After Midnight (14 page)

“Steve, listen to me…”

“No, you listen!” He swung back, his anger beating against the chains that held it. “I’m a cop. I’ve seen about every atrocity a sick, twisted mind can devise. I’ve had to watch lab techs scrape evidence samples from under the fingernails of an eighty-seven year-old who was sodomized and beaten to death with his own cane. I know what it feels like to tell a parent their runaway son was cut up and sold for body parts.”

“Good Lord!”

He bent over, slapping his palms on the headboard, caging her against the wood.

“I also know what it feels like to stand amid the carnage of a daycare center and hold your .45 to the head of the man who gunned down a half dozen three- and four-year olds. I wanted to squeeze the trigger so badly my whole body shook with it, Jess. I wanted to paint his brains against the wall. You know why I didn’t? Because I wouldn’t profane those children by splattering them with that murderer’s blood.”

Christ! Where the hell had that come from? He hadn’t talked about that day to anyone. Not his ex-wife. Not the departmental shrink. Not even his partner, who had cuffed the YMCA shooter and quietly, urgently talked Steve back from the edge.

Shaken, he shoved away from the bed and grabbed his shirt. By the time he’d thrust his arms through the sleeves and forced the buttons into the closest holes, he’d blanked the image of those small, desecrated bodies from his mind. His voice was calm, his hand steady when he turned back to the woman who watched him, wide-eyed and mute.

“I didn’t do it, Jess, and you won’t profane your mother’s memory by putting a bullet between Wayne Whittier’s eyes or hounding Billy Jack Petrie out of his job.”

That’s what he believed. What he wanted desperately to believe.

Gathering the rest of his belongings, Steve left her still naked, still silent.

Jess heard the front door slam, listened for the rev of the cruiser’s powerful engine. Only after it had faded did she relax her grip on the sheet.

Shame coursed through her as she padded to the bathroom and reached into the shower stall to twist the knobs. She’d never asked him about his past, had never even wondered about it. Since her return to the Florida panhandle, her own had consumed her.

It still consumed her. It would until she’d confronted Bill Petrie and Wayne Wittier. As for Congressman Calhoun…

Her heart pounding, Jess stepped into the tiled shower stall, lathered a washrag, and soaped all traces of Steve Paxton from her body.

Summer weekends on Florida’s Emerald Coast were made for sun and sand and splashing through waves of jade green water topped by lacy curls of white.

On any other Saturday afternoon, Jess might have considered stretching out on the beach and taking her chances with the sun’s rays. She might even have returned Steve’s call when he left a message inviting her to take the Gone Fishin’ out with him later in the day.

Not this Saturday.

The SF445 problem consumed most of her day. Sergeant Babcock and the crew he’d pressed into service had worked around the clock to finish sampling the fuel in the storage tanks and underground distribution system. To Jess’s relief, tests confirmed traces of SF445 in only one of the six massive tanks.

“Looks like we’ll only have to empty one storage tank,” a weary, oil-stained Ed Babcock reported. “Since the Defense Fuels Center manages the contract for delivery of all fuels, it’ll work the contract for it’s removal.”

“Have folks at DFC been notified?”

“They will be, as soon as I leave here.” He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead, smearing dirt and oil from temple to temple. “With the polluted fuel isolated, our biggest problem is going to be underground pipeline. We have to shut the entire system down and purge the lines.”

“Which means we’ll have to truck fuel to the flying wings,” Jess said, chewing on her lower lip. Not only to the test wing and fighter wing on Eglin proper, but also to the reserve wing based at one of the auxiliary airfields some twenty-five miles away. With the pipeline down, there was no way the 96th’s fleet of refuelers could sustain the current level of flying operations and service transient aircraft.

“We can request the loan of additional R-11s from other bases,” Babcock said, anticipating the problem. “We loaned two of trucks to Ft. Rucker after they got hit by a tornado last year. Sent a couple to Keesler, too, to help support their open house and air show. I figure we can draw in twelve to fifteen from bases throughout the south if headquarters gives our request priority.”

“If they don’t, I’ll call the LG.”

The three-star director of logistics at headquarters air force had hand-picked Jess for this job. She’d packed up and moved with only a few weeks’ notice. She figured it was payback time.

