. Shots of the pine-paneled interior with its massive staircase and rock fireplace that climbed two floors, the waitstaff in the dining area, smiling cooks in crisp white dresses, pristine aprons and hairnets working over a massive stove. There were shots of guests lounging outside the French doors that opened to the river, women in swimming suits from the fifties and sixties sunbathing. Other shots of men decked in fishing gear while proudly displaying strings of catfish, bass and sunfish, the scales of their catches glinting in the sunlight.
She found several pictures of the back of the lodge and the private pier jutting into the river. Rowboats and motorboats were tied, each with the distinctive white on deep red logo of the Marianne Inn.
“Bingo,” she whispered.
The color was off as the boat she’d thought she’d spied lurking under the drooping branches of the willow tree had been more of a faded orange than deep red, but the flowing script had been identical. The boat had once been part of the old lodge’s small fleet.
And Nikki Gillette thought she was the only one who knew about it. She bit her lip and wondered who had been at the helm of the small craft. And more importantly, why had he or she been at the Beaumont estate on the day the two decomposing bodies of the Duval girls had been discovered?
* * *
It was after ten at night when Bronco cracked open another bottle of SweetWater, then flipped the cap of the pale ale into the overflowing trash. Only one bottle left in the fridge, along with half a hamburger and the usual bottles of catsup, mayo and mustard.
Not much else.
He’d become a hermit.
Ever since finding those damned bodies, he’d holed up in his house, only getting out for that meeting with the attorney and cops and a couple of runs to the closest convenience store, a mini-mart, where he also filled up his truck.
He’d lost his job a few weeks earlier and his unemployment hadn’t kicked in and, the real problem, he hadn’t found anything of value at the Beaumont estate. Just those dead girls. Their thin skeletons dressed in fraying girls’ clothes from an earlier decade still haunted his dreams. The locket, the tennis shoes, the ring and hairband.
His insides went cold and he took a long swallow.
He thought about driving to his regular haunt, down to the Red Knuckle, where he would drink a few more beers and watch the Braves play.
But he didn’t.
He was too spooked.
And the word had gotten out that he’d found the bodies.
More than one reporter had called.
He walked to the living room and peered through the window to the night beyond. The TV was tuned into the station that had aired the Braves game but right now there was a newscaster on the screen with yet another “breaking story.” Of course it was about the Duval girls. He watched. As he always did. As the nightmare continued. The police were looking for people who might know something about the crime of course, and the report focused on two teenagers who’d never come forward at the time, boys captured on tape. He squinted at the grainy image of kids at the refreshment stand in the theater. Two guys who looked like every other teenager twenty years ago. No one he remembered. He frowned, took a pull from his longneck.
The next shot was of two men, computer-enhanced images of what those teenagers from two decades ago might look like, and he paused the screen shot. Had he seen either of them? He didn’t think so, but . . . maybe?
Even if he did know them, he was out of it. He’d done enough, discovering the bodies and calling the damned cops, reporting what he’d stumbled upon. And now his name was being leaked.
Shit.
So far no one had shown up on his doorstep, not that the NO TRESPASSING and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED signs he’d nailed to the fence posts at the end of the lane would stop any member of the press.
Fender was whining at the back door, so Bronco made his way through the kitchen again and opened the door before unlatching the screen. “Go on now. Git out there and do yer business,” he said, as the heeler shot out of the house and into the night, where crickets were singing and frogs croaking. Bronco stepped onto the porch and stared at the line of trees separating the house from the river and from the old Beaumont place. This whole area had been owned by the Beaumonts. All the way up the river to the Marianne Inn, which had been named for Arthur Beaumont’s first wife, Marianne, the one before crazy Beulah, and then the land on both sides of the river, including this place, which his grandfather had managed to buy from the old lady before she died, before Arthur’s son, Baxter, had inherited it and made it into another one of his damned subdivisions.
Another swallow of beer as a gust of wind rattled some of the new-fallen leaves, scattering them across the dirt and patchy grass of the yard.
He lit a cigarette and wondered where the hell the damned jewels and money and whatever the hell else Beulah Beaumont had hidden were. Had he missed them, not seen a hiding spot because he got the shit scared out of him? What was it his grandfather had said? What were the old man’s words?
“I tell ya, boy, I’ve never seen the likes of it. Never in all my born days. A fortune, right there in that velvet bag of hers.”
That was it. Talk of a velvet bag.
Bronco took a long drag from his Winston, the tip glowing red.
He was certain Gramps had said he’d helped Beulah hide it in the basement, in a niche of some kind. Could he have missed it? Maybe. When he was scared out of his mind, he could have run away before finding the treasure, but the cops, with all their man power and technology, they would have located anything of value. They wouldn’t have missed it.
Would they?
Could it have been found?
Moved?
But by whom?
And when?
His eyes narrowed through the cloud of smoke he exhaled. That was his big chance and he’d blown it. He whistled to the dog, his thoughts returning to the basement of that huge monster of a house. Damn it all to hell. Gazing up at the stars, he cursed his luck—all of it bad.
