Disturbing the Dead (18 page)
Holly bobbed her head. “Him and his mama and Buddy and Rose. They’re all in it. My daddy brings a lot of the drugs up from Miami, and they’ve got somebody around here makin’ meth for them. They sell anything anybody wants. Oxy pills and meth and crack and tons of pot.”
“You’ve witnessed this?” Tom said. “You’ve actually seen it?”
“All the time. Most of the customers come in the evenin’, and Saturday night’s the busiest, but Rose sells drugs durin’ the day too.”
“How often are Troy and Buddy there?”
“Buddy’s there every night. My daddy’s there if he’s not in Miami.”
“Thanks, Holly. I appreciate this information.”
She leaned forward eagerly. “You gonna bust ’em? Put ’em in jail?”
“I’ll have to discuss it with the sheriff.”
Holly’s face crumpled. “If you don’t put ’em where they can’t hurt me—”
“Nobody’s going to hurt you,” Brandon and Rachel said at the same time.
Tom hoped neither of them was unrealistic enough to believe the shooter wouldn’t try again. Whoever fired those shots didn’t want to scare Holly. He wanted to kill her.
“We can’t assume it was your father or cousin who shot at you,” Tom told the girl. “Your aunt and uncle seem to think Rudy O’Dell’s a danger to you because you look so much like your Aunt Pauline. They said O’Dell was hanging around your grandmother’s house not long ago, watching you. Is that true?”
“Yeah. He was in the woods across the road. I didn’t even notice him till my uncle came by and saw him.” She screwed up her face in disgust. “He was so weird-lookin’, with this big bushy beard and long hair. It made me feel dirty, knowin’ he’d been spyin’ on me like that. With binoculars, too, so he could see me real close. That’s…crazy.”
So Bonnie and Jack Watford had told the truth about the incident. Maybe their instincts about O’Dell had some validity.
“You think he coulda shot at us?” Holly asked.
“I don’t know what to think right now,” Tom admitted. “I have to wonder how O’Dell could have found you. How many people know you’ve moved?”
“If Rose told people at the diner, it’d get around pretty fast. There’s some O’Dells that go there a lot. They might’ve told Rudy.”
“Yeah, maybe.” But why would O’Dell’s relatives help him find an innocent girl for the sole purpose of harming her? That didn’t make much sense. Neither did anything else that was happening. “I’d better go see what our guys have turned up across the road. Brandon, I want you to stay here for the time being.”
He expected an argument from Brandon, who loved nothing more than prowling around a crime scene, but the young deputy accepted the order with a crisp, “Yes, sir.”
Holly had a hold on him, all right, if he’d rather play bodyguard to her than be in the thick of the investigation.
Tom rose to leave, but asked Holly one last question. “Do you know which dentist your mother went to?”
She frowned up at him. “Dentist? Why?” Before he could answer, realization flooded her face. “That’s how y’all identify a dead person. You think that other skull you found is my mama’s, don’t you? It’s not! She’s not dead!”
Holly leapt to her feet, fists balled in front of her as if she meant to hit him. Rachel and Brandon got to her quickly and caught her arms to restrain her. The look Rachel threw at Tom mixed incredulity and outrage.
What the hell did she want from him? She was the one who thought the second skull was Jean Turner’s, and she’d urged him in a none-too-gentle fashion to check Jean’s dental records. He might be able to pry information out of Holly’s grandmother, but getting it from Holly was simpler and faster.
“No,” Tom told Holly, “I don’t really believe it’s your mother, but we need to rule it out. If we can find her dental records, we’ll be able to tell you for sure it’s not her.”
That seemed to mollify the girl. “Okay. That’ll be good. She went to the county clinic. She took me there too.”
“I’ll let you know what we find out.” He zipped his jacket, preparing to leave. “You two stay indoors and out of sight.”
Joanna spoke up. “I want you girls to move in here with me till this is over. You’re sitting ducks in that cottage at night, way out there by yourselves. I’ll go get your animals and whatever personal things you need.”
“Good idea,” Tom said.
Rachel agreed.
“How about I stay here at night?” Brandon said. “I can sleep on the couch. Anybody breaks in, they’ll have to deal with me.”
Tom imagined Brandon, half-awake, facing Shackleford in the dark. “No, I’d better be the one to sleep here.”
