Fifth Grave Past the Light (25 page)

“Mr. Knight,” I said when he picked up. “This is Charley Davidson, a consultant for APD. We met yesterday.”

“Yes, I remember.” He didn’t seem particularly happy to hear from me. I could hardly blame him.

“I was wondering if I could run a name by you. See if you recognize it.”

“Sure.” He was spent and tired of all the media that had surely hit that morning. The sheriff’s department had no choice but to announce the discovery of a mass grave, and every news crew in the state had to be there, vying for a story.

“Do you know or do you remember your parents ever hiring a man named Saul Ussery?”

“Saul? No, he never worked here. My parents couldn’t stand him.”

Adrenaline flooded my system. “Wait, they knew him?”

“Knew him? He was their nephew. My cousin. He only showed up when he needed money or a place to sleep. Wait, the oil —”

I snapped to get Uncle Bob’s attention. Both he and Wyatt rushed over to listen in as I switched on the speakerphone. “What about the oil?” I asked.

“It just didn’t occur to me. Saul drove a truck for several years. He worked for some company that recycled plastics and used oil. Part of his job was to truck the oil they collected from mechanic shops and restaurants to a processing company in Cruces every few weeks.”

“But why would he dump it on your land instead?” I asked.

“Because he was a low-life son of a bitch. I’m sure the company he worked for in Albuquerque had to pay the people in Las Cruces to take it. He could’ve pocketed that money every so often and dumped the oil here where no one would know.”

Uncle Bob was taking notes in a memo pad while Wyatt, Gemma, and Cookie stood speechless. “Kenny, I don’t want to upset you, but I think your cousin might have had something to do with the deaths of those women.”

“Ms. Davidson, that wouldn’t surprise me in the least. He was a piece of shit. Threatened my parents one time when they wouldn’t give him money for some harebrained scheme of his. He was always joining one pyramid scam after another.”

“Was?”

“Well, is, only now he’s not doing much of anything. He’s in a nursing home. Had a stroke or something a while back.”

I took down the information, then asked, “Can you have Agent Carson call me if you happen to see her? I can’t get through.”

“It’s the cell service out there. How about I take a drive and let her know.” He seemed so relieved to know who the killer most likely was, and I was relieved for him.

“Thank you so much,” I said.

“No, ma’am, thank you. I got your note.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, my note?”

“It’s okay. I know she was here and I know she’s gone.” His breath caught in his chest and he began again. “I’ll put a garden there for those girls. Something she would have been proud of.”

Damn. He must have seen me put the note in his pickup. “Thank you,” I said.

“It will be my pleasure.”

I hung up as Uncle Bob gaped at me. “Did we just solve this?”

I smiled at the gang. “I think we did.”

Gemma beamed. “I can see the allure, sis.” She offered me a quick hug. “It’s kind of intoxicating.”

“Yes, it is. And it’s even more so when you solve cases actually intoxicated.”

“You have to sully everything.”

“I do,” I said as she hugged me again. “I really do.”

The nursing home smelled like a fermented combination of bleach and urine. The scent stung my nose as I went up to the nurses’ station. We didn’t want to converge on the home, so only Wyatt, Uncle Bob, and I went in. The nurse behind the desk was busy with paperwork, but looked up when she saw Wyatt’s uniform.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I spoke up first. “We’re looking for Saul Ussery.”

“Oh, are you family?”

“We’re here on official business,” Uncle Bob said, his tone too sharp for her to argue with.

“He’s in room 204. Down the hall, second door on the right.”

“Thank you,” he said.

We walked in just as a young nurse was putting him back to bed. Saul was about my height with a wide brow and tiny eyes. His pudgy face probably didn’t show his age as much as it would have had he been thinner. He looked like a character from a J. R. R. Tolkien novel.

The nurse winked at us. “You here to see this rascal?” she asked, tucking his sheets around him.

“We sure are,” I said, trying to keep the distaste from leaching into my voice.

“Mr. Ussery’s a hoot. He’s always cracking jokes. And he likes the blondes, if you know what I mean.”

I did, sadly. “You aren’t missing any, are you?”

“Any what?”

“Blondes?”

She giggled. “Not that I know of. If we ever do, I’ll know where to look, won’t I, Saul?”

She had no idea.

I couldn’t help but notice how the rascal’s eyes had zeroed in on Wyatt’s badge. He seemed worried. I couldn’t imagine why.

“Okay, well, I’ll leave you alone,” she said. “Don’t give them any trouble.”

