A Killing Rain (15 page)

Susan stirred and turned toward him. He sat still, not moving. The rain had started up again, coming now with a hard cold wind that seeped in through the panes of the jalousie windows. Susan shivered next to him but didn’t wake up.

Louis got up and went to the window, giving the crank a hard twist. No use. The glass slats of the old window were as tight as they would get.

He crawled back under the comforter, easing close to Susan. For several minutes, he just sat there, trying to get warm. But he couldn’t. And he finally knew that
the cold came not from the outside but from somewhere deep inside.

There was something oddly, terribly, familiar about it. It had been a different dark bedroom, a different cold wind, a different place. But the feeling was the same, the feeling that he was alone and no one was coming to help him. He was eight again, alone in a bed in the dark in a strange house listening to the Michigan winter wind outside the window. He couldn’t even remember which foster home it had been, or even
the face of the man who was supposed to have been taking care of him.

He had lain in bed, shivering and crying, waiting for someone to come and turn on the light, to bring him another blanket. No one
had come.

Louis pulled the comforter up over his chest.

Ah, Ben, be brave. Be brave and believe.

It was another hour before he finally fell asleep.

Sunday, January 17

Benjamin sat on the bed, legs crossed,
his back against the wall. They were in a motel room, somewhere far away from Sereno Key. They had come here last night, late, and they had hustled him inside under a blanket. He knew they were afraid someone would see him.

When they had gotten inside, he had curled up
into a ball against the wall in the corner of the second bed, fighting tears, not wanting to let these guys hear him cry again. If he cried, the blond man would get mad again. He couldn’t stand crying, he said.

Ben had expected the blond man to eventually throw him off the bed, taking it for himself. But he hadn’t. Ben had awoken in the same spot, the thin
bedspread thrown over him, a pillow squeezed against his chest.

The blond man, the one called Adam, was standing at the window. He was still wearing that same red T-shirt
he had
on yesterday, and those gloves he never took off, even when he ate. His skin was white, too white for someone in Florida, but he had muscles. The other guy, Byron, was in the bathroom. He was older than Adam and Ben wondered if he was the blond guy’s father because he bossed the blond guy around a lot, but still talked nice to him like a father would.

But they didn’t look too much alike. Byron was darker. He had tattoos all over him and they were ugly, except for the bird on his back. It looked like the eagle on the dollar bill.

Byron had just gotten out of bed and was in the bathroom now. Ben could hear him making gross noises behind the thin wall.

Ben tried to figure how long he’d been with the men.
Friday night he barely remembered. It had all started in the park when he saw them shoot at Daddy and then suddenly they had him, dragging him away from Daddy’s car and putting him in the trunk of another car. That’s when he had pulled out the taillight wires, but it hadn’t done any good. No cops pulled them over.

Then he had fallen asleep, and wasn’t s
ure how long it was before he heard the car tires going over the metal things on the Sereno Key causeway. He knew it was the only causeway with metal things and he thought he was going home, but he wasn’t.

Instead he had been taken from that trunk to another trunk that smelled like pizza. He had pulled
the taillight wires out there, too. But again, no one seemed to notice.

He had stayed in that trunk until the man named Byron let him out and walked him through the blue and white kitchen that he knew belonged to Mr. and Mrs. McAllister, the old people who lived down the street.

He had seen blood on the McAllisters’ white floor and he had almost stepped in it and then Byron had put a hand to his eyes like Ma did when people on TV got shot up or were getting naked and Byron had said “Don’t look at that stuff, kid.”

But he had looked. Even though he
didn’t want to.

The blood...he didn’t want to
step in that. But he knew now he should have. That way he would’ve left a footprint and maybe his Daddy would have found it and known he was there.

He had to let them know he was still alive. If he didn’t, they would stop looking for him. And he didn’t want them to stop looking.

The bathroom door opened and Byron came out. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and his skin was wet. Byron opened a box of donuts sitting on the other bed and looked inside.

Adam turned from the window
. “You decide what we’re going to do now?”

Byron picked a donut from the box. “I’m thinking on it
.”

Ben inched forward on the bed. He really wanted a donut but he was scared to ask. He was so hungry.

“Sir?” Ben said softly.

Byron looked at Ben over his shoulder.

“Can I have a donut, please?” Ben asked.

“Finally hungry enough to talk, huh?” Byron said. He tossed him the box.

Ben picked out a glazed donut. It was getting hard but he ate it anyway, his eyes watching Adam as he moved to the center of the small room and sat down on the edge of the bed. Adam was watching TV now, too, his hand resting on the tip of the knife in his belt. The knife Ben figured he had killed the McAllisters with. The knife that had caused all the blood on the kitchen floor.

