Dying Echo: A Grim Reaper Mystery (Grim Reaper Series) (23 page)

“You could’ve reserved one more ticket.” Death remained in Eric’s seat, which Eric had unknowingly been sharing. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“Baggage? Overhead compartment? Hell?”

“I don’t spend time in Hell, and you know it. It’s very…unpleasant. And hot.”

“You have to take people there, don’t you?”

“Way out of my job description, my dear. You know that. My thing is to pick up and deliver to…you know who. After that they’re on their own. Or not.”

She looked out at the clouds, floating far below them. “So tell me, is Saint Peter really guarding the gate?”

Death grinned. “Come now, you don’t really want me to spoil the surprise, do you?”

“Got one for you, too.” Eric was back, and handed her a folded blanket. “She’s also going to bring me some coffee. I need something. I hope I’m not getting a cold.”

Casey looked at Death, who grudgingly gave up Eric’s seat. She smiled. “I think you’ll be warmer now.”

Eric sat down in his empty place, and Death hovered for a moment in the aisle. “Fine. See how you feel when someone leaves
you
out.” The attendant was coming down the aisle with a tray of hot drinks, so Death gave Casey one more glare and disappeared, sucked up into the neighboring row’s air vent. The older couple in those seats shivered, fiddled with the knobs, and went back to what they were doing before.

Eric warmed up eventually, then wondered why he’d even worried about body temperature once they hit the ground in Dallas. “It must be eighty-five degrees down here.”

“At least.” Casey enjoyed the sun on her face as they walked out to their full-size rental car. “You driving?”

Marshland, Texas, was a sleepy town literally, as well as in a manner of speaking. It was past midnight by the time they had stopped for a very late dinner and pulled up in front of the only motel in town, which was a one-story, park-at-the-door type place. Eric wrinkled his nose, but Casey had slept in worse. Far worse.

“I got this.” Casey went into the office and asked for two rooms.

“How many nights?” The kid behind the desk was probably in high school. He wore a Skillet T-shirt and jeans that hung off his practically nonexistent butt. His hair was sandy brown and hung in his eyes, making him look young and sort of clueless. What he was doing manning a night desk was a mystery, but also not any of Casey’s business, so she didn’t ask.

“Not sure how long we’re staying. Can we let you know day by day?”

He shrugged. “Don’t matter to me. It’s not like we’re full up.” He took her cash and handed her two keys. “Rooms are around back. Quieter back there.”

“Thanks.” She put her wallet away. “Any chance you know Betsy Lackey?”

He nodded as he put her money in the cash drawer. “Sure. She’s Billy’s mom.”

“Know where they live?”

“Right downtown. Blue house on the corner by the stoplight.”

The stoplight. Not a specific stoplight. Just ‘the’ stoplight.

“She work days?”

“At the pharmacy, last I knew. Not sure exactly what she does there.”

“Married?”

“Well, yeah. He’s the physics teacher at the school.”

Again with the singular ‘the.’

“All right. Thanks.”

“How come you’re looking for Mrs. Lackey?”

“We called her today about her cousin.”

“Which one?”

Casey deliberated, then finally decided there was no reason not to tell him. “One from way back. She disappeared in the nineties.”

He went still, and his eyes opened wide. “Seriously? That one? She went to school with my dad. Did you find her?”

“So you know about her?”

“Do I—I mean—Sure. She’s the local legend. Well, her and Cyrus, you know, her old man. There’s all kinds of stories.”

“Like what?”

He leaned forward, his fingers spread on the counter. “They lived in a car, for one thing. And they were mixed up with bad folks.”

“What kind of bad folks?”

“Depends who’s talking. Drugs. Smugglers. Weapons. Slave traders.”

“Slave traders? What slaves?”

“You know. People from Mexico. They want to come up, they got to pay some guy, and they end up working for him forever for nothing. It’s messed up. I wrote all about it for my government class. Been going on for ages.”

“What about Elizabeth? Your dad know her very well?”

“Yeah, I guess. This size town, you pretty much know everybody. But it’s not like he talks about her a lot, or anything. I think they were friends back then, or maybe even more than that, you know? But he married my mom, and, well, it’s not a subject that comes up too much.”

“Think he’d talk to me?”

“Probably. I can ask.”

“I’d appreciate that…what’s your name?”

“Robert. You can call me Robbie, if you want. Everybody does.”

Casey smiled. She was liking young Robert. “Well, thanks a lot, Robbie. You can call me Casey.”

He shook her hand formally. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Ma’am. Somewhere along the way she’d turned into one of those. Or maybe it was Texas manners.

“Um, did you find her, or something?” He didn’t want to let her go without an answer.

He was going to have to. Casey smiled, but didn’t tell him anything more.

She and Eric found their rooms and paused to say goodnight under the awning that went the length of the building.

“Any certain time in the morning?” Eric asked.

“Don’t think there’s a rush. It’ll be better if we catch people once they’re up and around. No use spoiling anyone’s morning.”

“All right, then. See you whenever.”

“Yeah.”

They stood there awkwardly for a few moments until Casey turned and went into her room, locking it and leaning against the door.

“Two rooms?” Death said from a seat on the bed. A projector beamed a Houston Texans game onto the wall, and Death was texting someone with one eye on football and one eye on the phone. “Waste of money.”

“Like we’ve been worried about that today. First class plane tickets. Big car. Eating out.”

“Whatever. You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Are too.”

Casey slammed the door of the bathroom and took a very long, very hot shower. When she came out, Death was still there, although now instead of football the projector was showing “No Country for Old Men.”

“Seriously?” Casey said. “Could you be more depressing?”

“It’s the real Texas.”

“I don’t think so. How about something uplifting, like ‘Apollo 13?’”

“That was Texas?”