Brandon looked crestfallen, but to Tom’s surprise Rachel said, “Thanks. We’ll all feel safer with you here.” Then she sat on the couch and gave her attention to Holly.
Tom turned to leave. He hated walking out without trying to make Rachel understand why he was on edge, why he’d blown up at her. But he knew he couldn’t blame his foul mood entirely on concern for her safety and Holly’s. The poison of the past was leaking into the present and he didn’t seem able to hold it back.
Get a grip, Bridger.
Nothing in his own life, the here and now, had changed. He was a big boy. He could take the truth about his father. Then why did he feel as if he’d stepped off firm ground into a black, empty hole? In a thousand tiny ways, his clear perception of the past, his happy childhood, happy family, had blurred and transformed into a lie that he could never believe again.
Just do your job.
Joanna caught up with him at the front door. “I want to talk to you privately,” she said. “Right now. In my office.”
Tom trailed her down the hall, feeling like a naughty student about to get a tongue-lashing from the principal. He could claim he was too busy for this, but as a rule people didn’t say no to Joanna McKendrick without rapidly coming to regret it.
In her pine-paneled office, she folded her arms across her chest and fixed him with a stern look. “Don’t you have any idea how shaken up she is?”
“I know Holly’s upset, but I need—”
“Not Holly, you nitwit. My lord, the human male is the densest creature that ever walked the earth. I’m talking about Rachel. Somebody fired a gun at her and Holly. A bullet came within inches of her head. You, of all people—” Joanna gestured at his wounded, aching arm, which he’d been absentmindedly rubbing. “—ought to understand what that would do to her. But maybe you’re too damned macho to be upset by a little thing like narrowly escaping death. That still doesn’t give you an excuse to come in here and blame her for bringing it on.”
“That’s not fair,” Tom protested. Or was it?
“What happened today could make anybody fall apart, but this is someone who was shot by a madman less than two years ago. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I—”
“And she lost her mother not long before that. She’s had a rough time.” Joanna’s blue eyes filled with tears and her outrage melted away. She felt behind her for the desk chair and sank into it. “I haven’t known Rachel very long, but I already love her as if she’s my own daughter. Every time I think about her getting shot, what kind of memories she must have—”
“Will you tell me about it?” Tom sat in the leather visitor’s chair next to the desk. “I want to know exactly what happened.” He’d learned a lot about Rachel’s life, but he didn’t know much beyond the surface facts. Some part of her, the part that was willing to love and be loved, was locked away with her memories, out of Tom’s reach.
Joanna snatched a tissue from the box on her desk and blotted her tears before they could spill over. “Rachel had a client who kept bringing his dog in with different kinds of injuries, and he was always asking for painkillers to give the dog some relief.”
“He was hurting the dog himself?” Tom asked.
“That’s what Rachel thought. She’d already made up her mind to report him when she got a call from a pharmacist. He said she’d written a painkiller prescription and forgot to put her DEA number on. But she didn’t write it. The guy with the dog somehow got hold of a prescription pad when he was at the animal hospital.”
Tears came to Joanna’s eyes again, and she rubbed them away before she went on. “She turned him in, he was arrested, he got out on bail, and the next thing she knew he was barging into the hospital with a gun, ready to kill her for ruining his life. She set off the silent alarm as soon as she saw him and when the guy heard the police siren, he ran out. But he’d already shot her. The bullet went through one of her lungs and out her back. It just missed her heart and her spine.”
Images flooded Tom’s mind as Joanna spoke. How many times, as a cop in Richmond, had he walked into the aftermath of gang shootings or robberies gone bad and looked down at blood-soaked bodies? He’d consciously hardened himself to it, put aside all thought of the cataclysmic shock waves that violence sent through the lives of witnesses and survivors. He’d tried to keep the reality of violence in Rachel’s life at a safe distance, too, and because he was falling in love with her he’d told himself she would eventually be ready to trust again. But now the enormity of what had happened, what it had done to her, hit him with a visceral punch.
“After all she’s been through,” Joanna said, “it must be terrifying to have somebody shoot at her. She knows it’s because of Holly, but she’s so determined to help that child, she won’t even think about turning her out. When somebody puts herself on the line like that for another person, you have to respect what she’s doing. You don’t berate her and tell her it’s her own fault if she gets hurt.”
“No,” Tom said, his throat constricted with guilt over his stupid argument with Rachel. “But I’m sure as hell not going to stand by and let her get killed.”