He heard a rustle to the side of the house.
Fender.
Nosing around for a raccoon or possum or squirrel. “Come on in, then,” he said, and dropped the butt of his cigarette and stubbed it out, grinding it beneath the heel of his boot.
But the dog didn’t appear.
“Fender?” he yelled, a little louder, with more authority. “Come!” Peering into the darkness, he saw nothing. And the rustling at the corner of the house had silenced. The wind had died. Even the frogs and crickets had stilled.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickled.
It wasn’t like the dog not to obey.
From inside the house, he heard a sound. The soft scrape of a boot on the old linoleum.
Or was it the TV that he’d left on in the living room, the volume low, the bluish light flickering behind him?
He strained to listen.
A floorboard creaked.
But he was alone.
All the spit in his mouth dried.
He licked his lips.
Just inside the door was his hunting rifle. A Winchester .30-30 lever action that Gramps had left him.
The screen door scraped open and he reached for the gun.
But he came up empty. His fingers brushing the kitchen wall near the doorjamb.
What the hell?
The rifle was always there.
Loaded.
Ready.
Just in case.
His heart began to knock and he peeked inside. Heard nothing, but saw in the flickering half-light that the gun was definitely gone. Had he put it in his truck? Or . . . ?
Or what? You know you left it there. It’s always there unless you go hunting. And someone’s in the fuckin’ house. With your damned weapon. What the fuck are you gonna do?
His keys were by the front door, which he realized belatedly he’d left open. His insides turned to jelly as he remembered his phone and his other gun, the pistol, were in a drawer by his bed.
Shit, shit, shit!
At that moment the dog bounded onto the back porch and yipped to go inside.
“Shh!” he hissed.
Maybe whoever it was would just leave, take whatever he wanted and . . . but why was he here? Bronco didn’t have anything of any value.
He took one step off the porch.
Click!
The distinctive sound of the Winchester being cocked.
The dog growled.
Oh, shit.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a figure in the doorway, behind the screen, backlit by the eerie light of the TV.
“No!” he yelled as the dog leapt forward.
The gun blasted, flashing white, splintering the screen door.
Hot pain seared through his back.
He stumbled.
Fell to the ground.
His head hitting the dirt.
Tried to get away.
Panic surged through him.
Who? Why? Oh, God, help me . . .
He crawled, muscles quivering, bleeding, his fingernails clawing through tufts of grass, the smell of the marsh and cordite and blood heavy in his nostrils.
Bronco wanted to plead for his life, but no words came and he tasted salt—blood on his tongue.
Oh, God, he was gonna die.
Right here in his own damned backyard.
The assailant stepped through the door.
Slowly.
With measured and evil determination.
Oh, God. Please, no!
“Don’t,” Bronco croaked, spitting blood, sneaking another glance over his shoulder, the words stalling in his throat. His entire life, all those whom he’d harmed, the names and faces of those he’d cheated who would want revenge spun through his mind. “Help me.”
He couldn’t see the person’s face, but his body, backlit by the gray light of the doorway, was visible, and Bronco watched as the would-be killer cocked Bronco’s own damned Winchester.
Again.
“No . . . please . . .” Bronco tried vainly to scurry away, but his movements were sluggish, his legs unresponsive no matter how loud his brain screamed. He tried to push himself to his feet. His arm gave way, his hand sticky with blood and dirt.
It was too late. From the corner of his eye he saw the monster level the stock of the rifle against a shoulder, then carefully take aim.
Jesus, please have mercy. No, no, no . . .
Blam!
A light flashed.
His body jerked.
He thought he heard a dog barking, but it was far in the distance and grew fainter as Bronco drew his last, wheezing breath.
Time is slipping steadily through the hour glass, I feel it, like the rapid-fire beating of my heart. After so long, so many years, now the seconds, hours and days are moving so fast. Too fast. Am I ready? I have to be.
I slow my breathing, try to find an inner strength.
I don’t think about the sisters. Don’t want to focus on the killing.
Not yet.
Not when there are so many pitfalls. So many who want to unmask me.
The worst: Nikki Gillette. But I will deal with her. The camera I bought used, the GPS tracking device now affixed to the undercarriage of her Honda, will tell me where she is. Still, it may not be enough.
With each passing day, every hour that goes by, every minute that I breathe, they are closing in. I have to find a way to slow it all down so that I can finish. All too soon the sand will have drained away, my time up and I’ll be exposed.
Naked to the world.
CHAPTER 21
“You found another body!” Nikki charged when Reed took a quiet step into the bedroom. He’d hoped she would be fast asleep when he sneaked into the darkened room, but he didn’t get lucky.
She slapped on the bedside lamp and he noticed the books and papers and notes and iPad that were strung out on his side of the duvet. “Is it Rose Duval?”
“No, we’re sure not,” he admitted, sloughing off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. “But a kid. Possibly preteen, most likely a boy, though there are more tests that have to be run.”
“Who?”
“Don’t know.”
“Murder?”