“Get the request ready and I’ll sign it. I want it to go out this afternoon.”

Babcock flashed her a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

He was halfway to the door before she stopped him. “That was good work, Ed. I’m glad we’re on the same team.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Me, too.”

Jess left the squadron just after two. Her satisfaction with the morning’s progress stayed with her when she stopped to grab a burger, which she ate during the drive across the bridge. By the time she reached her condo and exchanged her uniform for jeans and a cool, sleeveless shirt, the demands of her job had taken back seat to the need that had been festering in her for days.

She thought about calling Steve, but she had a good idea what he’d say about the obsession that took her east along Highway 98. A few miles from Panama City, she cut north on State Road 19, heading for the small town of Ebro, where the former owner of the Blue Crab now lived. Jess had retrieved Wayne Whittier’s address from the phone book and directions to his residence from a door-to-door internet map service.

North of the dazzling white sand coast, the landscape took on a different character. Short, stubby pond pines, skirted by palmetto and tough wiregrass dug their roots into the clay. Where rivers and steams combined to form a swamp, cypress domes humped above the otherwise flat terrain.

Some miles north of the turn-off, Jess passed a sign carved from native blackgum announcing Pine Log State Forest. A more few miles took her to the intersection with the two-lane county road that led to Whittier’s place.

Swerving several times to avoid roadkill, she checked the odometer carefully to clock the distance specified in the internet directions. Aside from a few hand-painted signs nailed to tree trunks, there were no markers to identify the red clay side roads. Most of the rusted, tip-tilted mailboxes planted at the juncture of these dirt roads lacked numbers of any sort. Jess passed one bullet-riddled box twice before deciding it must belong to Whittier.

Backing up a second time, she rested her arms on the Expedition’s steering wheel and stared at the holes in the rusted tin mailbox. Buckshot, she guessed from the random spray pattern, although she certainly didn’t consider herself an arms expert. Under Frank Blackwell’s close supervision, she’d fired her mother’s shotgun maybe three, four times as a teenager, badly bruising her shoulder each time. As part of her officer training program, she’d qualified on both the M-16 and 9mm service Baretta.

She’d also made a special visit to an off-base firing range to qualify with the Smith & Wesson .38 Special she’d purchased during an assignment to the Space Systems Division in L.A. The dealer had categorized it as a ladies’ piece – airweight, uncomplicated, just point and shoot. Perfect for a woman living alone in a city noted for its high crime rate. Perfect, too, for a woman about to stand face to face with someone like Wayne Whittier.

The snub-nosed revolver rested in the overhead compartment of the Expedition, along with Jess’s updated permit to carry a concealed weapon. Reaching up, she slid open the compartment door and extracted the revolver. The hard rubber grip fit her hand perfectly. The matte-gray nickel finish gleamed dully in the afternoon sunlight. She cradled it in her hand for long moments, testing its weight, considering everything she’d heard about the man she’d come to confront. Her mouth set, she slipped the .38 into the side pocket of her straw shoulder tote.

The Expedition took the dirt side road like the tough utility vehicle it was. Pine branches scraped at its sides and rooftop as the high carriage jounced over ruts. Clamping her jaw tight to keep her teeth from rattling, Jess navigated the narrow track until she reached a clearing that backed onto a swamp.

Her lip curled in disgust as she surveyed the flat, treeless stretch. If this was Whittier’s residence, the man’s idea of landscaping evidently consisted of tossing his trash out the window and waiting for it to sprout. And if that was Whittier’s Rotweiler snapping and leaping at the end of its chain, the owner deserved to be staked out beside the animal in the broiling sun. Or worse.

Keeping a cautious eye on the snarling animal, Jess hitched her straw tote over her shoulder and climbed out of the SUV. Thank God she’d chosen a jeans and sneakers instead of shorts and sandals for this excursion. The thick rubber soles and tough denim protected her from the broken glass and insects that swarmed around her ankles as she crossed the yard.

When she approached the sagging front porch, the Rotweiler’s frenzied howls escalated to a deafening crescendo. Cautiously, she mounted the rickety steps and had just raised a fist to pound on the door when it was yanked open from the inside.