A killer smile lit across her face as she pranced out. Even with a job like hers, she was able to keep her spirits up and enjoy her day. Either that or she was on something really good.

“Hey, Saul,” I said, stepping beside his bed.

“Oh, my god,” Wyatt said, surprised, “I interviewed him in 2004. I didn’t make the connection. He was a maintenance man at UNM when a student went missing.”

“You mean he worked there when another girl disappeared?”

“He sure did.”

“She didn’t happen to be blond, did she?”

He nodded.

“Uh-oh,” I said to him. “Strike two. I hear you like to kill little girls.”

“Nope, nope,” he said, shaking his head and rocking back and forth, playing the feebleminded bit to the fullest extent of the law. I felt deception roll off him in waves. Then why was he here? A roof over his head? Food in his belly? Was it all a charade?

Uncle Bob was on the phone with the captain. “Yes, we have some pretty solid evidence, but we’ll have to build a strong case if we want this closed.” He looked back at Saul. “He’ll never see the inside of a jail cell, but at least those women’s families will have some closure.”

I bent down to Saul, waited until his gaze met mine, and said, “You’re going to burn in hell.”

Not very poetic, but most likely true.

Cookie went back to man the phones at the office. Gemma had clients to see, poor suckers. And Wyatt, Uncle Bob, and I headed to the station to report our findings and start the paperwork. Unfortunately, I had a statement to write. Paperwork wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for all the paper. And the work. On the way back to the station, Ubie called the DA, the captain, and several other important people so that, by the time we arrived, we had a small mob waiting for us.

“What do you mean you have a strong lead on the Knight Ranch killer?” the DA asked as we marched inside.

Oh, man, was that what they were calling him? Kenny Knight would not appreciate that at all. I would have to suggest something else, like the Scumbag Serial Murderer or the Low-life Oil Dumper Guy. No, that didn’t really have a good ring to it, but giving serial killers cool names was such a bad pastime. Why glorify their horrific deeds? It never made sense to me.

We converged in the same conference room from that morning, and Uncle Bob went over the case. He even drew a diagram on a whiteboard to connect the dots. He used lots of colors. It was very pretty. Wyatt explained his part, how he’d been trying to solve a two-decades-old cold case and how it all tied together. And I sat back and offered my opinion every so often. Mostly when they got things wrong. I realized I could have a bright future as a corrections officer, going around and correcting people when they got things wrong. I wondered what that paid.

No less than three agonizing hours later, we broke. After all that, I still had to submit my report, but that would have to wait until mañana. I did my best to blend into the background so I could sneak out unnoticed. The gang was still talking about the case. The DA was having a field day. Two huge cases kind of sort of solved in one day. And the captain —

“You did it again.”

I turned to see the captain standing just outside the conference room. Staring at me with perfect posture. Like a killer robot from an Isaac Asimov story.

“And you did it when I wasn’t looking.” He walked forward.

I thought about running but realized that would only make me look guilty. Of something. No idea what.

“I’ll have to try harder next time,” he said, stopping short in front of me.

“That was all Uncle Bob and Officer Pierce,” I said, trying to stand my ground. But looking up at him from so close a distance was like looking up at a skyscraper.

He nodded and surveyed the room. Every officer in the place was talking about our case, their movements exaggerated, their excitement infectious. Clearly the captain had been inoculated against such shenanigans. His expression exhibited only one thing: annoyance. He’d missed the boat on this one.

“Another time, then,” he said. He turned, his movements sharp, his execution crisp, and headed back to his office.

I couldn’t help it. It came out of me before I could stop it. I had recently been to a nursing home. Maybe I’d caught dementia. I clicked my heels together and did the Heil Hitler salute.

Just as he was turning to say something else.

When his gaze landed on me – busted beyond belief – I stood transfixed. Then I folded all my fingers down except the index. “Look,” I said, pointing to the wall behind him, “there is no camera there. But you have one there.” I swept my arm, elbow locked, fingers rigid, a foot to the right. “See, there is a camera. However, that camera cannot record all the events in this —” I indicated the opposite side of the room with my left hand. “— side of the room.” I dropped my arm at last. “I feel like your security measures are not what they should be, Captain.”
Don’t say Jack. Don’t say Jack. Don’t say Jack.

His mouth formed a grim line across his face. He turned and left without relaying what he was going to say. Wonderful. Now I was going to be curious all day. Not terribly, but still.

My old frenemy, David Taft, laughed behind my back. Literally. “I swear, Davidson, you sure know how to make friends and influence people.”

