Reckoning and Ruin (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

Shady Grove proved to be several trees short of a grove, and the only shade it provided came courtesy of the sheet metal parking structures in almost every driveway. It wasn't particularly shady in a criminal way either, despite what I knew of Hope and John's known associates. There were mostly doublewides, a few singlewides, all of them older models but well-maintained. Some sported flower beds around the borders, fake deer and geese posed artistically next to birdbaths.

It took me a while to find number 207, John and Hope not being the kind of people to put out a mailbox with their names on it, but I finally found what had to be their place, a good half mile from where my phone's GPS put the address. They'd chosen a lot set back from the main stretch, close to the woods, private.

The mobile home itself was tubular and bare, like the fuselage of a jet. No parking structure here. No Harley either. A satellite dish dominated the treeless front yard, but that was it for ornamentation. Despite the lack of greenery, we were close to the marshes here. I could smell them, and I felt a pang of homesickness.

I parked at the edge of the sparse lawn and followed the driveway to wooden steps. The tire tracks in the sand were easy to spot, but hard to interpret. I decided to leave the plaster casting and forensic analysis to the crime scene team and focus instead on the yard.

What would Trey do?
I thought.

Trey wouldn't be here
, a voice in my head said back.

I ignored the voice and put on my sunglasses, then pulled a pair of rubber gloves from my bag. One thing Trey had taught me was to be prepared. He'd also taught me to observe, get a clear overall picture before moving to specificities. So I walked the perimeter. I walked it first looking at the ground, knowing that my next move would be looking at eye level, then a final time looking up, both clockwise and counterclockwise. I never got that far, however, because I found what I was looking for on my first try—several jagged punctures in the bare baseboards.

Bullet holes.

I knelt, focused my cell phone to take a picture. Bullets went in a straight line. So I traced my steps backwards, cocking my index finger and thumb into a pretend pistol and following the line of sight all the way back to the end of the driveway, keeping an eye on the ground around my feet. If the shooter had used a semi-auto…

It took two minutes of hard looking before I spotted the spent brass in the high weeds of the drainage ditch. I snapped their picture too, but didn't touch them. Not .22s, which meant they hadn't come from the handgun Hope had found. These were .45 ACPs, a massive caliber perfectly capable of making the holes Trey had spotted in the trunk.

I went around back, grateful for the lack of nosy neighbors. The backyard had a new deck, plain and simple and smelling of fresh wood, freckled with rain and pollen. It had a southern exposure, a deck chair for sunbathing, and a shade to keep the sun from the kitchen windows. John was always good with his hands, whether woodworking or wielding the tattoo needle. He'd built this to welcome Hope back, to make this place feel like a home for her.

I pulled open the screen door and inserted the key. Both the regular lock and deadbolt were engaged, no sign of forced entry, and I pulled it closed behind me as I stepped into the kitchen.

The space was small, ill-lighted, with avocado green counters and faux wood laminate, not the kind of kitchen featured in
Southern Living
. I spotted a box of cereal on the counter, a rinsed bowl and spoon in the sink. I opened the refrigerator, which looked like my refrigerator, with only the basics—milk, beer, sandwich meat, condiments. There was a brown circle of gummy tea spilled on one of the shelves under a half-full pitcher, but that was the only mess.

I checked the living room next. The front door was closed, but only the knob lock was engaged, not the deadbolt. The sofa and chairs and coffee table were well-made, but dated and dinged, thrift store finds most likely. John was good at that, picking and poking through trash to find the treasure. A large stain spread in front of the television. I knelt and examined it, breathing a sigh of relief to find only the ghost of a long-ago spill. No blood, no brains.

I flipped the light in the bedroom and stopped short. The room was messy, but not lived-in messy like the rest of the trailer. Random messy. Two drawers on the dresser dangled open, a pair of jeans hanging out. The bedclothes lay on the floor in a pile, the pillows too. A heap of dirty clothes sat next to an empty wicker basket. I picked up a stack of camisoles lying half-folded on the floor and pressed them to my nose. They smelled fresh and clean, like fabric softener.

