South of Hell (Louis Kincaid Mysteries)

by P J Parrish

  There was no sound except the caw of a crow. He spotted the huge black bird perched on the wheel of a rusting tractor. It was hunched down in its oily wet feathers, staring at him.

  He jumped up onto the side porch. Three weathered planks were nailed over the door. He grabbed the edge of the top plank with both hands and pulled. With a loud crack, the board came off. A heavy fluttering sound. He turned. The bird was gone.

  It took five minutes to work the other two boards off. He peered into the dusty window of the door. It looked like a kitchen beyond.

  No lock on this door. He tried the knob, and it turned easily—too easily—but the door didn’t budge. He pressed a shoulder against it and gave a hard shove. The door creaked open.

  He looked back at the road. The Bronco wasn’t visible from where he was. With a final glance around the grounds, he went into the house.

  The smell. Not what a house should be but weirdly familiar. Then it hit him what it reminded him of: the basement of one of his foster homes in Detroit. Closed and fusty, with the powdery smell of old decaying newspapers.

  He closed the door behind him and took in the small room. It was a kitchen, though most of what anyone normally would identify with a kitchen was gone. No appliances, just dusty outlines on the scuffed blue linoleum. Dark scarred wood paneling halfway up the walls, then faded yellow paper spotted with black mold. One wall of built-in cupboards in the same dark wood, the doors flung open to empty shelves. A dripping sound drew his eyes to a sink under the room’s single small window. The water had left a vivid streak of dark red rust in the grimy white sink.

  He moved to the next room, stepping carefully over the piles of trash on the dull wood-plank floor.

  An archway led to what he assumed had once been a dining room. It was filled with stacks of cardboard boxes. He could make out a round oak table in the middle with several slatted chairs. The table was heaped with more boxes. Each was sealed with packing tape and imprinted with the same letters: HANSEN BROS. AUCTIONS AND ESTATE SALES.

  He started down a narrow hallway, clicking on the flashlight against the gloom. The beam picked up old pictures and carved frames propped against the blue-papered walls. More Hansen cartons. A broken ladderback chair.

  The place was a warren of small rooms, each with a different wallpaper and different linoleum. Faded stripes, pastoral scenes, and flowers on the walls. Checkerboards, geometrics, and ugly patterns on the chipped and peeling floors.

  He had come to the front of the house. Two large windows, draped with yellowed lace panels, let in the gloomy light. He clicked the flashlight off. The room—he guessed it was called a parlor at one time—was empty except for a dust-covered upright piano shoved in the corner. The top of the piano was stacked three feet high with long, thin boxes. He took one down, and the box crumpled in his fingers. It held a player piano roll, the paper as fragile as papyrus.

  He set the roll back on the piano and left the parlor.

  The flashlight led him back to the hallway. He shined the beam into two small closets. Empty. At the staircase, he paused, his fingers on the railing. It had been a beautiful thing once, this mahogany staircase, its posts intricately carved and beaded, its newel topped by a crown. It was the only thing in the whole house that still whispered of the grandeur this home must have had a century ago.

  Dusting his hands, he started up. The stairs groaned under his weight. The rooms grew smaller, dingier, and more barren. He poked the flashlight into each of the three doors. More peeling wallpaper and wet, cracked ceilings. No furniture, no boxes. No signs of life.

  He pushed open the last door. He thought it was just another closet, but then the flashlight beam picked up the dull white of a filthy claw-foot bathtub. No sink, no toilet. Nothing else in the room except a string hanging from an empty socket in the ceiling.

  He closed the door. A tendril of cold air curled around his neck. He turned in a slow circle, looking for its source, and saw the small window at the end of the hall. The rippled old glass had a hole in it with a web of cracks, as if someone had thrown a rock through it.

  He went to the window and looked down. There was a gray wood outhouse in the backyard. He let out a long, slow breath. That explained why there was no toilet in the bathroom.