I turned to him as he sat at his desk. “If you aren’t careful, I’ll tell your sister you’re dating that call girl from Poughkeepsie again.”

He sobered and cast a worried glance over his shoulder. “I am not. How did you know that?”

With a smile drenched in saccharine, I winked and said, “I didn’t.”

He closed his eyes and hung his head in shame.

I tsked at him. “You fall for that every time.”

Gemma walked into the station as I was leaving, probably to see her man. The thought made me happy. She didn’t date much, as gorgeous as she was. She needed the distraction from her miserable, lonely life before she started collecting stray cats.

Wyatt saw her and headed our way. Seeing his scars made me wonder about my little pixie, Faith Ingalls. She’d sent me straight to him. How could she possibly have known he’d been investigating the case? Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe there was another reason. He was probably the last person she saw before she died who tried to help her. Who risked his life to help her. And I still had to wonder why the women were still in my apartment. What did they want, need?

“I need to ask a favor of you,” I said to Wyatt as he walked up and gave Gemma a sweet smile. He probably didn’t want to make a big deal in front of the guys, so he kept his greeting G-rated.

“Shoot,” he said.

Gemma raised her brows in suspicion. What’d I say?

Wait, what would I say? I couldn’t really ask him to come over to meet the ghost of the girl he’d tried to save. So I improvised. “I need you to check something at my place. I have a leaky faucet.” Oh, my god, I was so good at improvisation.

His posture said,
I’m confused,
but his eyes said,
What?
“I don’t really fix leaky faucets.”

“Please. I won’t ever ask you for anything again.”

“Oh, no,” Gemma said in warning, “don’t ever believe that. She’ll have you painting or moving boxes or burying her neighbor before you know it.”

It was like she didn’t know me at all. I would never ask him to paint.

We met at my place, and I led Wyatt into my living room. Gemma knew about Faith being in my apartment, but making the introductions between Faith and Wyatt could prove tricky. Then again, I had to find her first. She wasn’t under Mr. Wong. “Hmmm,” I said, looking around, “that leaky pipe doesn’t seem to be in here. Let’s try the bedroom.”

Wyatt cast Gemma a questioning gaze, then followed me. “You know, everyone says you’re crazy.”

“Really? That’s weird. But how about we go with that and call it good?”

“Works for me.”

I got on all fours and checked under the bed. Sure enough, Little Miss Sunshine lay scrunched under my bed, her huge blue eyes staring out at me. I bounded up. “Found it!” Then I got on my stomach and offered her my best Sunday smile. “Hey precious,” I said, holding out a hand. “I brought someone to see you.”

She backed away from me, eyed me as though I were an axe murderer. Crap. And I thought we were friends.

At least Artemis was happy to see me. And even happier that I was on the floor. She pawed at me, her tiny tail practically vibrating with enthusiasm. I rubbed her ears and nuzzled her neck before popping up over the bed again. “You’re just going to have to look for yourself.”

When Artemis went in for the kill, tackling me to the floor, I called out, “It’s okay. I’m okay.” Wyatt walked around the bed and saw what could only look like a seizure of some kind. I had Artemis in a headlock and was gnawing on her ear, but I stopped instantly when I saw him, tried to push her off me as nonchalantly as I could.

“It’s down here,” I said.

Hopefully he would dismiss my behavior as a side effect of lunacy. I smiled and turned back onto my stomach, but Artemis pounced. Ninety pounds of airborne Rottweiler landed on my back. The air rushed out of my lungs and I groaned in agony.

Then I heard a giggle. Soft. Lyrical. I looked under the bed and said with strained words, “You think this is funny, do you?”

The beginnings of a smile widened her mouth. Sadly, however, I had to push Artemis off me before I lost consciousness. I wrapped an arm around her head and made her lie beside me. “Stay,” I whispered into her ear. She whined, wanting so very much to pretend to rip out my jugular. Dogs loved that shit. Having no other choice, she chewed on my hair instead. That would keep her busy for a few.

With a great and powerful sense of doubt, Wyatt got onto his knees. I took his hand and pulled him down to the floor with me. Gemma laughed and got onto her knees as well, curious.

“This,” I said to him, pointing underneath an empty bed, “is a little hurricane who goes by the name of Faith.”

He stilled, and his emotions flat-lined. It was a lot to take in. I probably should have warned him about the whole dead-people thing. Trying to imagine it from Wyatt’s point of view, I looked under the bed. The only thing he would see was the red thong I’d lost a couple of weeks back and a Butterfinger wrapper.