My knees shook, and I sat on the edge of the bed. The bedroom had been searched. Not the living room, not the kitchen. Which meant that whoever had done the searching had abandoned the search, either because they'd found what they were looking for or because they'd been surprised. And from the ballistic evidence I'd seen in the front yard, I was guessing the latter. Something had happened here. Something that ended in violence.

“He didn't run away,” I said out loud.

And then I heard it—the slow roll of tires on sand, the idle of an engine. The slam of a car door followed, and then another. I went to the window, Trey's voice yammering in my head about mobile home construction and bullet caliber as I pulled back the thin cotton curtain.

Cops. Two of them. Not random psychopaths. I felt a surge of relief, followed quickly by a ripple of oh-no. There I was, at a crime scene, on property that belonged to a man gone missing and a woman fresh out of jail.

I saw one of the cops walk around to the back of my car. I cursed again. Running my license plates. So either they were there because the Atlanta PD had drop-kicked John's disappearance down Savannah Metro way, or because somebody else had seen me prowling around and called them to investigate. I couldn't decide which scenario was more problematic.

I pulled out my phone, dialed 911. When the operator answered, I said, “I'd like to report a burglary. I'm at 207…Oh wait, I see you have officers already here. Thank you for your quick and efficient service.”

I hung up. Left my carry bag lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. Peeled off the cat-burglar gloves. I opened the front door very slowly using the hem of my tee shirt. The cops looked up as I came onto the front porch, and I saw their elbows dip to touch the butts of the pistols in their holsters. Training, I knew. Double-checking for the weapon. Nothing sinister, but I gulped anyway.

“That was fast,” I said.

The young one looked puzzled and checked his orders. “What was fast?”

“You guys getting here since I just this very second called the station to report a burglary.”

The older one frowned. “Are you Hope Lyle?”

“No, I'm her friend. Tai Randolph. Real name's Teresa Ann, but everybody calls me Tai.” I smiled. “I suppose you've heard that the residents of this trailer are both missing, and that I was checking on them when I found the place like this, which is what prompted me to immediately call the police.”

I kept my hands where they could see them, empty and open. The cops looked at each other. The younger was dark and tall, the older one pale and short. They made a pair of suspicious ying-yang bookends.

“Can you verify that you have permission to be on these premises?”

“I can. Not from Hope or John, of course, both of them being, you know, missing. But I got this address and the key from a mutual friend, John's employer.”

I gave them Train's business card, making sure they saw the embossed cross on it. One of them took notes, the other kept an eye on the front yard.

“You'll find my sneaker prints in the driveway, and around back on the deck. Other than that, it's exactly the same as when I came in.” I smiled bigger. “I date a cop, so I know better than to tamper with evidence.”

They had moved from baffled to inquisitive. This wasn't what they'd been expecting, but it wasn't the big bad unexpected. No corpses, no shooting, only little old me. And they were relieved to discover they could handle me easily.

“Do you mind if we come inside?” the shorter one said.

I stepped back from the door. “Oh, please do.”

***

I sat on the sofa with my knees tucked together, trying to look innocuous while they searched the trailer. They looked mostly bored until my phone rang. Then both their heads swiveled in my direction.

I held up the phone. “Y'all care if I take this?”

The taller one made a “go ahead” gesture. I put it to my ear.

“Hey there, Reynolds.”

“Good morning, m'dear. How are you this fine day?”

Both cops were pretending to examine the TV stand, but they were really listening to my conversation.

“Oh, same as always. And you?”

“Splendid. I have to be brief, but I thought you might want to know…I did some asking around. As it turns out, there has been a sizeable collection of Confederate memorabilia put up for sale recently, as one grouping. Fine pieces, mostly martial. Extremely reasonable but non-negotiable price.”

That meant somebody was looking for a quick sale. “Was it connected to one of the, ah, cultural groups we discussed?”