  Why had he come here? Even as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer. It was the way he had always worked. Going back to the homes of victims had always helped him. It never gave him anything tangible, anything he could even articulate. Just a vague feeling, like his senses were vibrating on a sharper frequency, like the life that had once pulsed in these places could reveal secrets.

  He stared at the outhouse. This place, this time-warped, forgotten place. There was definitely a feeling here, an almost palpable feeling of despair, but it was laid over a brittle hardness that he couldn’t quite bring into focus. Something had tried to thrive here in spite of everything.

  Jean Brandt’s face was in his head then. How could a woman like that survive in this soulless place? Maybe Shockey was wrong. Maybe she had just run off, just like her husband said.

  Who could blame her?

  He went downstairs. Back in the kitchen, he paused for one last look around. He spotted an axe leaning up against a cabinet and went to it. Its wood handle was scarred, its blade caked with dark red. He ran a finger over its dull edge.

  There was no point in letting his imagination go crazy. Shockey had that cornered. He looked at the streak on his finger. Just some rust.

  Outside, he stopped to make sure the door was pulled tight. He used a rusted hammer he found on the porch to pound the boards back into place. When he was satisfied that the door looked secure, he went out into the yard.

  For a moment, he just stood there, surveying the outlying buildings. There were four that he could see, three shedlike structures and the looming gray-plank barn.

  He walked a wide circle around the rusted hulk of a huge machine trapped in briars and went to the first building. A peer into the broken windows revealed what looked like a tool shed. The second building appeared to be a garage of sorts for machinery. The entrance was blocked by shoulder-high weeds and a pocked green tractor. The third small building held only sodden sacks of feed.

  He remembered the outhouse and trudged through the weeds to it. The door was gone. He could see inside, see the piles of curled magazines stacked in the dark corner, see the dirty, crumpled papers on the bleached plank floor, see the warped board covering the seat.

  He drew in a breath and then used the end of the flashlight to flip the board away. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to act on what he was thinking. Then he stepped inside, clicked on the flashlight, and trained the beam down into the hole.

  Dark brown sludge. Tips of old paper.

  The smell finally made him fall back. He ran a hand over his face.

  What did you expect to see, Kincaid? Fucking bones?

  It was raining again. He lifted his chin upward and let it fall on his face. He looked back over the land.

  The barn was the only thing left. He made his way toward it through the high weeds. It was a massive structure, two stories from what he could see, and built into a sloping hill with a gentle incline leading up to the huge main doors. He wondered again what he expected to find. A fragment of a dress or collar buried in the hay? Jean Brandt’s bones on clear display in a horse stall?

  He went up the incline to the entrance. A heavy new chain and padlock secured the doors. He backtracked and went down, walking a circle around the barn. Deep in the weeds, he spied two missing boards toward the ground. A sharp pull on one yielded a hole large enough to wedge through, and he was inside.

  He drew up short. He was on a ground floor of hard-packed dirt. The smell was sweet-sour with moldering, wet hay. The spare light streamed through the gaps in the boards of the high roof. The soaring space was quiet, like the world outside had fallen away. He had never been in a barn before. All of it made him suddenly feel like he h
ad stumbled into an old, decrepit church.

  The details began to register. Beams draped with age-hardened leather harnesses. Metal skeletons of machines whose functions he could only guess at. Bales of sodden hay spilling innards onto the wood floor. Dust motes dancing in the gray beams of light.

  Louis felt a coldness touch his spine.

  Something was wrong in this place. Worse than the house.

  He continued his exploration, poking the flashlight into grain bins and stalls, shining the light into every crevice and cranny. There was an old wooden ladder leading up to a loft but neither the ladder nor the board above looked strong enough to support his weight.

  Finally, he wiggled back out through the hole. The rain was coming down hard. Sticking the flashlight into his waistband, he hurried back to the front of the property. He could see the Bronco still waiting on the road. Joe had the engine running against the cold.

