A Killing Rain (20 page)

“Things look different in the daylight.”

Joe glanced over at Louis and then back at the road. They were in her red Bronco, retracing the route Louis and Jewell had taken to the drop site the night before.

“This is the way they took you in,” Joe said.

“I know. Things just look different,” Louis said.

Joe didn’t respond as she headed the truck north onto 29. Louis watched for landmarks, anything that gave him a sense of where he was. Maybe it had been the damn rain or more likely his own anxiety over the drop, but he realized now he had hardly paid attention to where he and Jewell had gone. Not that there was much around here to see. Tamiami Trail cut a clean concrete slash through the wilderness of the Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve. They had passed a sign for a place called Carnestown but there was no town there that he could see. Where the hell was the damn “scenic drive”?

He was just about to tell Joe to stop and turn around, that they had missed the turn, when he saw a small sign that said COPELAND. And then another marking James Memorial Scenic Drive.

“This is it. Pull in here,” Louis said.

They rounded a
bend and a scattering of houses came into view. A small old ranch-style place here, a beat-up mobile home there. No sidewalks, no neat landscaping, but lots of trucks in dirt driveways and dogs in the yards pulling on their chains.

“Somewhere up here we turned right. And I remember seeing a quarry or something,” Louis said.

The road turned from asphalt to gravel and soon they saw the quarry. A guy in a dump truck stared at them as they drove past. The road narrowed and turned rutty, the trees arched over them as all the meager signs of civilization fell away.

Joe had to slow down to avoid the watery potholes. Louis grimaced with each bump, the bruises on his chest radiating pain despite the Tylenol Joe had given him earlier.

He eyed the landscape bordering the road. Above, black cypress trees rising tall and bare until they branched out to grab the gray sky. Below, still stands of inky water punctuated with cypress stumps sharp as thrusting arrowheads. Spiny air plants and pale orchids clinging to the trees, giant ferns moving in the wind like billowing green blankets. And everywhere, a strange oppressive feel, like if you stood still for too long in this place, the plants and moss and trees would consume you.

The road ended. Louis repeated to Joe the directions he had been given last night. A few minutes later, he saw the yellow metal sign. CAUTION. ROAD DEAD ENDS AT CANAL. NO WAY OUT. And beyond that, the dark shapes of vehicles. A cruiser. A van.

As they drew closer, Louis realized the vehicles were from law enforcement. A cruiser from Collier County, an FDLE crime scene investigation van. Joe pulled to a stop and cut the engine. They got out.

Louis scanned the landscape. It looked nothing like what they had just driven through. This was flat with high dry grass that moved like wheat in
the brisk cold wind. Far off, he could see a few trees thrusting up through the grassland.

There were some investigators working the scene, marking shell casings and tracks. Crime scene tape sagged between two bushes and they didn’t cross it.

“This the right place?” Joe asked.

Louis nodded, pointing to the deep
ruts in the mud beyond the tape. “That’s where I got stuck. There’s a shell casing out there, too.”

“They’ll find it,” she said. One of the investigators was walking toward them and Joe went over to talk with him.

Louis was silent, staring out at the grassland. He knew this is where he had come, knew this is where he had stood, where Benjamin had stood. But it had no feel now of the terror of last night. It was empty. Empty of houses, people, and any reason for anyone to have been there in the first place.

Joe walked up next to him. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking there are no roads except the one we came in on.” He pointed north. “They came at my Mustang perpendicular from that direction. How the hell did they get their truck in here?”

“All-terrain vehicle?” Joe asked.

Louis nodded. “But this place is like a maze with all these canals. They knew exactly where to take us. They knew exactly how to get out. They knew we wouldn’t be able to follow them.”

“Byron Ellis’s last known address was Fort Myers but his sheet says he was bo
rn and raised in Gary, Indiana. Not many swamps in Gary.”

“So his buddy is local,” Louis said.

Joe looked out at the landscape. “Think you can find your way back to Copeland?”

Louis could see a taunt in her smile and gave her one of his own. “Come on, let’s go.”

Back in Copeland, they parked the Bronco and started walking. The town was just a collection of houses, no stores or central core. They started with the nearest house, showing Byron Ellis’s mug to anyone who would open the door. Few would. And no one recognized Ellis or remembered seeing his car, the old blue El Dorado. They approached the last house. There was a faded sign stuck in the yard. It read: HANK’S GUIDE SERVICE. YEAR-ROUND WILD BOAR HUNTING $150 INC. FREE CLEANING AND QUARTERING.

Joe nudged Louis and nodded toward the sagging
carport. “Swamp buggy,” she said.

Louis looked at the weird machine. It was like a giant souped-up go-kart, with huge tires supporting an open chassis with seats on top. The tire treads were caked with mud.

They went up and knocked. It was a couple of minutes before the door scraped open. A scrawny old man with sun-seared skin peered out at them. He was shirtless, a pair of dirty jeans hanging on his thin hips. His eyes flicked from Joe to Louis and stayed there. Louis had the feeling there weren’t many strangers in Copeland. And even fewer black men.

“What you want?” the man
asked.

Joe stepped forward and showed her badge. The man’s eyes bugged. “We’re looking for this man,” Joe said, holding out the picture of Ellis. “Can you help us?”

The guy tore his eyes off Joe’s face to glance at the photo. “Nah, don’t know him.”

Joe pocketed the photo. “Okay, thanks.”

Louis could feel the man’s eyes following them as they walked back to the Bronco.

“Even if he knew Ellis, he wouldn’t tell us,” he said.

Joe turned to look at him over the hood of the truck.

“It’s the small-town thing,” Louis said. “We aren’t going to get anything here.”