“Not exactly. It was your cousin Jefferson.”

Chapter Twenty-two

The sun was setting by the time I finished with the cops and pointed the car east on Highway 80, the last leg of the Dixie Overland route. The tide had just turned, and the iodine smell of the pluff mud hung thick in the air. A wet breeze blew in from the Atlantic, heavy with deep water, and I rolled the windows down to let it ride along with me.

A stranger would miss the entrance to Boone's place. No sign announced it, no mailbox marked it. A stand of palmetto palms shaded an oyster-shell driveway, which curved out of sight like a trail of breadcrumbs. Boone's private peninsula was a world apart from the sun-bright, beach-happy madness of the highway. A dark, cool country all its own, sovereign unto itself.

I turned down the path. Cat briers and blackberry bushes crowded the lane, morning glory too. Live oaks more than a hundred years old arched overhead in a canopy of gray moss and green leaf. The path had only one destination—Boone's. No way to turn around, no side roads. Boone owned all twenty acres of it, and he and his family were its only occupants.

Five minutes later I turned the last curve, and his house loomed into view. I could see only the very top, however, since everything below the third story was obscured by a tabby stucco wall. A security camera tracked my car as I drove to the main entrance, gated and locked.

I got out. Stood there a minute to let everybody get a good look at me. Then I walked up to the intercom and pushed the button.

A voice answered immediately. “Yeah?”

Definitely female and deep Southern, though more twangy than Lowcountry. “I'm here to see Boone.”

“He ain't here.”

“Cheyanne? Is that you?”

A barbed silence.

“It's me. Tai. I know we've never met, but—”

“I know who you are.”

I knew her too. Cheyanne was Boone's daughter-in-law, married to Jefferson. They had two daughters, but that hadn't mellowed them any. They were both high up in the Klan, the newly sanitized, female-friendly, uber-empowered version. Which made Cheyanne as dangerous as he was.

“I need to talk to y'all,” I said.

“About what?”

“Jasper trouble.”

A pause. I heard muffled conversation at her end. She was calling someone, either Jefferson or Boone, and asking them what to do. I crossed my fingers it was the latter—Boone had always possessed a soft spot for me, but even more importantly, he trusted me. Jefferson always acted like he preferred me stuffed and mounted.

One minute later, there was a buzzing, and the big gate swung open. I got back in the Camaro and eased it through, squashing down any apprehension as the gate closed behind me.

***

Boone's house was shabbier than I remembered, badly in need of a new roof, the gray siding faded and pocked. He'd never been one for landscaping, but now the tangles and brambles had taken over the flower beds, and swaths of Spanish moss choked the branches. It was chaotic and wild, pure tidewater country, and despite my uneasiness, it felt like coming home.

I parked next to Boone's old Thunderbird. Unlike the house, it had held up well. Still a deep blue, shiny in the fenders. Cars, guns, and women—the redneck trinity—the first of those well-represented in the open space beneath the house. Like most Lowcountry homes, Boone's was built with an unfinished first floor, open so that flood water could come and go without wrecking the living areas. I saw at least six vehicles in pieces and parts under there, a couple of watercraft too, including a battered Carolina skiff and a jet ski. Boone hadn't liquidated this collection yet, which surprised me in light of Reynolds' revelation. I knew finances were tight, but why was Jefferson getting rid of prized antiques instead of junk cars?

Cheyanne opened the door before I could knock, wiping her hands on her apron. She was my height, maybe shading into five-seven, but twice as muscled. She'd pulled her fawn-brown hair into a ponytail as thick as my wrist, sun-bleached tendrils curling around her forehead. It created an odd halo effect and matched her deep-set eyes, topaz like a lion's. I caught the pungent odor of fish coming off her, and when I checked her apron, I saw why—it was smeared with blood and scales and slime.

“Jefferson ain't here,” she said. “But he said you're welcome to wait.”

