Revenant (3 page)

I
studied the back of Mitch Rayburn's head as I stood in my office doorway. He had thick, dark hair threaded with silver. By my calculation he was in his mid-forties, and he wore his age well. His tailored suit emphasized broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He worked out, and he jogged. I'd seen him around town late in the evenings when I'd be pulling into a bar. He used endorphins, and I used alcohol; we both had our crutches.

“Carson, don't stand behind me staring,” he said.

“What gave me away?” I asked, walking around him to my desk. He had two things I like in men—a mustache and a compelling voice.

“Opium. It's a distinctive scent.”

“If I'm ever stalking a D.A., I'll remember to spray on something less identifiable.”

He stood up and smiled. “I'm ready to go to Angola. Want a ride?”

I shook my head. “I have some leads to work on here, but I'd appreciate an update when you get back.”

“I didn't realize I was on the newspaper's payroll.”

I laughed. “How did it go with Brandon?”

“He's holding the photo, and thanks for not mentioning the missing fingers.”

“You're welcome. I'm not always the bitch Avery thinks I am.”

“You got off on the wrong foot, and Avery has a long list of grievances with the paper that date back to the Paleozoic era. Give him a chance to know you. He likes Jack Evans.”

I plopped in my chair and motioned him to sit, too. “I went back in the morgue and found four missing girls from the summer of 1981.”

Mitch's face paled. “I remember…” His voice faded and there was silence for a moment. “I was in law school that year.”

Beating around the bush was a waste of good time. “I read about your brother and his wife. I'm sorry.”

His gaze dropped to his knees. “Jeffrey was my protector. And Alana…she was so beautiful and kind.”

Loss is an open wound. The lightest touch causes intense pain. I understood this and knew not to linger. “I think four of those bodies in the grave belong to the girls who went missing. I just don't know how the fifth body fits in.” I watched him for a reaction.

“I'd say you're on the right track, but it would surely be a courtesy to the families if we had time to contact them before they read it in the newspaper.”

Brandon would print the names of the girls if there was even a remote chance I was right. Or even if I wasn't. I thought of the repercussions. Twenty-odd years wouldn't dull the pain of losing a child, and to suffer that erroneously would be terrible. “Okay, if you'll let me know as soon as you get a positive ID on any of them.”

He nodded. “We're trying to get dental records on two of the girls. There were fillings. And one had a broken leg. Of course, there's always DNA, but that's much slower.”

I noticed his use of the word
girls.
Mitch, too, believed they were the four girls who went missing in 1981 and one unknown body. “Okay, I'll do the story as five unidentified bodies. Brandon will have my head if he finds out.”

“Not even Avery Boudreaux could torture the information out of me,” he said, rising. “Thanks for your cooperation, Carson.” He stared at me, an expression I couldn't identify on his face. “I think we'll work well together. I want that.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Just remember, nothing is free. My cooperation comes with a price. I'll collect later.”

As soon as he cleared the newsroom, I picked up the phone and called Avery. I told him about the girls, and that I was voluntarily withholding the information for at least twenty-four hours. His astonishment was reward enough. I got a quote about the investigation and began to write the story.

It was after four when Hank finished editing my piece. I left the paper and headed to Camille's, a bar on stilts that hung over the Sound. The original bar, named the Cross Current, had been destroyed by the tidal surge of Hurricane Camille. The owner had found pieces of his bar all up and down the coast, had collected them and rebuilt, naming the place to commemorate all that was lost in that storm.

The bar was almost empty. I took a seat and ordered a vodka martini. It was good, but Kip over at Lissa's Lounge made a better one. There had been a bar in Miami, Somoza's Corpse, that set the standard for martinis. Daniel, my ex-husband, had taught the bartender to make a dirty martini with just a hint of jalapeño that went down smooth and hot. The music had been salsa and rumba. My husband, with his Nicaraguan heritage, had been an excellent dancer. Still was.

A man in shorts with strong, tanned legs sat down next to me. His T-shirt touted Key West, and his weathered face spoke of a life on the water.

“Hi, my name's George,” he said, an easy smile on his face. “Mind if I sit here?”

I did, but I needed a distraction from myself. “I'm Carson.”

“I run a charter out of here, some fishing, mostly sightseeing.”

I nodded and smiled, wondering how desperate he was. I hadn't worn a lick of makeup in two years, and sorrow lined my face. I looked in a mirror often enough to know everything that was missing.

“I moved here in 1978, out of the Keys,” he said. “I don't like the casinos, but they're a good draw for business.”

“The coast has changed a lot since the casinos came in.” I didn't want to make small talk, but I also didn't want to be rude.

He settled in beside me. “I lost the
Matilda
in '81. My first boat.”

Storms interested me, and the weather was a safe enough subject. “I was inland then. Was it bad?”

“Deborah hit Gulfport, but we got the worst here in Biloxi. The
Matilda
was tied up in the harbor. I had at least ten lines on her, plenty to let her ride the storm surge. Didn't matter. Another boat broke free and rammed her. She took on water and sank right in the harbor.” He shook his head. “She was sweet.”

“I guess you had plenty of warning that the storm was coming. Why didn't you take her inland?”

“It was a fluke. Deborah hit the Yucatan, lost a lot of power and looked like she was dying out, but she came back strong enough. I really thought the boats could weather it. Never again. I take mine upriver now. I don't care if it's a pissin' rainstorm.”

“Was there much damage?”

“Washed out a section of Highway 90. Took a few of those oak trees.” He shook his head. “That hurt me. Funny, I've had a lot of loss in my life, but those trees made me cry.” He sipped his beer. “Life's not fair, you know. I lost my wife two years ago to cancer. She was my mate, in more ways than one.”

