The Last Time She Saw Him (17 page)

I feel a familiar stab of guilt and look away from Sarah’s hateful stare-down, knowing she is at least partially correct. Aunt Carol initially took both of us in to live with her, but right away Sarah started acting out. She was escorted in the back of a cruiser to Aunt Carol’s house on more than one occasion when the police picked Sarah up for truancy or smoking pot, and Sarah narrowly missed a stint in juvenile hall for stealing a necklace. Shortly after that, I caught Sarah stealing money from our aunt’s wallet. I told Sarah what she was doing was wrong and to put the money back, but Sarah swore if I said anything, she’d tell our aunt that I was the one who took the cash. Ben always hammered into me to do the right thing, and I was worried about my sister, so I told Aunt Carol what I’d witnessed. That was enough for my aunt. Sarah went into foster care for stealing a sum total of sixty-three dollars and forty-seven cents. I cried for days and blamed myself for not keeping my mouth shut.

“Why are you doing this, Sarah?” I ask.

“Because you deserve it.”

“Get out. If you don’t, I’m calling the police.”

David, hearing the growing altercation, emerges from the office. He looks first to Sarah and then over to me.

“You need to leave now. You’ve done enough to my family. Now get out of my house,” David says in a strong, no-nonsense voice. He opens the front door and holds it there for her exit.

Sarah stares back at me for a long beat, seething with barely contained rage.

“Screw you, Julia. You get what you give,” Sarah says and grabs the box of caramel corn like a petty parting gesture before she storms out the front door.

I watch Sarah’s retreat down the gravel walkway until her rental car tears down the street, leaving a dust cloud wake behind her.

“Are you okay?” David asks. “You’re trembling. What did Sarah do to you?”

“Nothing. It’s just the past, you know? Maybe a tiny part of me hoped things were different. But Sarah didn’t change. She only came here to steal a picture of Will to sell to the tabloids. I found it in her purse.”

“How did you know?” David asks. He tries to wrap his arm around my shoulder, but I move away at the last second before he can reach me.

“I just did. Some people never change. Life made Sarah angry and bitter, and she never had the reserve to fight her way out.”

I can smell Sarah’s perfume still lingering in the air and wonder how she might have turned out if she was born into a normal life. I was frantic to know Sarah was okay when she first went into foster care. I wrote her letters every week, but she never responded. When I was in college, my aunt told me she’d heard Sarah was suing one of the foster families she had lived with for sexual abuse. To this day, my dreams are still haunted by whether I cemented Sarah’s fate, and if the tables had been turned and it was me who went into foster care instead of Sarah, if I’d be the one who’d be on the hustle now. But I have to believe Ben’s influence would have kept me on the right track regardless of my fate.

I feel a paranoid twist in my gut as my nagging belief that Sarah could have taken Will as punishment for what she perceives I did magnifies. My thoughts turn to Logan. Sarah might not have threatened him this time, but she tried to bait him. The fine art of the con used on an eight-year-old. Whether Logan is still mad at me or not, my instincts were dead-on to keep him away from my sister.

“Logan was pretty steamed at me. Can you be sure he’s all right? I need to call Navarro.”

David goes to check on Logan, and I speed-dial Navarro’s cell phone number.

He answers on the second ring, and I skip the formalities.

“Casey Cahill called me from the prison. He got another letter today. More hate mail about me. It mentioned Ben and Will and said something about the good will be taken from the unjust. The letter was hand-delivered. Parker has an accomplice, which pans out, since I heard two sets of footsteps last night. There’s got to be something you missed down at Parker’s house. You need to go back there.”

“We need another search warrant. I’ll have my guys pick up the latest letter from Cahill. If Parker breaks, I’ll call you right away.”

“One more thing. I need you to run a check on someone for me.”

“I’m kind of busy if you haven’t noticed,” Navarro says.

“This is important. Someone from my past just showed up out of the blue. Her name is Sarah and she’s got priors. I’m not sure if she is married now, but her maiden name is Gooden.”

“A relative you failed to mention earlier?” Navarro asks.

“Something like that.”

