Dark Waters (6 page)

And I stood there and she sat there and we stared at each other, then Jean turned the scooter around and we headed back to our cabin.

Twenty minutes later we were back on the promenade deck checking out the stuff. Shops everywhere, most of them full of crap you'd never need in your lifetime. But some stuff you might have forgotten to pack – like sunscreen and sunglasses and big floppy sun hats for women and golf hats for men and purses that jangled with geegaws and T-shirts that said everything from ‘My parents went on a cruise and all I got was this lousy T-shirt' to ‘Fuck a bunch of 'em, I'm going to Puerto Rico.' We didn't buy anything, although Jean did linger a bit over the jangly purses. We peeked into the casino and I managed to lose twenty-five cents in the nickel slots, then got caught by a country song coming out of one of the smaller auditoriums. We went in and sat at the back, listening to two songs before we continued our slow progress toward the bow of the ship. We stopped for a moment to check out today's shows and programs, then made our way toward the pool area.

This was open to the actual sky, but still the only way you could see the actual ocean was to look out the saltwater-stained windows. This area was a little less maneuverable for Jean and the scooter. The pool was surrounded by deck chairs sitting in mostly sun, while the shaded areas were filled with tables and chairs. Although I'm sure first thing in the morning all the chairs – deck and normal – were appropriately placed, by this time they'd been moved by passengers to the point that it was almost impassable.

But, like Indiana Jones moving through the jungle with his machete, I led the way for my wife, moving a chair this way, another that way, until we'd reached the other side, which led to the food court and, beyond that, the children's pavilion. Part of the pavilion was an attachment to the food court, glassed in and air-conditioned, while the other part was open, half-covered by a roof, half-open to the sun, but surrounded by a high picket fence. To the extreme starboard – or port? I couldn't keep that straight – was an exit from the food court onto an open deck around the ship.

We headed into the air-conditioned part of the children's pavilion. And it was packed. Everyone from two-year-olds to early teens. I spied Johnny Mac and Early out in the fenced-in area and told Jean to wait while I went and got them.

Working my way out there – after having signed my boys out with the lady in charge – I saw them talking to two little girls and a bigger boy.

‘Hey, guys,' I said.

‘Oh, hey, Dad,' Johnny Mac said.

‘Hi, Sher— I mean, Mr Kovak,' Early said.

I gave Early a look for his slip – I didn't want anyone to know my profession as you get all sorts of demands on your time when you let people know what you do for a living when you're in law enforcement – and said, ‘Who are your friends?'

Johnny Mac pointed at the boy. ‘This is Ryan.' Then the dark-haired girl. ‘This is Lyssa, and –' at this point he looked longingly at the blonde and said with a sigh, ‘this is Janna.'

‘Hi, kids, nice to meet you,' I said, and Ryan shook my hand. I was turning around, ready to grab the boys and head out, when three more adults entered the patio area, or whatever it was called. They turned out to be the little blonde's parents, Mike and Lucy Tulia, and Ryan's dad, Vern Weaver, who was Mike Tulia's partner in a tool and die company out of Houston.

We all worked our way back into the air-conditioned area and I introduced Jean to everybody.

‘We're going to play miniature golf,' Lucy Tulia said. ‘Why don't y'all join us?'

So we did. My phone rang just as we got to the top deck where the miniature golf course was – out in the open, with sun and the ocean and all. I let Jean and the boys get ahead of me and answered the new phone like my wife had taught me (I have no illusions of manly self-esteem any longer – that's all gone), and said, ‘Hello?'

‘Hey, Milt,' Emmett said.

‘Hey your ownself. I'm still on vacation, you know.'

‘Just wanted to let you know I spoke with Darby Hunt this morning. Boy's a shadow of his former self. I say he's probably dying of something nasty. Aids, cancer – something that eats the body up.'

‘Can't see it happening to a more deserving guy,' I said.

‘Now, Milt, he seemed real remorseful about killing his wife,' Emmett said.

‘Yeah,' I agreed, ‘every time he beat the crap out of her, he'd feel all remorseful in an hour or two. Didn't stop him killing her.'