It didn’t look like any knife he had ever seen, a short blade with a place to put your fingers, like brass knuckles.
Adam liked to bring the knife out sometimes and feel it. Sometimes he cleaned his fingernails with it but it didn’t look like it did much good.

“You done thinking yet?” Adam asked.

“Yeah,” Byron said. “I got a new plan. This is what we do. We call them back and get Outlaw on the phone. We tell him this is a regular kidnapping and we want the hundred grand in exchange for the kid. Then we split for good.”

“For good? You mean never come back?”

“I’m tired, Adam. I’m tired of all this shit and I just want some peace.”

“In Aruba?”

“Hundred grand would go a long way in Aruba.”

Ben watched as
Adam got up and walked a small circle in front of the TV before he turned back. “I don’t want to stay in Aruba the rest of my life, Byron. And I don’t want to be a wanted man for the rest of my life either. I’d like to come back here one day. I have family here.”

“That old man doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“Uncle Leo’s been good to me.”

“Good? What kind of asshole tells you if you don’t straighten up he’ll leave you out where the boars can eat you?”

Byron walked to Adam and put a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “After this is over, we won’t need him anymore. You won’t need him anymore. Trust me. It will be all right.”

“But what if Outlaw doesn’t come? Don’t they usually send some cop to deliver ransoms?”

“We tell him he has to come. We make him drive all the way out here somewhere so the cops can’t follow him without being seen by us. When he hands over the money we shoot him.”

Ben looked up at the two men. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Kill his daddy?

He felt his body go tight and his chest suddenly seemed filled with something hard and sharp. He wiped the tears away with both arms, smearing the glaze from the donut across his cheek. His eyes caught a glimpse of the knife.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

“What do we do with the kid?” Adam asked.

“We take him with us and leave him out wherever we do the drop.”

“Leave him alive? What if they find him? He’ll tell them everything. He’ll tell them who we are. We have to kill him, Byron.”

“I’ve told you this before, Adam, guys that hurt kids are scum, and we’re better than that. There are some things you don’t kill.”

Ben pressed himself against the wall.
He didn’t know what was happening. They were going to kill his daddy and then just leave him somewhere? He’d seen what it looked like out here on the way to the motel. There was nothing but swamp and he had seen a sign about boar hunting and he didn’t want to be out there by himself. What if no one ever found him? What if they didn’t even try?

Ben’s eyes dropped to his hands. The black and gold cigar ring was still on his finger and he started spinning it.

He pulled the paper ring off his finger, suddenly knowing what he would do. He’d leave the ring as a clue, just like he did the car wires. If they found the ring here, then they would keep looking. They wouldn’t let him die out there with the boars.

Ben slipped the paper cigar ring under the pillow, drawing his hand back out slowly. He laid his head quietly down on the pillow, his eyes on the flying bird tattooed on Byron’s back.

He wished he could fly like the bird. He wished he could fly home.

Somewhere in his brain Louis heard the door open, the gentle click of a lock, and the wheeze of the screen. Voices drifted in with the cold air and he turned slowly onto his back.

A slow ache made its way through his lower back, then moved to his shoulders. He la
y still, for a moment staying in that warm, mindless place between sleep and consciousness, not wanting to move or think. Then suddenly his mind jumped back.

Back to
the blood-soaked kitchen. A trunk full of bodies. And Benjamin.

His heart quickened and he opened his eyes. He looked first at the nightstand. His
Glock was still there, and the small clock read eight forty-five.

Then he turned and looked at Susan, still sleeping next to him. She was facing him, her eyes squeezed tight as if staying asleep was an effort. The comforter was tucked under her chin, and her hair was spiked around the powder blue pillow. Even in sleep, she didn’t look peaceful.

He moved gently, easing out from under the comforter, and swung his feet to the wood floor. He picked up the gun and started out to the living room. He stopped in the bedroom doorway, just inside the short hall.

In the center of the living room stood
Detective Joe Frye, her black leather jacket slick with rain, her light brown hair dark and damp. Her gold badge hung from her neck on a chain. She was standing next to Jewell. She was as tall as he was, but despite her slenderness, she looked more commanding than he ever would.

“Joe,” Louis said.

Her gray eyes jumped to him, moving quickly over his rumpled sweats, stocking feet, and the gun in his hand. Her eyes flicked behind him and Louis knew she could see into the bedroom, see Susan in the bed.

Joe’s eyes came back to him. “Sorry to show up like this, but this was the only address I had besides yours,” she said.

“It’s okay,” Louis said, coming toward her. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing as far as Benjamin is concerned, but we have a suspect.”