I knew then what had drawn him to me. Loss. It was a law of nature that two losses attract. “My dad's told me stories of storms that came in unannounced. At least now there's adequate warning.”

He nodded. “We thought it was petering out. After it hit Mexico, it just drifted, not even a tropical storm. Looked like if it was going anywhere, it'd drift over to the Texas coast. Then, suddenly, it reorganized and roared this way. Caught a young couple on their honeymoon. The storm just caught 'em by surprise.” He looked at me. “Enough doom and gloom. Would you like to go out when I take a charter?” he asked.

To me, boats were floating prisons. I shook my head but forced a smile. “Thank you, but I'm not much for boats or water. I'm afraid you'd regret your invitation.”

“Then how about dinner?”

I hated this. How could I explain that I had no interest in the things that normal people did? “No, thank you.”

He looked into my eyes. “Sometimes it helps to be around other people.”

“Not this time,” I said, putting a twenty on the bar and gathering my purse. “Vodka helps. And sleeping pills.” I walked out before I could see the pity in his eyes.

It was dark outside and I got in my pickup and headed east on Highway 90. The stars in the clear sky were obliterated by mercury-vapor lights and neon. The coast was a smear of red, green, purple, pink, orange, yellow—a hot gas rainbow that blinked and flashed and promised something for nothing.

I drove past the Beau Rivage, the nearly completed Hard Rock casino, the Grand, Casino Magic and the Isle of Capri. Once I was on the Biloxi-Ocean Springs Bridge, I left the glitz behind. Ocean Springs was in another county, one that had refused to succumb to the lure of gambling. My house was on a quiet street, a small cottage surrounded by live oaks, a tall fence and a yard that sloped to a secluded curve of the Mississippi Sound. I'd forgotten to leave a light on, and I fumbled with my keys on the porch. Inside a strident meow let me know that I was in deep trouble.

The door swung open and a white cat with two tabby patches on her back, gray ears and a gray tail glared at me.

“Miss Vesta,” I said, trying to sound suitably contrite. “How was your day?”

A flash of yellow tabby churned out from under a chair and batted Vesta's tail. She whirled, growling and spitting. So it had been one of those days. Chester, a younger cat, had been up to his tricks.

I went to the sunroom, examined the empty food bowl, replenished it and took a seat on the sofa so both cats could claim a little attention. They were as different in personality as night and day. Annabelle had loved them both, and it was my duty not to fail her. They were the last tangible connection I had to my daughter, except for Bilbo, the pony. Daniel hadn't even tried to fight me for them when we divorced.

I thought about another drink, but I was pinned down by the cats. Today was Thursday, March 12, Bilbo's birthday. He was twelve.

I wasn't prepared for the full blast of the memory that hit. I closed my eyes. Annabelle's hand tugged at my shirt. “Carrot cake,” she said, grinning, one front tooth missing. “We'll make Bilbo a carrot cake. And he can wear a hat.” We'd spent the afternoon in the kitchen, baking. I'd made a carrot cake for Annabelle, and a pan of carrots with molasses for icing for Bilbo. Together we'd gone to the barn to celebrate. Daniel had come home early from his import/export business and had met us there, his laughter so warm that it felt like a touch. He'd brought a purple halter, Annabelle's favorite color, for Bilbo, and it was hidden in a basket of apples.

Chester's paw slapped my cheek. He was after the tears, chasing them along my skin.

I snapped on a light and got several small balls. The cats had learned to fetch. North of Miami, we'd had twenty acres for them to roam. When I moved to Ocean Springs, I decided to keep them inside, safe.

When the cats tired of the fetch game, I wandered the house. I'd painted the rooms, arranged the furniture, bought throw rugs for the hardwood floors, hung the paintings that I treasured, stored all the family photographs and stocked the pantry with food. It was the emptiest house I'd ever set foot in. When I'd first graduated from college and taken an apartment in Hattiesburg, I'd had a bed, an old trunk, some pillows that I used for chairs, a boom box and some cassettes, but the house had always been full of people.

The fireplace was laid, and I considered lighting it, but it really wasn't cold, just a little chilly. The phone rang, and I picked it up without checking caller ID. It could only be work.

“Hey, Carson, I wanted to make sure that you're coming home this weekend. Dad's got the farrier lined up to do the horses' feet.”

Dorry, my older sister, was about as subtle as a house falling on me. “I'll be there. I already told Mom I would.”

There was a pause, in which she didn't say that I'd become somewhat unreliable. “Today is Bilbo's birthday,” I finally said. “I forgot.”

“We'll celebrate Saturday,” she said softly. “He won't know the difference of a few days.”

Dorry was the perfect daughter. She was everything my mother adored. “The horses need their spring vaccinations, too.” I sought common ground. “I'll see about it. Dad shouldn't be out there since he's on Coumadin.”

“I know,” Dorry agreed. “Mom's terrified he'll get cut somewhere on the farm and bleed to death before she finds him.”

My father was the sole pharmacist in Leakesville, Mississippi. The drugstore there still had a soda fountain, and Dad compounded a lot of his own drugs. He was also seventy-one years old and took heart medicine that thinned his blood.

“I'll take care of the horses. It's enough that he feeds them every morning.”

“You know Dad. If he didn't have the farm to fiddle around with, he'd die of boredom, so it's six of one and half a dozen of the other.”

“Will you and Tommy and the kids be there Saturday?” I was hoping. When Dorry was there, my parents' focus was on her and her family. She had four perfect children ranging from sixteen to nine. They were all geniuses with impeccable manners. Her husband, Dr. Tommy Prichard, was the catch of the century. Handsome, educated, a doctor who pulled off miracles, Tommy's surgical skills kept him flying all over the country, but his base was a hospital in Mobile.

“I'll be there. Tommy's workload has tripled. He has to be in Mobile Saturday. I think the kids have social commitments.”