‘Well, there's that.' Emmett cleared his throat. ‘By the way he looks, and the fact that his running buddies, Billy and Shorty – Billy being dead and Shorty locked up in California—'

‘Did you check both of those stories?' I asked.

‘You just insulted me, Milt. I want you to know that. Of course I checked out those stories. Both true. Anyway, I think the McDaniel family should be OK.'

‘That's good, real good. Just keep your eye out—'

‘Milt—'

‘I know, I know,' I said. ‘I worry.'

‘OK, Mom, get back to your shuffleboard,' Emmett said and, as I was telling him that they didn't have shuffleboard on this boat, he hung up.

By the time I made it to the first hole, Jean was already putting for our team. Even with her crutches she did more than OK, basically beating the crap out of the rest of the adults. After that we split with the Tulias and headed to a puppet show in one of the smaller halls. I think it may have been a little immature for the boys because they talked all the way through it, mostly in whispers and giggles. I know, I'll never say ‘giggles' out loud about my son, but that's exactly what they were doing.

Emmett hit the intercom and asked Holly Humphries to send in Anthony Dobbins.

‘Yeah, Emmett?' Anthony said, sticking his head around the corner of his door frame.

‘Do a background check on Billy Hunt and Shorty Hunt. Billy's supposed to be dead, and Shorty's supposed to be in prison in California. You might check the files to find Shorty's real first name.'

‘Relations of Darby Hunt?' Anthony asked.

‘Cousins,' Emmett replied.

He'd lied to Milt. It should have been the first thing he did, and he would have if it hadn't been for the whole ‘petal pusher' bullshit. The call Jasmine made the day before had been to Petal's afternoon sitter, Carol Anne Haynes, who said Petal told her that one boy had called her that early in the morning and then everybody else picked up on it. Jasmine had insisted Petal go to this special Christian school, rather than the public school, but Emmett was beginning to think public school might have been a better idea.

At least Milt and he would have their kids on break at the same time. This Christian school was weeks behind the public school. Their spring break coincided with Easter, giving the kids almost as much time off on that holiday as at Christmas.

‘So who was it?' he'd asked his wife the night before.

‘Riley Sturgis!' she said, hands on hips, like Emmett was supposed to know who that was.

‘OK,' he said. ‘That's some kind of Yankee fish, right?'

She didn't even laugh. ‘That's sturgeon, you moron,' she said. And she wasn't kidding.

‘It was a joke, honey,' Emmett said.

‘Well, this isn't funny! It's not bad enough she did this to me all through high school – now she's doing it to my child!' And she burst into tears.

It took a whole hour before Emmett finally heard it all. The gist of it was that Riley Sturgis was the son of Jasmine's rival for everything in high school, one Mary Ann Cummings, who used to make fun of Jasmine and her sisters and their flower names, calling them ‘the weeds.' And yesterday, after talking to an old friend from high school, Jasmine found out that Mary Ann had been making fun of Petal's name to one of her old crowd, saying that Jasmine just couldn't stop it with the stupid names, ending with, ‘If she were in my class, I'd call her petal pusher.' Her son had not been too far away.

So Emmett had been up real late dealing with that, thinking he might have some ammunition to get his daughter out of that damned Christian school and into the public school (he swore to himself it had nothing to do with money, although the school was scarily expensive). He wasn't able to sleep after that, worrying about his little girl. She was so tiny, so sweet-natured. This was a hell of a thing to be happening to her.

He went and got himself another cup of coffee. The new civilian aid made a dynamite cup of coffee. Made you kind of not miss Gladys at all. Ill-tempered, uncooperative and the maker of really bad coffee, it was a joy not to see her sour puss every morning.

Anthony motioned to him from the bullpen.

Emmett ambled over, sipping his coffee.

‘What ya got?' he asked.

Anthony put down the phone and said, reading from his notes, ‘William Jason Hunt, aka Billy Hunt, died in a one-car accident on the early morning of June 14, 1993. Autopsy showed an extremely high alcohol content. John Wesley Hunt, aka Shorty Hunt, is currently incarcerated at the Elwood Moody Correctional Facility in Moody, California. He'll be eligible for parole in 2014.'