“
Houston, we’ve had a problem
.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Anyway, no matter what state it’s about, you have to turn it off. I’m going to sleep.”

Death pouted. “You’re never any fun.”

“And you’re a barrel of dead monkeys.”

Death harrumpfed, rolled off the bed, and was gone.

Casey fell asleep fast, but was wide awake by six, without a prayer of drifting off again. She got dressed and went out for a run.

The town was as small as she had imagined. “The” pharmacy, school, and bank were all quiet and dark, with no sign of life except the digital clock hanging on the corner of the bank. The gas station-slash-convenience store was open, making Casey think of home, but she didn’t stop. She passed the stoplight—one of those blinking red ones, not even a full-fledged green-yellow-red—which meant she was passing Betsy Lackey’s blue house. She saw a light in what was probably a bathroom, with a frosted glass window, but decided against a spur-of-the-moment visit. Pulling someone out of the shower wasn’t exactly a way to get off on the right foot.

The streets were neat and clean, and the houses well-cared for. She didn’t see anyone sleeping in a car or in a doorway, and saw nothing that said there was a bad part of town. By the time she got back to the hotel, she was convinced Marshland was much more an “Apollo 13” kind of town than a “No Country for Old Men” town. Thank God. The last thing Casey needed was some creepy guy coming after her with a handmade airgun.

Eric was sitting outside reading his iPad. “So you’re not even in there. I was afraid to make any noise since you were being so quiet.”

“Couldn’t sleep any more.”

“Want to grab some breakfast? The kid in the office told me there’s a good diner on the opposite edge of town.”

“Robbie?”

“You mean the kid? I guess. Same one as last night. He was getting ready to head out for school. Not sure how he’ll function, since he was working all night.”

“Teenager.” That description would account for many things people could do that seemed superhuman. “Give me a few minutes, okay?” She showered and went back out to find Eric still sitting there.

“Forgot to tell you,” Eric said. “The kid said his dad will talk to you, if you want. He works second shift, so the best time to catch him is early afternoon.”

They found the diner, had a good breakfast, and were in the middle of “downtown” by eight-thirty. The pharmacy was open, so they walked down the street and into the store.

“Can I help you?” a woman said.

Casey turned to reply, but was struck dumb. The woman at the counter was the spitting image of Alicia McManus.

Chapter Twenty-six

“Can I help you?” the woman said again.

Eric glanced at Casey, then stepped forward. “Yes, you and I talked on the phone yesterday. I’m Eric VanDiepenbos. This is Casey Maldonado.”

The woman’s face went blank for just a second, until recognition hit. “About Lizzie? But…weren’t you in
Colorado
?”

“Yes, we flew in late last night.”

“You didn’t email me the photo you promised.”

“Sorry, we headed out as soon as we could get plane tickets. We thought we should come and see what we could find out.”

“But what if it’s not even Lizzie? You made the trip for nothing.”

“We didn’t.” Casey found her voice. “You look just like her.”

Betsy Lackey paled and sat down on a high stool behind the counter. Her mouthed worked, and she pressed her hand against it.

“I’m sorry,” Casey said. “Here she is.” She pulled out the picture of Alicia, and Ricky and laid it on the counter.

Betsy’s eyes filled. “Oh, God. Even after all these years.” She touched the photo gently. “She looks the same. She looks…like me.” Tears dribbled down her cheeks. Eric found a tissue carton on the counter and handed her a Kleenex. She held it scrunched in her hand as she stared dumbly at the picture.

“Betsy?” An older woman appeared in one of the aisles, and walked toward the counter.

Betsy slid the photo into her lap and turned it over.

The woman looked from Eric and Casey to Betsy. “Is everything all right?”

“I…” Betsy shook her head. “May I have a few minutes?”

“Of course. Do you need me to do anything? Are these people bothering you?” She looked suddenly afraid. “It’s not Billy, is it?”

“No, no, Billy’s fine.” Betsy managed a wobbly smile. “It’s something else. Can I talk with them somewhere?”

“Use the lunch room.”

Betsy nodded and came out from behind the counter. Eric followed. Casey felt the woman’s eyes on her, and hesitated. “I’m sorry to disturb her.”

The woman’s concern seemed genuine, her eyes reflecting only care for Betsy, plus maybe a little anger that Casey had caused her pain. “Is there something I can do?”

“I’m sure she’ll let you know.” Casey followed the others to the back of the store, into a cheerful room with a table, refrigerator, and sink. Betsy was already sitting, and she looked up as Casey closed the door. Finally, she wiped her face, and sat straight.

“Tell me, please.”

Eric looked at Casey, and she sighed. It really was her story to tell, more than his. Casey sat down across the table and explained that her brother had been Alicia’s boyfriend, and that’s how she’d gotten involved. She recounted what she knew about Alicia’s death—downplaying the torture and rape—and everything she and Eric had found out about her life, including the fact that Ricky was in jail for her murder even though nobody in her personal life believed he could be responsible. She left out the part that that circle of people could be counted on one hand.

Betsy listened with obvious confusion. “She was using the name Alicia McManus? Why?”

“Weren’t the cops looking for her in connection with her father’s death?”

“Not for years, and never really seriously. She was a kid, not a killer. A sweet kid, too. Funny, smart. She always got good grades, even though—” She made a face.

“I was wondering about that,” Casey said. “How you could be so close to her, and yet she and her dad lived in a car.”

Betsy’s eyes flicked up to Casey’s. “Listen, we offered lots of times. Told Uncle Cyrus we had plenty of room—he was my dad’s brother, you know. He knew they were welcome in our house. My dad used to say at least Uncle Cyrus should let Lizzie stay, even if he didn’t want to. I think he would have let her, but Lizzie didn’t want to leave him.”