***
Dennis Murray and the Blackwood twins were stringing crime scene tape around evergreens across the road from the horse farm.
“Is somebody taping off the perimeter?” Tom asked Dennis. The Christmas trees covered ten acres, bordered by roads on two sides. They’d have to search every inch, and they didn’t need any curious onlookers getting in the way.
“Yeah, our guys are doing it. I figure we’re blowing the whole year’s budget for tape.” Dennis knotted yellow plastic tape around a fir branch. “The State Police are sending cadets to help with the search. Right here’s where our shooter fired from.”
Boot prints marched across the snow and beneath the droopy branches of a ten-foot spruce. The tree stood within yards of the road but would easily conceal a man from passing motorists. Like a spider waiting patiently for a fly, the son of a bitch had hidden here until Rachel and Holly rode into view and the Range Rover slowed for the turn into the farm lane. “Did he leave us anything?”
“Gum wrappers,” Dennis said. “We might get a fingerprint if we’re lucky. But that’s not all. These look familiar?” From his jacket pocket he pulled a plastic sandwich bag containing three brass shell casings.
“Thirty-aught-six.” Same caliber fired by O’Dell’s rifle.
The diner’s plate glass window was the only spot of light in the blackness enveloping the hills. From his truck at the edge of the parking lot, Tom had a slantwise view of the crowd inside. The dull throb of country music escaped every time the diner’s door opened.
All the warmth built up in his truck’s cab on the drive to the diner had leaked away and the frigid night air had seeped in. The only good thing about the cold was that it seemed to tamp down the ache in his arm. He’d always heard people felt little pain when they were freezing to death.
He rubbed his gloved hands together but decided against starting the engine so he could run the heater. He didn’t want to attract attention. After sitting here for almost an hour, he was wondering if somebody had already spotted him and warned off the Shacklefords. He consulted the luminous dial of his watch: 9:02. Troy and his nephew Buddy should have shown up by now.
Tom had left Brandon at the horse farm with the women while he came out here to have a word with Troy. If he’d miscalculated and Shackleford decided to pay his daughter a visit this evening—
Headlights strobed his truck and a massive black SUV swung into the space marked RESERVED outside the diner’s door. Tom craned his neck to see over the tops of vehicles. The SUV’s lights died, Troy Shackleford and his nephew Buddy hopped out and slammed the doors. Buddy carried a gym bag, but Tom doubted it held workout clothes.
Okay, give them a little time. Let them settle into a routine evening. Tom wasn’t dreading this encounter, but inside his gloves his palms felt sweaty.
Through the plate glass window, he watched the crowd surround the Shacklefords. Mostly men. Two skanky women. Everybody looked young. Buddy hoisted the gym bag over the bar to Rose.
This family had operated a drug ring in Mason County for as long as Tom could remember. Whenever he talked about putting a stop to it, the sheriff groused that shutting down the Shacklefords would be a pointless exercise. Somebody else, maybe somebody worse, would fill the gap in an instant. As long as they weren’t selling the stuff on street corners in Mountainview or in schoolyards, the sheriff didn’t seem concerned about what the Shacklefords did. But Tom knew how much the drug trade in the county had troubled his father, especially because it was dragging down the young people of Rocky Branch District, who already had too many strikes against them. Tom and his brother Chris had grown up hearing the lectures: Steer clear of the kids who use dope, keep your mind clear and your body clean.
Ten years ago, Troy Shackleford’s father had been the local drug boss. Troy was a courier, but he’d also worked at legitimate jobs. Pauline McClure, one of his employers, might have stumbled onto something that would help John Bridger nail the Shacklefords. A long shot, but it would have given Troy a motive for killing her. And O’Dell? A younger, weaker man pushed into the role of accomplice?
In the diner, Rose gestured to the crowd and they formed a ragged line leading to the bar. She passed something to each customer, received something in return.
Tom pulled his binoculars from the glove compartment. Through the powerful lenses, he got a good look at the small plastic bags Rose dispensed and the cash she accepted. Jesus Christ. Right out in the open. And why not? The Shacklefords had been given a pass by the cops for so long they probably felt invincible. Tom watched, with simmering fury and disgust, until most of the customers had been served. He’d seen enough to justify a warrant for a future raid, and by God, he was going to follow through no matter how loudly the sheriff squawked. He’d be damned if he’d let these people go on selling dope like it was candy.