Emmett nodded and took another sip. ‘OK, then,' he said and walked back to his office, at which point an inconsistency finally dawned on him. A guy fresh out of prison, living with his mama in a rundown house without much more than a pot to piss in – where in the hell did he get the money for that fancy new Harley and that big old flat-screen TV?

Emmett decided another trip out to see Darby Hunt was in order. He took Anthony Dobbins with him this time. Unlike poor Dalton, Anthony might have something to contribute to the interview.

The street, the house and the driveway all looked the same as they parked the squad car at the curb. Darby Hunt must have seen them coming because he opened the door before their knock.

‘Sheriff,' Darby said. ‘What can I do you for now?'

‘It's just Acting Sheriff, but you can call me Emmett. Can we come in for a minute?'

Darby looked hard at Anthony standing behind Emmett, but opened the door for them to enter. When he did, Emmett noticed on the flap of skin between thumb and index finger on Darby's left hand, which was holding the door open, was a tattoo of a swastika. Made sense. The Oklahoma Penitentiary, like so many others, had two main gangs – the white supremacists and the black Muslims. If you wanted protection, you joined the gang of your color.

The swastika wasn't missed by Anthony Dobbins. He gave Darby Hunt the stink-eye right back as he and Emmett went to the sagging sofa and sat down.

‘What do you want now?' Darby asked.

‘Something I forgot to ask you earlier,' Emmett said.

‘What's that?'

‘Where did the new motorcycle and TV set come from?'

Darby Hunt raised an eyebrow. ‘Why in the hell do you need to know that?'

Emmett shrugged. ‘Just wondering how a con straight out of prison comes to live with his obviously poor mama and has the wherewithal to purchase a motorcycle and a big ol' TV. Makes me think he's been up to no good.'

‘When have I had time to be up to no good?' Darby asked. ‘'Sides,' he said, taking a long breath, ‘where would I find the strength to rob a bank or whatever?'

‘So you saying the pen has upped their release stipend to like $10,000 or so?' Emmett asked.

‘Woo doggies, you haven't been pricing motorcycles or TVs lately, have you, Acting Sheriff Emmett?' Darby asked, that snaggle-toothed and dimpled grin very much in evidence.

‘Where did you get 'em?' Emmett asked, not smiling back.

‘They were gifts,' Darby said, grin still in place.

‘From a grateful nation?' Emmett asked with a sneer.

‘From a grateful lady,' Darby answered, his grin getting bigger.

‘Hum,' Emmett said, ‘you got out yesterday and already you got a girlfriend?'

‘No, this lady's been my, um, friend, I'd guess you'd say, for about eighteen months. Started out as pen pals, then she started bringing my mama to see me. Real nice lady.'

‘And she bought you the motorcycle and TV because . . .'

‘Because I'm so fucking handsome,' Darby said and laughed.

‘And how can she afford to buy you such expensive gifts?'

‘She's got a real good job. She's the principal at that Christian school in town.'

No more discussion. Petal was moving to public school.

On the way home the night before, Dalton had called the realtor who had the listing for the little house near downtown and made an appointment to see it on the way in to work that morning. He pulled up outside the house about ten minutes early. Dalton never, ever got any place late, or even on time. He was always early. He never wanted to keep anyone waiting. But Holly wasn't that crazy about that habit. He'd show up at her apartment and she'd never be ready, and although that didn't bother him a bit, as he didn't mind waiting for her – either inside her apartment, sitting on the couch, or even outside standing on the porch – it seemed to bother her.

But while he was waiting for the realtor, he got an itch. He wanted her to hurry up because he wanted to see this house. The outside had him all atwitter. It was what the realtor had called a pre-war bungalow. He wasn't sure which war, but he didn't really care. It was a wood-frame house, painted yellow with white trim, and had a big front porch. In his mind he could see a white porch swing and maybe some push toys and a tricycle or two. There were evergreen shrubs on either side of the porch and mulched flower beds just waiting for planting. The driveway was paved and led to an old-fashioned garage with one of those doors that went from right to left, rather than up and down. He thought he'd probably want to replace at least the door – get one of those electric garage door openers and make it easier for Holly, especially when she'd be carrying groceries and a child or two. Or three.