I can hear Navarro exhale in frustration on the other end of the phone.

“I told you before about filling me in on the whole story. I’ll see what I can do,” he answers. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Navarro . . .” I say.

But he already hung up.

I grab my car keys and head toward the front door, knowing I can’t wait around while Navarro works to get a judge to sign off on a second search warrant.

“Where’re you going?” David asks as he emerges from Logan’s room.

“For a drive. I need a few minutes alone to think. It feels like there is something right in front of me, but I just can’t see it.”

“Do what you need to do. Keep your cell phone on,” David answers.

“Sure,” I promise and head to Parker’s house.

CHAPTER 11

I
’ve driven the bucolic route to South Lakeport at least a hundred times since my childhood. Most properties in the rural area are tidily kept and look like they have been plucked out of a Norman Rockwell painting. But I’m guessing Parker’s place will be the exception.

I fumble for the piece of paper on the passenger seat with Parker’s address and take a quick left down a desolate dirt road. I feel relatively sure Parker’s house will be empty since the police have enough to keep him in custody, and it will give me a chance to search the property for any signs of Will the cops might have missed.

A half-mile down, I see the only sign of life, a tired old farmhouse that looks more like an abandoned property left by former residents who either died or hightailed it out of there because they could no longer afford the bank loan.

I pull up across the street from the property and do a quick assessment and security check before I venture inside. Below the threadbare roof are two broken, skinny windows Parker must have carelessly covered up with striped bed sheets, long faded from the sun. The wooden fence that once separated the property from the road lost its battle with decay and curls toward the ground like a spiraling wave. And the tangle of grass and weeds out front is thick with discarded soda cans and other fast-food containers, tossed away carelessly by passing motorists who figured it didn’t matter if they added their litter to the growing landfill pile.

A beat-up Chevy truck is parked in the driveway. The bottom half of the vehicle has more rust than chrome and a Confederate flag is draped across the back window. A Rottweiler stands guard, tethered to the bed of the truck.

“Bloody fantastic,” I mutter over the unexpected and probably highly dangerous four-legged beast.

The massive animal stares me down, quivers its mouth, and then rises on its haunches on high alert. My only saving grace is that the dog is still on its chain. I throw the dice, the stakes way too high not to, and exit the car. The Rottweiler reacts to my brazen move and growls a vicious warning. The dog then lunges forward in my direction, barking and frothing at the mouth, until there is no more give in its metal chain. The momentum jerks the Rottweiler backward with a hard snap, and the dog skids helplessly toward the rear of the truck until it lands with a hard smack against the Chevy’s cab, the animal giving out a painful yelp upon impact. I’d almost feel sorry for the dog if it wasn’t trying to eat me alive.

“Nice doggy,” I say unconvincingly. I reach into my purse and pull out a package of peanut butter crackers I picked up for Logan. I open the wrapper of the crackers and fling it toward the bed of the truck. The Rottweiler temporarily ceases its frothing onslaught and begins to devour the treat. I put as much room as I can between the dog and my body and hustle toward the front door. Once safely at my destination, I knock and wait for a minute, all the while looking over my shoulder to see if the Rottweiler is in midair, ready to tear my head off from behind.

As expected, no one answers. I try the door, but it is bolted shut.

I hurry to the rear of the property to search for a way inside. If it’s possible, the back of the house is worse than the front. It is a virtual dumping ground for all things unwanted. In the middle of the yard, an orange, wheel-less van with the words K
EEP ON
T
RUCKIN’
spray-painted in blue bubble letters on its passenger-side door has found its final resting place atop four cinder blocks. What’s left of the van’s rusted engine lies on the ground next to it. The rest of the yard is a maze of trash. I avoid an old washing machine that looks like it’s from the 1950s, a rusted car fender, and a half-eaten hamburger teeming with squiggling white maggots that feast on the decaying meat. I finally reach the back door and try the knob. As expected, it’s also locked.

“Trust me, no one but me would want to break in here,” I say aloud.