  He was almost back to the house when something caught his eye. It was just a hint of red hidden in the weeds, but it was the red of old paint, not rust. It was almost covered by the garbage surrounding it, old coils of barbed wire, tin cans, and dead leaves. But Louis could see two small wheels and white lettering of some kind. He bent down and pushed aside the weeds.

  It was a small wagon. The white letters on the side of it said red rider.

  He pulled it out of the weeds. And the other letters on the rear of the wagon, hand-painted but still clear, jumped out at him: amy.

  Chapter Eight

  They stopped in Hell to call Shockey. Louis was furious and wanted to meet him as soon he and Joe got back to Ann Arbor. Someone at the Ann Arbor station told Louis that Shockey was working a murder scene south of the city and wouldn’t be back until dark.

  A child. A child had been in that house.

  How could Shockey not tell him that? And where was she now? Dead and buried, along with her mother? Or were they both safe somewhere, running not only from Owen Brandt but from Shockey, too? Maybe Shockey’s love for Jean was closer to obsession, and maybe Jean had fled from both men.

  “Louis,” Joe said, “slow down, you’re coming into town.”

  Louis eased off the gas pedal and swung the Bronco up the State Street exit ramp.

  “You don’t know for sure a girl was there at the same time Jean was there,” Joe said. “Any kid could have had that wagon there at any time.”

  “There was a name—Amy. And that wagon looked like it had been there a long time.”

  “But you don’t know if she’s a daughter or a niece or maybe just a kid who lived nearby.”

  “Nearby? You saw that place, Joe. The nearest house was a mile away, at least.”

  Joe was quiet for a moment. “It could mean nothing,” she said finally.

  “It means something.”

  “You said you didn’t see any children’s things in the house.”

  “Everything was boxed up,” Louis reminded her. “And I couldn’t unseal them, or they would know someone had been inside. I’m bending some rules here, Joe. You know that.”

  She fell silent again, staring out at the road. Louis glanced at her. She had the same kind of look on her face now as when he had left her standing outside the gate back at the farm.

  He steered the Bronco through the traffic, everything growing close and congested as they neared the city.

  “Louis, there’s a cop behind us,” Joe said. “He’s been there since we crossed the river.”

  Louis glanced at the rearview mirror. It was a white Ann Arbor PD cruiser, and it was definitely following them. In the slow sweep of the cruiser’s wipers, Louis couldn’t see the cop’s face. What did he want? It had been stop-and-go traffic since leaving the freeway, and he knew he hadn’t been speeding or run any stop signs.

  The blue lights came on, and the siren yelped.

  “Shit.”

  Louis looked for somewhere to pull in, but the one-way streets and parked cars made it a tough task. He finally found a spot in front of a small store with a rack of books outside under its awning.

  As he turned off the engine, his gut knotted. Here he was in this liberal hamlet of academia, but he still couldn’t shake the bizarre thought that he was being pulled over because he was a black man with a white woman in his car.

  Louis put the Bronco into park and reached for his wallet, his eyes flicking to the mirror.

  The cop got out of the car. Louis let out a breath. He was black.

  Other things registered as the cop came closer. He was a hulking guy, with a weightlifter’s chest beneath the dark blue windbreaker. A body that complemented his don’t-fuck-with-me walk.

  Louis rolled down the window, and the officer peered into the Bronco. The rain dripped from the brim of his plastic-covered garrison hat onto Louis’s arm, but the guy didn’t apologize or move back. His brown eyes went first to Joe, assessed her as being no threat, and dismissed her. He looked to Louis with a standard no-nonsense cop stare.

  Louis held out his license and Florida PI identification card.

  The officer took them, gave them a cursory glance, then stepped back. “Get out of the car, please.”

  Louis blew out a sigh and shoved open the door. The cop had an inch on him and probably thirty pounds, all of it muscle. His name tag read: SGT. ERIC CHANNING.

  “Turn around and put your hands on the car,” Channing said.

  “What’d I do?” Louis asked.