“Sorry,” I said to him. “I forgot to mention that I see dead people.”

He nodded. Since his adrenaline didn’t spike in surprise, he’d heard the rumors. Not the ones where I saw dead people, but the ones where I was a crazy-ass psychic wannabe who
thought
she saw dead people. At least it wasn’t a complete surprise.

The real surprise would come next. Faith saw him. She saw the scars on his face. She looked into his eyes. An instant later, she was in front of us.

I eased back and encouraged Wyatt to sit with a hand on his shoulder. Faith balanced on her toes, hunched down in front of us, but at least she’d come out from under the bed.

“She led me to you, Wyatt,” I said as his gaze tracked every shadow, every speck of dust in the air, trying to see what his eyes simply couldn’t perceive.

Faith duck-walked forward, inch by inch until she could reach out and touch his face.

I signed to her. “His name is Wyatt.”

She didn’t look at me directly, but she nodded an acknowledgment. It was the first glimpse of actual communication I’d gotten from her. Now we were getting somewhere. She reached up and touched his face.

“She recognizes you.”

When her fingers brushed across his face, he bucked back.

“Just stay still,” I said, encouraging him with a steady hand. “She’s touching your face. Your scars.”

He bit down and held fast as she brushed her fingers across his jaw, over his chin and mouth. His was the last kind face she’d seen.

“I think she wants to see you, to know that you are okay.”

I signed again, but I used my voice so the other two would know what I said. She could hear now. That wasn’t the problem. The problem would lie in the fact that she didn’t know spoken English. “Your name is Faith?” I asked.

She lifted a shoulder to her cheek in shyness and nodded. Then she lifted her index finger, just barely, and pointed to Wyatt. “My friend,” she said, her signs a mere whisper on her hands.

Tears sprang to my eyes so fast, I couldn’t stop them. “Yes,” I said, patting Wyatt’s shoulder. “He’s your friend.”

And the dam broke. Wyatt’s shoulders shook as he tried to dam the flood of emotion. He wrapped his fingers over his eyes, and Gemma fell to her knees beside him.

“It’s okay, hon,” she said, rubbing his back.

Without removing his hand, Wyatt said, “Can you tell her how sorry I am that I failed her?”

I disagreed but nodded and relayed his message to her.

“Failed?” she asked, her tiny fingers sliding across her palm. “He tried to save me.”

“I know, but he feels like he failed you. Like you died because of him.”

She patted his cheek with her left hand and signed with her right. “He’s wrong. I died because of Mr. U.”

Finally, I got a name. Or an initial that stood for the name of Ussery. And we were right. Not that I had any doubt, but verification was always nice.

“I thought of his face,” she continued. “His face makes me feel happy.”

“She said you’re wrong,” I told Wyatt. “You didn’t fail her. And your face makes her happy.”

He nodded. It was all he could do.

“Do you remember what happened?”

But I’d lost her. Artemis had army-crawled past me and laid her nose on Faith’s foot. She laughed and bent to pet her. “I like dogs,” she said.

Artemis soaked up the attention like a dry sponge thrown into a swimming pool. Her little tail wagged and she rolled onto her stomach, pushing me out of the way with her butt. That was the thanks I got.

We’d made leaps today. Giant leaps. Hopefully I could talk to her more, convince her to cross, to be with her family.

The women hadn’t gone anywhere, but they had changed. They had calmed, were less erratic, less frantic. But they still stared off into space, their gazes vacant as though lost. I didn’t know how to help them. And I really wanted to help them. It would still be a while before Reyes got off work. Even thinking that felt foreign. Reyes working. Making a living. Surviving in my world. Keeping it real.

First I had to fix things with Rocket and Blue. Only then could I probe Rocket for suggestions on how to help the women in my apartment and for answers about Reyes, why my man’s name was on his wall of doom.

As I drove to the asylum, another thought struck. It happened. But I realized I’d solved a case without almost dying. Without being beaten senseless or dragged through broken glass. That shit sucked. But I’d done it. Things were looking up.

I straightened my shoulders and let pride swell for almost seven seconds before another thought popped into my head. I’d just tempted fate. By thinking the first thought, I’d quite possibly jinxed myself. I’d thrown caution to the wind, damn my pride.

But I’d done it. No doubt about it. So when a large vehicle slammed into Misery’s driver-side door – the sound of metal colliding and crumbling in on itself deafening – my last thought as darkness crept in was,
Honestly, it’s like I don’t know myself at all.