I drag a plastic chair lying cockeyed on the lawn over to a back window. I climb up and try and look inside the house, but the window is coated with a thick film of grime on both sides, allowing for zero visibility. I push up on the window with the flat of my hands. The window groans and budges ever so slightly. I push harder and carefully shimmy it up side to side until there is a space wide enough for me to fit through. I put my hand over my nose and mouth to block the stale odor of what smells like a combination of years’ worth of filth and not quite empty bottles of discarded booze, and poke my head inside the dark house. There are no immediate signs of life or Parker’s accomplice, so I hoist myself up and start to climb through the window.

Ben taught me the fine art of breaking into a house when we were kids. It was Christmastime 1976. All our holiday decorations and the rest of our belongings were still boxed up and captive in the house we had been evicted from the month prior. On Christmas Eve before dawn, Ben and I got up early before anyone could notice and climbed through an unlocked back window of our former residence. It was a successful, if not foolish, mission for two little kids, but in the end, we retrieved our precious ornaments and our treetop silver star. Ben wanted to be sure I had at least a decorated tree on Christmas, since he knew there wouldn’t be any presents.

I put aside the memory and Ben’s unfulfilled promise and run my hand along the wall until I feel a switch. The overhead light flicks on, and a dim yellow cast illuminates Parker’s squalor-filled kitchen. In the center of the room is a plastic card table piled high with newspapers. Under careful examination, my byline is circled in red on each front page in the tall stack, going back at least three years.

Next to the pile of papers is a black plastic ashtray jammed full of Marlboro Lights cigarette butts, a discarded bottle of cheap vodka, and an empty six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer.

“So much for clean and sober, Parker,” I say.

I start down a dark hallway covered in garish blue-rose-patterned wallpaper until I reach the entrance of a narrow room. It is sparsely furnished with only a thin, dirty mattress and pile after pile of soiled work clothes dumped carelessly across the room. An ornamental gold cross hangs from a nail on the wall and a dog-eared Bible lies on the floor next to Parker’s bed.

The stench of body odor, cigarettes, and manure is so overpowering in the room, I duck into the hallway to catch my breath. I start back inside to search the bedroom when a key slides into the front door.

I race down the hallway to escape, but before I can reach the kitchen, a giant hand grabs me by the shoulder and yanks me back. I turn to face my attacker, but two mammoth hands now grip me from behind, and I’m thrown head first toward the wall. I fold to the ground on impact, and look up to see a giant, heavy-set man in a pair of overalls looming above me with a rifle pointed directly at my head.

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?” the big man barks, finger still planted firmly on the trigger. “Answer me. You’ve got ten seconds or I blow your head off.”

As a journalist, I am never supposed to lie or misrepresent myself. But right now I am not a journalist. I’m just trying to stay alive.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you lived here, too. A.J. Parker asked me to come over. I’m a Realtor,” I say, the lie slipping out of my mouth without any premeditation.

“A Realtor?” the big man asks. His dark curly hair is unruly and spiked with bursts of grey.

“Yes, I reached out to A.J. to see if he would consider selling the place. I’m working with a big residential developer, and we’re scouting out some properties. A.J. was supposed to meet me here, but when he didn’t show up, I let myself in the back door to take a preview of the place. I hope that was okay.”

“We never leave the door unlocked here,” the big man says, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“A.J. must have left it open for me,” I answer, my mind working on overdrive to come up with anything tangible to get me out alive.

The big man looks down at me and weighs my response, but I can tell he isn’t buying my story. But sometimes the bigger the tale, the more believable it sounds.

“On first glance, I think the land alone could fetch a sizable amount of money,” I say. “Tell you what. How about you put that gun down now that you know I’m not here to rob the place.”

The money mention captures his attention. The big man lowers the gun a few inches so it is at least not pointing at my head.

“A.J. asked you to come here?”

“Yes. He was supposed to meet me here over an hour ago. I have other appointments. I couldn’t wait any longer. That’s why I let myself in. I wouldn’t have come inside if I realized it was going to be such a problem. I’ve seen a lot of things as a Realtor, but no one has ever pulled a gun on me before.”

The big man’s rifle slowly falls to his side.

“Yeah, sorry. So, you think A.J. could really get a lot of money for this dump?”