  “Officer,” Joe called, “I’m the undersheriff for Leelanau County. May I ask what this—”

  “I know who you are,” Channing said, “and no, ma’am, you may not ask anything. Turn around, Mr. Kincaid.”

  Louis faced the car and put his hands on the hood. Channing gently kicked his feet apart and began frisking him. The rain was cold on the back of Louis’s neck as it dripped inside the collar of his sweatshirt.

  Louis bristled under the pat of the mittlike hands. He kept his focus on the weird white artwork in the bookstore’s window. A hunched old woman with the words aunt agatha over her head and underneath, in big letters, mysteries. It seemed strangely fitting.

  “You’re licensed to carry a concealed weapon,” Channing said. “A Glock, if I remember right. Where is it?”

  Louis wondered how Channing knew that, but he didn’t ask. “It’s in the glovebox.”

  Channing told him to stay where he was and walked to the passenger side of the Bronco to get the Glock. Louis watched him, not understanding exactly what was happening. Channing knew Joe was a cop and had a weapon. He knew Louis had a permit for one, too. Yet he had not been concerned about either as he walked up to the Bronco. Which meant Channing felt he was never in any danger because he knew exactly whom he had pulled over.

  “I could confiscate this until you leave the state,” Channing said as he came around the rear of the truck with the holstered Glock.

  “You could,” Louis said. “But most law-enforcement officers are pretty decent about it. And I’m up here on police business. I’m working with Detective Shockey.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I’m a former cop.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Then why are you out here busting my balls over nothing?”

  “Is that what she is to you?” Channing asked. “Nothing?”

  Louis glanced at Joe. What the hell kind of remark was that? This asshole didn’t know a damn thing about Joe.

  “What are you talking about?” Louis asked.

  “February 1980.”

  “What?”

  Channing shook his head in disgust. “You don’t even remember her name.”

  “Who?”

  “Kyla. Kyla Marie Brown. Ring a bell?”

  The memory swept in like a punch. He’d thought about Kyla on and off for ten years, but it was never as powerful as it was right now. Maybe it was being back here in this city. Or maybe it was looking into the eyes of this stranger and knowing he knew.

  Louis glanced across the street, searching f
or a response and trying to figure out just who Channing was, how he knew about Kyla, and why the hell he cared. Channing offered the answer.

  “She’s my wife now,” he said.

  Louis cleared his throat. “Look, if you’re here to tell me to stay away from her, don’t worry. I have no intention of seeing her,” he said.

  Channing just stared at him. The man hadn’t moved a muscle. Louis looked at his holster in Channing’s hand. The leather was getting soaked.

  “What do you want from me?” Louis asked.

  “I just wanted to look a real asshole in the eye,” Channing said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Louis held the man’s eyes. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, so he wasn’t going to say anything. But he wasn’t going to look away, either. He slowly held out his hand. Channing made no move to give him back the holster and the IDs.

  “Are we done here?” Louis asked.

  “I’ll be watching you,” Channing said. “I’ll be watching you real close. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  There was nothing he could say without elevating this to an argument or worse, so he nodded slowly.

  Channing held out the Glock and Louis’s ID cards. Louis accepted them and watched Channing swagger back to his cruiser and drive away.

  Louis tucked his wallet back in his jeans, but it took him a moment to find the will to get into the Bronco. When he did, he just sat there, hands on the wheel.

  “Who’s Kyla Marie Brown?” Joe asked.

  He picked the first place that he thought might be quiet and without students, a bar tucked into a red brick building on West Liberty called Old Town Tavern.

  The place was almost empty, the Tiffany-style lamps casting the dark wood in shadows and the sound of the TV over the bar echoing off the tin ceiling. Louis steered Joe to a wood booth in the back. They both automatically started for the side facing the door. She looked up at him, and he let her slide in. He sat down across from her. The waitress came over, and Louis ordered a Heineken. He was surprised when Joe said she wanted only a glass of water. Joe waited until the girl had brought the beer and water, then trained her gray eyes on Louis.