“Who?”

“A man named Byron Ellis,” Joe said, holding out a manila file. “We got him from his prints on that old Chevy
Bel Air outside Outlaw’s office. He’s an ex-con out of Raiford.”

“Yeah, I know. We got the name early this morning,” Louis said.

Joe looked confused. Louis filled her in on everything that had happened, the pizza guy’s murder, the carnage at the old people’s house, Ellis’s suspected getaway by canal.

“Was he alone?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” Louis said. “I doubt it.”

Louis moved to
the sofa, setting the Glock on the coffee table. He opened the manila folder and looked at the black and white photograph of Byron Ellis. He had expected to see the typical mug shot, empty or defiant eyes and a sneer. But Ellis’s eyes had a spark of humor, the head tilted slightly to the side, his lips tipped in a faint smile. His face was pock-marked, the lines along his mouth and around his eyes were deeply scored into his dark leathered skin.

The statistics said Ellis was forty-five, but despite the smile, Louis suspected it had been a hard forty-five years.

His record was as Wainwright had stated the night before, a smattering of grand theft auto, burglaries, and finally the manslaughter charge that had sent
him to Raiford.

“What’s happened?”

Louis’s head snapped to Susan, standing in the bedroom doorway, her robe pulled tight. He started to stand up but Joe was quicker. She moved to Susan and took her hand, covering it with both of her own.

“I’m so sorry.”

Susan looked confused.

“I’m Detective Joe Frye, Miami PD.”

“What are you doing here?” Susan asked, pulling her hands away.

Louis came forward. “Joe’s handling the homicides in Miami,” he said.

“But what are you doing here now?” Susan asked, her voice starting to tremble.

“We have no news on Benjamin,” Joe said quickly. “I’m sorry, I should’ve told you that right off. But we do have a suspect.”

“You know who took Benjamin?”

“We know one of them,” Joe said.

Susan’s eyes dropped to the file folder in Louis’s hand. She held out her hand and he gave it to her. She looked at it for a long time, flipping through the pages.

“Do you know him?” Joe asked Susan.

She looked up. “No, why?”

“Louis told me you were an attorney here. Ellis was
convicted in Collier County, but has had trouble here as well. I was wondering if you ever had any legal dealings with him or heard the name?”

“No, I’
ve never heard the name or seen this man.” Susan handed the folder back to Joe and let out a tired sigh. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

Joe smiled. “I’d like that.”

Susan disappeared into the kitchen. Joe started to take off her jacket and Louis helped her, hanging it on a coat tree near the front door. When he looked back, she was looking through Ellis’s file, her fingertip at her lips.

She was wearing faded black jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. The jeans were slightly baggy on her long legs, drawn in around h
er small waist by a heavy black belt with a silver buckle. Her sweater fit her like a swimmer’s wet-suit, taut across her breasts and broad shoulders. She wore no jewelry except for a large gold man’s watch, hanging loose on her slender wrist.

“Sir,” Jewell said, nodding toward the door. “Chief’s here.”

Jewell held the door open, and Chief Wainwright hustled through it, throwing off water like a dog. He had a piece of paper in one hand and with the other he started to unzip his jacket. His hand paused halfway down, his eyes fixed on Joe. But Louis knew it wasn’t the black turtleneck tight over her breasts as much as the gold shield that hung against them.

“Who are you?” Wainwright asked.

Joe’s shoulders straightened and she came forward, hand out. Wainwright did not take it. She kept it out long enough to make sure both Louis and Jewell noticed, then withdrew it, wrapping her long fingers along the edge of the folder.

“Detective Frye, Miami PD.”

“And you’re here why?”

Louis thought about intervening but was sure Joe wouldn’t want him to. Or even need him to.

“Chasing a suspect,” Joe said. “Same one as you, one Byron Ellis.”

Wainwright did a lousy job of hiding his surprise that Joe already knew the name.

Joe didn’t wait. “Can I see last night’s scene?” she asked.

Wainwright turned. “Nope, ’
fraid not”

“Why not?”

“It’s not finished being processed.”

“Can I see Ellis’s car?”

“It’s not finished being processed either.”

Joe drew back, a little muscle twitching in her jaw. She inhaled thinly. “Is there anything I can see, Chief?”

“Your way home,” Wainwright said.

Joe took another breath, the gold shield rising and falling against her sweater.

Susan came from the kitchen, carrying a tray of coffee cups. She walked with a stiffness Louis had come to recognize as anger, and he suddenly realized just how insane and cruel this conversation must have seemed to her. He wanted to apologize for both of them, but Susan spoke first.