The stench of sweat, old bacon grease, and whisky rolled out, sending Jess back an involuntary step. The shirtless, bleary-eyed male who slapped a palm against the doorframe to support himself didn’t smell any better. His other hand, she noted, was wrapped around the neck of a half-empty Jim Beam bottle.

Squinting at her through red, irritated rims, he pitched a hoarse shout over the dog’s howls. “Who the hell are you?”

Jess had envisioned a dozen different scenarios for this meeting. None of them had included yelling out her identity on the front porch of a shack that might collapse around her at any moment.

Yet confronting Whittier like this gave her a fierce satisfaction. No prep. No posturing. Just the blunt announcement.

“I’m Helen Yount’s daughter.”

“The fuck you say.”

His red, flaking rims narrowed to slits. For long moments he squinted at her face, then his bloodshot eyes make a slow, insulting journey from her neck to her knees. All the while, the frenzied dog lunged at the end of this tether.

Jess saw Whittier’s lips move, but couldn’t hear over the din. When she shrugged and indicated as much, he staggered onto the porch.

“Shut up!”

To enforce the snarled command, he snatched up a rusted hubcap and hurled it, frisbee-like, at the animal. The vicious metal caught the dog square between the eyes. With yelp, the Rotweiler went down. Blood spouted from a gash, and its red eyes were filled with hate when it retreated to a shallow depression scraped in the dirt.

The effort of heaving the hubcap started a rattling cough in Whittier’s chest. The hacking went on interminably, bending him almost double. Finally he groped for the porch support to pull upright, spit a gob over the rail, and took a swill from the bottle still clutched in his hand. Whiskey dribbling down his chin, he turned back to Jess.

“What I said,” he got out in a rasping growl, “was you sure don’t take after your mama. She had a pair of tits on her could get a man hard just brushing up against ‘em.” His lips curled back over stained dentures. “‘Course, Helen liked for men to do more ‘n just feel her jugs. ‘Specially when she was juiced up.”

“I didn’t come here to discuss my mother.”

“No? Then what’d you come for?”

“To look you in the eye,” Jess said softly, “and see what kind of man would rape a woman who worked for him.”

“Rape, hell. If you’re talkin’ ‘bout that time the sheriff come out to the Blue Crab ‘cause one of the customers thought he heard Helen yellin’ and carryin’ on, it weren’t rape. Your mama wanted it. Was beggin’ for it.”

“Is that why it took five men to hold her down?”

“I told you, she was juiced up.” Leering, he cupped his crotch with his free hand. “Truth is, Helen had a craving for this little jigger. God knows, I give it to her often enough.”

She’d thought he’d show at least a vestige of remorse or shame. His boasting sickened her.

“I doubt that.” Cool contempt dripped from every word. “Even juiced up, as you claim, my mother wouldn’t let scum touch her.” Her mouth curved in a biting smile. “Especially scum with a little jigger.”

Rage that mottled his unshaven cheeks. “You stupid bitch. You’ve caused nothing but trouble since you rolled into town. First McConnell, then Clark. Well, you ain’t takin’ me down!”

As far as Jess was concerned, Delbert McConnell and Ron Clark deserved whatever place in purgatory they now inhabited.

“Do you think the statute of limitations protects you, Whittier? Guess again. You’re going to burn, you bastard.”

The hate that twisted his face and propelled him across the porch told her she’d miscalculated both the man and the amount of whiskey he’d consumed.

“You shouldda drowned when you went off the bridge! Why the fuck didn’t you drown?”

The Jim Beam bottle swung in a vicious arc. Jess barely had time to throw up a forearm to protect her face and jump back. In the process, her heel snagged on a rotten board.

After that, everything seemed to happen at warp speed.

Tumbling off the steps, she hit the dirt with jarring force. The .38 flew out tote on impact.

Snarling another curse, Whittier made a dive for the gun. The weapon was beyond Jess’s reach, but a wild sissor-kick sent it skimming through the weeds and trash. Whittier staggered up, lurched for the gun, fell right on top of it.

Jess was scrambling to her knees when an ominous growl raised the hairs on the back of her neck. With a rattle of chain link, the Rotweiler sprang.

“Whittier! Look out!”

Her attacker jerked his head up. His face frozen in horror, he stared straight into the jaws of death.