“Absolutely. Developers are hungry for properties in the country. A lot of urban professionals don’t want to raise their families in the city anymore. They want safety and charm.”

“Don’t bullshit me. We got a pig farm here. This place sure isn’t charming.”

“You need to look at the bigger picture,” I backpedal. “This area is such an ideal location for a big subdivision. It’s a pretty big property as I recall. I can’t remember what A.J. told me when we first talked. How much land does he have here again? If there are other buildings that need to be torn down, let me know. I saw that old barn out front. That would need to be demolished. Demolition costs money, so that would figure into the offer, of course.”

The big man, obviously now fully smitten with my line of bullshit, parks his rifle in the corner of the room. Feeling comfortable, he unloads the contents from his pockets, including a driver’s license and a package of Marlboro Lights cigarettes, and dumps them across the card table.

“Sorry about earlier. Sit down. Didn’t mean to scare you. Lots of kids come by here and try to break into the place. They think it’s abandoned,” the big man says.

He walks over to the avocado-colored refrigerator, pulls out a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and cracks it open.

“Want one? I’ve got to drink alone these days because A.J. quit on me. I wish he hadn’t done that. Sober people suck.”

I shake my head at his offer.

“Thanks, but I have to drive back to the office after this, so I’ll pass.”

“Your loss,” the big man says and swills back another slug of beer. “So tell me, how much are properties going for around here these days? We’ve got thirty acres. It’s a real nice pig farm. Besides the main house and the barn, A.J. has a hunting camp tucked away about three miles back in the deep woods. Great spot to shoot deer. It’s on the other side of the lake from the Shaw Mill Bridge.”

I force a smile and wonder if the police know about the hunting camp.

“Thirty acres? That’s a lot of land. A.J. could probably get millions for this place, easy. That’s just an estimate of course. I would have to run some comparables.”

“Millions? You’re freakin’ kiddin’ me,” the big man says. “It’s still early yet, but I guess we have reason to celebrate.”

He works his way over to the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of vodka. He quickly unscrews the bottle top, lifts it to his lips, and pours a long stream directly into his mouth, no glass required.

“I don’t own the place, mind you, but A.J. and I are relatives,” he says while wiping the corner of his mouth with his dirty shirtsleeve. “He’s my dad’s cousin. It’s always good to take care of your own blood. I know it might not seem like it now, but when I was growing up, I was rich. I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor, and let me tell you, it sucks being poor. I would do just about anything to be rich again.”

Including kidnapping a child
, my thoughts scream. I steady myself and realize I need to pump him for information now before he gets totally smashed.

“I’m sure your cousin would take care of you if he sold the place. Buyers always want a good area to raise a family. A.J. has kids, right? I thought I heard a kid in the background when we were talking on the phone this morning. It sounded like it might have been a little boy, maybe two or so. I’m an expert on that type of thing. I have one of my own.”

The big man gives me a puzzled look and cracks open another beer.

“Nah. No kids. A.J.’s never been married either. He must have called you when he was out at the market or somewhere, and you probably just heard some bratty kid mouthing off in the background. I’ve been here for about a year, and there’s never been a kid in this house that I can remember.”

“My mistake. I’m Susan by the way,” I say, the lies now flowing comfortably.

The big man reaches out his dirty hand for me to shake.

“Mark. My name is Mark. We don’t get much company here. Being new in town, I haven’t met many people and the pigs don’t cut it.”

“Where are you from originally?” I ask as I try and figure out my exit strategy.

“I’m from Sparrow, not too far from here. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive or so. Sparrow is a nice little shore town. I used to hate it there when I was a kid, and I couldn’t wait to leave for the city. Just a bunch of tourists in the summer, and everything closes up when the out-of-towners leave come Labor Day. It was like the locals didn’t deserve anything good. But Sparrow is a million times better than this boring shithole. The bars here suck.”

“You’re from Sparrow?” I ask as a knot begins to tighten in my stomach.

“Yep. I was a different man before I came to this cesspool. Just look at my driver’s license picture. I had that taken right before I moved in here with A.J.”