“Detective Frye isn’t going home,” Susan said. “She came all the way over here to give us a name. And that’s more than any of you have managed to get.”

Wainwright’s face reddened as Susan handed him a cup of coffee. “Mrs. Outlaw, we had the name. We had the name last night.”

Susan didn’t seem to care. She passed out the rest of the coffee
mugs then sat down on the sofa.

Joe waited a moment, then went and sat next to Susan, taking her
mug of coffee with her. Wainwright was talking in a low voice to Jewell. Louis walked to Joe, but didn’t sit down.

“W
e have something else, too,” Louis said. “Austin Outlaw’s alive. He was hiding.”

Joe almost choked on her coffee. She wiped her lips with her fingers then looked up at Louis.

“But the boy wasn’t with him?” Joe asked.

Louis shook his head.

“Where is Austin now?” Joe asked.

Wainwright looked at his watch. “They’ll be moving him from the hospital about now.”

“To where?”

“The jail. For his own safety.”

Joe set her coffee mug on the table and looked at Wainwright. “Why not bring him back here?” she asked.

“And get him killed?” Wainwright asked.

“No,” Joe said, drawing out the word. “I think your six thousand cops out there could probably keep that from happening. That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” Wainwright asked.

“I think we need to talk to him.”

Wainwright set
his cup on the mantel. “We spent half the damn night talking to him. The man knows nothing. At least nothing he’s willing to tell.”

“I’d still like to talk to him.”

“About what?”

“His business, Chief. Don’t you think that might just have something to do with all this?”

Louis was watching Susan. She was listening intently, her arms crossed, her face like stone.

“We know he runs a shitty-ass import business,” Wainwright said.

“It’s what he imports, Chief,” Joe said.

Wainwright wasn’t going to bite again. This time he waited, watching her. Joe glanced at Susan as if checking to see if she was ready to hear more.

“Your husband didn’t import lamps and baskets,” Joe said to Susan. “He imported people.”

“What?” Louis said.

“Pacific Imports is an agency that brings workers in from Micronesia. They contract with various kinds of companies to supply them labor. The companies pay for transportation over here and for setting up the workers in housing in exchange for them remaining in their employment for a specified length of time.”

Susan stared at Joe, her eyes snapping. “I knew he was low,” she said
, “but I didn’t think even he was capable of something like this.”

“It’s perfec
tly legal,” Joe said.

“So was slavery,” Louis said.

With a quick shove off the sofa, Susan stood up. She walked slowly to the front window. Louis thought about going to her, but there was something in the stiffness of her back that kept him where he was.

Wainwright took a breath deep enough to strain his buttons. “So what do you think is going on here?”

“You asking me?” Joe said.

“Yeah, I’m asking you.”

“I think Austin Outlaw was supposed to bring something different this trip, something someone wanted very much,” Joe said. “And either he failed to deliver it or double-crossed his buyer somehow.”

“Drugs?” Louis asked.

“That’s my guess,” Joe said.

“Austin wouldn’t do drugs,” Susan said softly.

She sounded like a parent in denial whose kid had just been hauled off to detention. She must have sensed they didn’t believe her, because she came toward them.

“His brother died of drugs at fifteen,” she said, looking from Joe to Louis. “He just wouldn’t do that
.”

Joe stood up. “Well, they want something from him.” She looked to Wainwright. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

“We got people who can talk to him, Miss Frye,” Wainwright said. “Why don’t you give Officer Jewell here what you have on this Pacific Imports and —-”

“I don’t think so,” Joe said calmly. “I think we can both talk to him, don’t you?”

Wainwright’s voice was just as calm. “We got a missing kid and a triple homicide here. Every agency in the county is on this case. Thanks for your offer, but I think we can handle it.”

Joe looked down at the coffee table and shook her head. “Dear God, save me from
the penis wars.”

Louis was close enough to hear it
but Wainwright was heading back toward the door, his radio crackling. Louis heard something about an address, but his gaze was on Susan. She was staring at Wainwright, incredulous at his refusal to accept Joe’s help.

Louis was disgusted, too, but now was not the time to take a stand. They had all had a rough forty-eight hours, and Susan was barely holding it together. A blowout here would only make matters worse.

Louis watched as Susan walked over to Joe. She leaned close and whispered something.

“We got a possible address on Byron Ellis,” Wainwright said, taking his jacket back from Jewell. He slipped it on and faced Joe and Susan.

“It was a pleasure, Miss Frye,” Wainwright said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t accommodate you this trip. Maybe next time.”

Joe moved away from Susan, coming toward the door.

“Chief, I have a double homicide of my own back in Miami. I have every reason to believe Austin Outlaw may know something about it.”