He stashed the binoculars in the glove compartment and climbed out of his truck. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he headed for the door.
Inside, he paused, his ears ringing from the noise, his nose and throat burning from the smoke that floated in the air like a cirrus cloud. Some of the smoke probably came from tobacco, but the sickly sweet odor of marijuana was what Tom smelled.
Gradually all heads turned his way. He wasn’t in uniform, but everybody seemed to know who he was. People leaned together and exchanged whispers. Conversation died. Joints disappeared under tabletops. Rose Shackleford’s bulging eyes peered at him from her bloated face, and her mouth twisted in a sneer. Thunderous jukebox music made the floorboards vibrate under Tom’s feet.
Troy Shackleford grinned at Tom. He had to raise his voice to be heard above the Clint Black song when he said, “Hey there, Captain. Come on in and have a seat.” He yelled toward the back of the room, “Somebody shut that thing off.”
A second later the music died and the place was quiet as a cave.
Aware of his audience, Tom took time to strip off his gloves and stuff them into his pockets before he ambled to the bar and claimed the stool next to Shackleford. Half a dozen other men at the bar apparently decided they’d be more comfortable in booths, and they shuffled across the aisle. Tom could see through an open door into the small back room, where Shackleford’s nephew lurked, a scowl on his face. Buddy’s gaze connected with Tom’s, swerved away.
“What’ll you have, Captain?” Troy Shackleford asked. “Rose, get the man a drink.”
The bulky woman lumbered over to stand across from Tom. Her eyes looked hard as marbles.
“A beer,” he said. “Whatever you’ve got on tap.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.
“Hey, forget it,” Shackleford said. “It’s on me.”
Since Tom didn’t intend to drink the beer, he shoved his wallet back into his pocket and let the question of payment go. Rose plopped a green glass mug in front of him and some of the beer foam cascaded down the side. Tom smiled. “Thanks.”
Rose grunted and moved away.
“So what brings you to our little patch of the world?” Shackleford asked. “You workin’ undercover?” He grinned. “Or gettin’ in touch with your roots?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw Rose ten feet away, quietly but quickly scooping up plastic bags from the counter behind the bar and stowing them in the gym bag. When she realized he was watching she went stiff as a statue.
Tom shifted toward Shackleford. “I’d like to know where you were around one-thirty this afternoon. You and your nephew both.”
Shackleford paused with his mug halfway to his mouth. He set it down. “If you’re askin’ me if one of us took a shot at the lady vet’s car, you’re way off base.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Aw, you know how word gets around. Especially about a shootin’.”
“Where were you?” Tom asked.
“One-thirty? My mother’s house. Both of us. Go ask her.”
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure she’d back you up, so I think it’d be a wasted trip.”
A grin snaked across Shackleford’s face. “You callin’ my mama a liar, Captain?”
“Was anybody else there? Besides relatives. Did any of the neighbors see you? You speak to any of them, wave at them when you drove by?”
“Well now, let me see.” Shackleford wrinkled his brow in mock concentration. “By golly, I don’t believe I saw another soul.” He grew serious again. “But I didn’t shoot at a car that had my daughter in it, I can promise you that. Whoever did it was personally insultin’ me, and when I find out—”
“What were you up to on Main Street today?” Tom glanced toward the back room and saw Buddy straighten his shoulders defiantly. Tough guy, in his black leather jacket, black shirt, black jeans. He was good-looking enough to have a bunch of girls running after him, and Tom could imagine how he treated them.
Troy Shackleford lifted his beer and swallowed half of it. When he set the mug down, he answered, “Just tryin’ to get a little time with my daughter. I don’t see her nearly enough these days.”
“What accounts for this sudden interest in Holly?”
“Nothin’ sudden about it. She’s been my daughter all her life.”
“And you’ve ignored her all her life. What’s so important that you had to talk to her today? Are you trying to shut her up about something?”
Shackleford ran his tongue around the inside of his lower lip. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Stay away from her. She doesn’t want anything to do with you.”
Assuming a sorrowful expression, Shackleford shook his head. “It’s a downright shame when folks try to turn a child against her own flesh and blood.”
“I want you to steer clear of Mrs. Turner, too.” Shackleford opened his mouth, but Tom went on before he could speak. “When was the last time you saw Rudy O’Dell?”