“Again, that’s unclear.” He sank down on the mattress beside her.
“You didn’t call me!” she charged.
When he didn’t answer she had the good grace to seem a little chagrined.
“Nikki—”
“Yeah, I know. What about the computer image of Rose? Has anyone come forward?”
When he took her hand, she rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it. You know how I am. And you have since we first met.” She leaned forward on the bed, pressing her face close to his. “Can’t we work on this together? I’m going to be doing a lot of research on the Beaumont family and estate and I think I can help.”
“You’re not on the force.”
“We’ve worked together before,” she reminded him.
“And you nearly lost your life.”
She flopped back on the pillows. “I’ll be careful.”
He thought about that and shook his head. “No, you won’t. You don’t know how to be. And, really, I think there’s been enough damage done already.” He held her gaze and didn’t mention the lost baby or the fact that Sylvie Morrisette had given up her life. He didn’t have to. She got the message. Her expression changed from hopeful to sad in an instant.
“Low blow, Pierce,” she whispered, shrinking away from him. “Really low.”
And she was right. But she had to be reminded. He couldn’t take a chance on losing her, too.
* * *
Margaret Duval’s voice was thin and quavering over the connection, almost inaudible over the rumbling of the air-conditioner as it blasted cold air through the vents at the police station. “Did you, Detective Reed? Did you find my Rosie? I heard about a body being discovered up at Black Bear Lake.” She sounded so frail, her voice clogged with repressed tears. “Dear God. I prayed, you know. I prayed and prayed and prayed that she would be spared,” she sniffed.
Seated at his desk, the phone pressed to his ear, Reed silently swore at the idiot who had leaked the bad information to the press. If someone was going to talk, they could, at the very least, get their facts correct.
“No, Mrs. Le Roy, we didn’t find your daughter,” he said, glancing over at Delacroix, who was also on her desk phone but had turned her head to listen to him as he continued. “We did discover a youth’s body near Black Bear Lake, that’s true,” he said. “But it’s not Rose.”
“Thank God,” she said, now sobbing, her voice broken. “Things are so bad. Do you know that Owen is getting death threats?” She sniffed. “Death threats! For something he didn’t do. And he won’t go to the police. Nuh-uh. Not after the way he’s been treated. He’s my only son, you know. The only one I can still talk to. Sometimes . . . sometimes I think God is punishing me.”
“Mrs. Le Roy—” he tried to cut in, but she was on a roll.
“Ezra seems to think I can find solace in the Bible and I try, I really try. My husband, he’s such a good man, a God-fearing man, so willing to forgive sins. Anyone’s. Even mine. Just like our Lord Jesus.” Her voice was thin again, the sobbing having given way to a steady whisper. “I don’t deserve him.”
“I’m sure that’s not what he thinks,” Reed said, though he had no idea what was in the reverend’s mind.
“Rosie can’t be dead,” she said suddenly, her conviction renewed. “She just can’t be! I can’t lose them all.”
He didn’t want to give her any false hope. “Mrs. Le Roy—”
“You find my daughter!” she demanded, not allowing him to placate her. “Find her before something happens!”
“I assure you, Mrs.
Le Roy—”
“Just do it, Detective. It’s your damned job!”
Click!
The connection was severed. He shook his head and caught Delacroix watching him. “Guess she told you.”
“Guess so.”
She was still holding the phone to her ear.
“Aren’t you . . . ?” he motioned to her cell.
“On hold.” She rolled her eyes. “Checking with Missing Persons about the new body. Hoping for an ID—something that matches.”
So far the body was still unidentified, though dental records were being checked. DNA would take longer.
He asked, “Did you hear that Owen Duval is getting death threats?”
She shook her head, took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “No.” “According to his mother, he’s being harassed by the press and tried and convicted by the public.”
“Great.” Again she shook her head and glanced out the window. “I bet he wishes he never moved back here.”
“Probably. You still on hold?” When she nodded, he asked, “Anything come in on the unknown teenagers who were in the lobby of the theater the last time anyone saw the Duval girls?”
“Nope, not yet. A copy of the tape of the lobby and with the teenagers went out to news stations. So far no one’s biting. But it’s still early.”
“Twenty years doesn’t seem so early to me.”
“You know what I mean.”
He turned back to the statement from one of the neighbors who had lived in the house next to the Duvals at the time of the girls’ disappearance. The paper had yellowed and smelled of dust, but he read the typed report about an interview with George Adams. He’d been seventy-nine at the time of his statement and had died in the intervening years. George had admitted to not having noticed anything out of the ordinary on the day that the girls went missing, but had claimed fiercely that there were “all sorts of shenanigans going on over there at the Duval place! Harvey, he’s an insurance salesman, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have him for my agent, and that wife of his? Margie or whatever she calls herself, she’s a nurse, but she got fired from the hospital, the way I hear it. To become a private nurse to the damned Beaumonts. Who does that? Something’s not right there, let me tell you. I heard, well, it’s just gossip really, but the missus and I, we don’t go for that swingin’.”