I followed her inside the massive great room with its two-story windows overlooking the salt marsh. I'd barely shut the door behind myself when two tow-headed girls came screeching around the corner, dip nets and jelly jars clutched in their hands.

The tallest held up a dirty pint of water. “Mama! Guess what we found!”

“Not now.” Cheyanne pointed toward the back yard. “Y'all go play.”

“But Mama—”

“Git!”

They got. I watched them fly through the patio door and tear down the steps, headed for the cove. The retreating tide would leave treasures of all kinds—silver bait fish, tiny crabs. The playthings of a marsh rat childhood. There were still shotguns behind each door and skinning knives lying as casually as silverware on the counter, but now there were toys scattered on the floor and family portraits hanging alongside the taxidermied deer heads. One of those featured Cheyanne with her compound bow in hand, a twelve-point buck dead at her feet, its tongue lolling.

I followed her onto the patio to the fish cleaning station just beyond the swimming pool. I couldn't help noticing there were chunks missing from the pavement, and the pool was covered with a thick tarp and puddles of stagnant water. Cheyanne reached into a cooler, pulling out a sea trout. She grabbed it by the tail and slung it on the counter like a potter flinging clay. Then she took her cleaver and chopped the fish's head off in a single slice. She eyed me, watching for some sign of disgust or discomfort. I almost laughed. If she was trying to out-redneck me, she was wasting her time.

“Where's Boone?” I said.

“At the hospital.”

I suppressed a twinge of apprehension. “Is he okay?”

She shrugged. “Stable, they say. Another one of his episodes.”

“Is Jefferson with him?”

She shook her head. “No, he had to go fetch a gator.”

“A gator?”

“Somebody over in the Landings found one on the golf course.” She kept her attention on the fish. Chop, slice, chuck the guts in one bucket, heads in the other, cleaned fish in a metal pan. “He does varmint removal. Gators, snakes, bats, whatever. Had to get a water moccasin out of New Life Pentecostal's baptismal pool last weekend.”

So that was the business now. The marshlands had plenty of troublesome creatures. Developers bulldozed the swamp, backfilled it, and threw up McMansions at the edge of the wilderness. Then everybody acted surprised at the snake in the whirlpool, the gator in the koi pond.

Cheyanne scraped scales, iridescent in the filtered light. “So what's this trouble you were talking about?”

“You remember the third eyewitness, the one we need to put Jasper away for good?”

“Somebody named Hope.”

“Yeah. Hope Lyle. She's missing. Her husband too.”

“You think any of us know where they are?”

“This seemed a good enough place to start.”

She went back to cleaning the fish. “You can ask Jefferson, but he's been busy taking care of Daddy Boone and chasing varmints. I've been busy with the girls. We ain't had time to mess with nobody. But even if we had, why would we?”

The pop-pop-pop of a BB gun carried over the back yard, followed almost immediately by the crash of glass and girlish shrieks.

Cheyanne's voice went full throttle. “Dixie Lynn and Meredith Lee, I told y'all about shooting up glass! I will tan both your hides and take those rifles away if you do it again, you hear me?”

Guilty silence from the woods. Then two reluctant, drawn-out “yes, ma'am's.”

“Get some cans if you wanna shoot. Your daddy put plenty in the recycle.” Cheyanne shook her head and went back to the fish. “I swear. You got kids?”

It took me a second to find my voice. “Nope.”

“Always into something, kids are. Watch, they'll be setting fires or getting in a fistfight any second now.”

About that time, I heard the rolling of tires on the crushed oyster shell. Cheyanne wiped her hands on her apron, the knife too, leaving a smear of blood before she placed it carefully at the edge of the sink. The girls came thundering up from the woods, headed toward the other side of the house, barefoot and hell for leather.

“Y'all keep out of your daddy's way!” she hollered after them. Then she turned to me. “Come on. Jefferson's here.”

She headed for the back with the same eagerness as her daughters, and I remembered the many heads and horns mounted on the great room walls. I shot a quick glance at her boots.

Just as I suspected. Alligator hide.