Shackleford sipped his beer again. Everybody in the room was silent, watching and listening. “He’s not come to me for help, if that’s what you want to know. I’d be flat-out amazed if he did.”
“You got any idea where he could be?”
“Not a clue. Try turnin’ over some big rocks, you might find him that way.”
Giggles burst from the two women in a nearby booth. Their male companions growled orders to shut up.
“You know any reason why O’Dell would try to kill Holly?” Tom asked.
Shackleford swiveled to face Tom. “You sayin’ it was Rudy that shot at her?”
The man’s surprise seemed genuine, which could mean a couple of things. Tom decided to feed Shackleford a little information to see what reaction it provoked. “The bullets could have come from his rifle. Of course, plenty of rifles fire the same calibre. We’ll know more when we get the ballistics report.”
Shackleford didn’t seem to hear the qualifiers. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, rubbing his chin and staring into space. “Now, Rudy doin’ that is somethin’ I don’t understand in the least.”
Although Shackleford was a good bluffer, Tom didn’t think he was acting now. That meant Shackleford himself had nothing to do with the attack. Tom went on, “I hear O’Dell’s got some kind of fixation on Holly. Because she looks so much like Pauline.”
Shackleford came out of his reverie. “Hmmph. Well, you know more than I do. I don’t keep up with him and his fixations.”
“I’d think you’d want to keep close tabs on O’Dell,” Tom said.
“And why would I want to do that?”
“In case he decided to reminisce about the past.”
Shackleford shot a sideways glance at Tom, and for a fleeting moment Tom saw confusion and apprehension in his face. “He’s got nothin’ to say that’s gonna bother me.”
“I think he knows what happened to Pauline,” Tom said.
“Really.” Shackleford held up his mug, signalling Rose for a refill. She took the empty glass and put a full one in his hand.
Tom let the silence drag out. Shackleford flexed his fingers and scrubbed them on his jeans legs, wiping off the beer they’d picked up from the sides of his mug. He drank. He cleared his throat. “You think Rudy killed Pauline? That’s what your daddy thought.”
“No, my father thought Rudy and
you
killed her.”
“Well, your daddy was wrong. He was tryin’ to pin it on the easiest targets. You oughta be askin’ yourself why.”
Tom felt the pressure expand inside him, and his muscles tensed with the urge to strike out. He forced himself to relax. Or at least appear relaxed. “I think O’Dell was involved somehow but probably wasn’t the killer.”
“I’m sure he’ll be real relieved to hear that.”
“Oh, he’s going to jail, one way or another. But not for sinking an ax into Pauline’s brain.”
Shackleford winced, the briefest betrayal of revulsion.
Leaning closer, Tom said, “I wonder how it feels to have a memory like that in your head.”
Shackleford pulled away from him.
“I’ve got my own bad memories,” Tom went on softly, “and they’re tough enough to live with. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have that picture in the back of my mind all the time. Pauline’s head split open, her brains spilling out, her blood—”
“Shut up!” Shackleford spun off his stool, his face red and knotted with fury.
A rustle of startled movement swept through the onlookers.
“I guess it’s not real pleasant to think about,” Tom said. “Too bad her bones were found and it’s all been dredged up again.”
Tom could hear Shackleford’s rapid, shallow breaths. Finally an ugly little smile took shape on the man’s face. His voice came out low and insinuating. “You know what I think happened to Pauline? I think your sainted daddy killed her.”
Tom sprang to his feet, grabbed the front of Shackleford’s jacket. The movement sent a jolt of pain through Tom’s wounded arm. “If I ever hear you say that again, you’re going to be riding in a wheelchair. Do you understand me?”
Shackleford’s grin widened. “He went to see her one day and found Ed McClure in her bed, and they had a real knockdown drag-out, like two dogs fightin’ over a bitch. Maybe that kind of thing happened one time too many and your daddy couldn’t take it any more.”
Tom’s fingers tightened on Shackleford’s jacket. “Are you telling me you saw that fight?”
“Rudy saw it. He told me about it. If you don’t believe me, ask him. Oh, wait a minute. You can’t find Rudy, can you? Well, you’re in luck, ’cause that nigger housekeeper saw it too. Go ask her.”
Tom shoved Shackleford and sent him stumbling backward across the aisle. He thudded into a table, windmilled his arms in a losing fight for balance, and dropped to the floor.