Joe looked around at the motley collection of houses and trailers. “I know. But I can’t shake the feeling Ellis has some connection here.” She let out a sigh. “Let’s get out of here.”

Back at the intersection of 29, Joe turned left and headed north. Louis knew she was heading to pick up Alligator Alley for
a quicker shot back to Fort Myers. He settled into the seat, trying to find a comfortable posture to ease his aching chest.

Joe turned on the wipers. The droning sound was lulling and he leaned back into the headrest. The road was smooth and empty except for a few eighteen wheelers. There was nothing to break the green monotony and he was about to close his eyes when a flash of a sign caught his eye. He sat up, twisting around to look.

“Joe, turn around,” he said.

“What?”

“I saw a motel back there. Turn around.”

Joe found a turnoff and headed the Bronco back south. She slowed as they approached a sign for the Haven Motel. It was the standard block of rooms, lined up to face the highway with an office at the far end. Some time ago, maybe in the sixties, it could have been the kind of place a tired family might pull into when they had driven one mile too far on their vacation road trip. A plain concrete building but with clean sheets and a Coke machine outside. Now, however, the yellow paint was peeling, the screening on the doors was flapping in the wind, and some of the rooms didn’t have numbers anymore.

As Louis got out of the Bronco he looked up at the neon sign. The name of the place was really HEAVEN MOTEL —- the E was burned out.

A man was standing at the office door looking at them as they approached.

“Wonder where he keeps Mrs. Bates,” Joe said, pulling out her badge. “Excuse me, sir, Miami Police. We’re looking for someone and wondered if you would take a look at a picture.”

The man’s little pig eyes narrowed, although Louis wasn’t sure whether it was because Joe was a woman, a cop, or from Miami.

“Have you seen this man?” Joe asked, holding out the photo.

The man didn’t answer. But Louis was sure he saw something
in the guy’s eyes. He stepped forward.

“We’re looking for a missing boy,” he said. “This man abducted him.”

The man rubbed his stubbled chin. “Yeah. Okay. He checked in yesterday, real early.”

“Did he have a boy with him?” Louis pressed.

“Didn’t see one. Only him. But it was raining hard so I didn’t look outside.”

“When did he leave?” Joe asked.

“He didn’t. Paid me for two nights up front.”

Joe glanced at Louis. “He’s still here?”

The man waved to the lot. “Well, his car is gone. Probably out getting something to eat. When he got here, he asked me where he could get some food. Ain’t much around here but I told him he could go down to --”

“The key,” Louis interrupted. “We need the key to his room.”

The man took a step back from Louis. “Is it legal for me to just give you a key?”

Louis held out his hand. “It’s your motel, isn’t it?”

“Okay, okay.” He disappeared into the office and came out a moment later. Louis and Joe followed him down the line of doors to the end. The man stopped at number seven. The numeral hung upside down, the drapes were closed. Louis could hear sounds inside -- canned laughter. The television was on.

The man unlocked the door. Louis pushed his way into the room, gun drawn.

The overhead light was on. The television was blaring. Twin beds, one with the covers and sheets in a tangle, the other untouched except for a pillow crammed in the corner. Plastic bags, beer cans, pretzels on the floor, a box of donuts on the dresser.

“Ben!” Louis called out.

Nothing. No one. He spun to the closed bathroom door and jerked it open. White tile. Towels on the floor. Louis tore back the plastic shower curtain.

When he came back out, Joe was standing in the middle of the room, shaking her head. “They’re gone, Louis.”

Louis turned, his head bowed, hands on his hips, his breathing coming hard from his aching chest. Then he reared back and kicked a trash can. It went flying into a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.

The motel owner was hovering in the doorway and looked at Joe. “You cops are paying for that busted lamp.”

Joe ignored him, moving to Louis. “They must have seen the news,” she said, nodding to the TV. “Ellis must have seen his mug on TV and they split.”

“In a big hurry from the looks of it,” Louis said.

“Hey, you gonna pay for that lamp?”

Joe turned back to the m
otel owner. She let out an impatient breath and went outside, taking the man with her. After a few words, he left. When Joe came back into the room, Louis was moving slowly around the room. He carefully lifted a blanket, pulled open the dresser drawers. He knelt to look under the bed.

“What are you looking for?” Joe asked.

He stood up. “Some sign that he was here.”

Louis moved
to the bed in the corner, picking up the corner of the pillow.

“Louis, you shouldn’t touch
—-”

Louis paused, his eyes
lasering in on a small ring of paper that had been under the pillow. He carefully used his pinky finger to pick it up. He turned, holding it out to Joe.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A cigar ring,” Louis said. “Austin gave it to Ben.”

Joe came forward. “Ellis could have left it.”

“No. See this label? Macanudo. That’s what Austin smokes. It’s expensive. Ellis wouldn’t smoke this.”

Louis was quiet for a moment, staring at the little paper ring. “He left it on purpose,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Joe asked.

“Ben. He left this here on purpose. He’s trying to tell us something. He’s trying to tell us he’s still alive.”

Joe was quiet.

“You agree with Wainwright, don’t you
,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You think I’m grasping at straws.”

Joe hesitated then smiled slightly. “
Grasping at cigar rings maybe.”

Louis turned away, looking around the motel room. The room was cold
, the trail was cold. Another door opened, another dead end.

“Come on,” Joe said. “If we leave now, we can make it up there by dinner.”

“Where?” Louis asked.

“
Raiford. I was thinking that maybe Ellis hooked up with his partner while he was in prison. Maybe someone will talk. Maybe we can get a lead.”

Louis could see in her eyes that she knew it was a long
shot, and he had a feeling she had suggested it just so they had an excuse not to go back to Susan’s and just sit there. But he didn’t care.