Half Past Dead (19 page)

Maria gazed down at her small hands and flexed her fingers. “No. She leave. No see again.”

I
T WAS ALMOST DARK
and Nora had just left for the day. Justin looked up and saw David coming through the door of his office, his puppy at his side.
Uh-oh.
Justin had the mother of all headaches from chasing his tail all day and coming up with nothing on Kat. He needed to go home and crash.

“Any luck finding Kat?” David asked.

“None. Lots of tips generated by the reward, but nothing panned out. She vanished into thin air.” He massaged the knot in the back of his neck with one hand and stroked Redd under the desk with the other.

David sat in the chair opposite Justin's desk. “I spoke with Maria Sanchez.”

“Really? Did she have anything to say?” Justin had been meaning to interview the woman, but he'd been too busy.

“Kat told Maria that she was going to visit her mother.”

“What? Lola Rae didn't mention it to me.”

“I went to Loretta Wells' condo. She's pretty strung out on morphine. She doesn't know if she saw Kat, didn't see her, or Kat came to her in a dream.”

This case is really screwed-up. So what else was new? “Does the woman have any idea
when
she might have or might not have seen her daughter?”

David shook his head. “No, but she's clear on one thing. Before she ‘goes to glory' Tori is going to marry Clay Kincaid.”

“Is she sure? They've been dating for years.”

“When I dropped into the No Latte Café for a sandwich, everyone was talking about the heirloom ring Tori is wearing.”

“I'll be a son-of-a-bitch! I never thought Tori and Clay would actually get hitched. I figured the judge had other plans for Clay.”

“According to Loretta, it's going to be a big wedding, and the reception will be at the judge's home.”

“There you go. A marriage made in heaven.” An inexplicable feeling of urgency came over Justin. “She told you all this yet couldn't remember if Kat came to see her?”

“It took me more than an hour to pry this gem from her. She kept fading in and out.” David leaned forward and rested his arms against the desk. “Know what I think?”

“I'm afraid to ask.”

“Lola Rae hit it on the head. Despite the way Loretta treated Kat, the woman is her mother and she's close to death. Loretta might be confused, but I believe Kat dropped by.” David let his words hang there for a few seconds. “This would definitely be the case if Kat was planning to leave forever.”

If she'd been planning to leave, Justin thought, why hadn't she taken the gun with her? Redd nudged his way out from under the desk and went over to see Max. The puppy licked him and Redd jumped back. David chuckled, but Justin couldn't see humor in anything right now.

“Did you come up with anything from that list of license plate numbers your source gave you?”

“Not really. A lot of Louisiana plates. Several are registered to a car service that's a front for Drexel Sartiano.”

“Figures. The casino is connected to the most powerful crime family in the area.”

“Do you know Gary Don Willingham? He tends bar out at Moonin' N Coonin'.”

Justin shook his head. “I don't know him, but I know that joint. Not a weekend goes by that we don't get a complaint that some guys are mooning passing motorists. Why?”

“He's Lola Rae's boyfriend. There was something about him…”

“Let's run him through the computer and see if he has a record.” Justin opened the National Correctional Facilities database and typed in the man's name, then looked up at David. “Willingham did time in Arkansas for armed robbery. That was twelve years ago. Nothing since then. No local problems.”

“I could be wrong,” David admitted. “It was just a hunch.”

 

J
USTIN HAD DINNER
at the counter of the Gator Grill. He'd ordered his usual, chicken fried steak, but he barely ate two bites before asking for a to-go box. Redd would have a feast tonight.

He was in his pickup and nearly to the home he'd leased when the cell phone in his pocket pulsed. He pulled it out and saw the sheriff station's number on the caller ID screen. “Radner here.”

“Sir,” the night duty/dispatcher said. “A Mr. Hobbs called.”

Cooter. The ornery cuss had called earlier in the day, too. “What does he want?”

“Wouldn't say. He has to talk to you in person. He doesn't trust the telephone.”

Honest to God, some things never changed. The old geezer had always been secretive, paranoid. “Did it sound like it could wait 'til morning?”

The deputy hesitated a moment. “No, sir. It might have to do with that Wells woman. Mr. Hobbs asked if anyone else had claimed the reward.”

“Okay, I'll swing by his place,” he replied even though he seriously doubted Cooter had any relevant information.

Justin turned the pickup around and drove toward Shady Acres. The trip took him past Moonin'N Coonin'. He decided to stop. David Noyes was a perceptive, intelligent man. If he picked up strange vibes from Willingham, the guy might be worth investigating.

He drove into the parking lot. Two gray clapboard out-houses slouched in the beam of his headlights, one marked Bulls while the other said Heifers. Perfect. The clientele here would be rednecks right down to the mud on their cowboy boots. He left Redd locked up in a lot full of vehicles.

It was busy for a weeknight. The riverboat had put most roadside taverns out of business, but not this place. Justin figured they sold enough drugs on the side to keep the bar open as a front. When he had time, he was going to see what really went on at this place. He had no doubt this would be a point on the meth trail.

He walked in and saw a couple of guys playing pool on the far side of the room. They didn't notice him, but a hush fell over the rest of the group. A bluish haze hung in the air from the cigarette smoke. The joint reeked of tobacco, beer, and cheap hooch. He went straight to the bar even though the man behind it didn't look a bit like the mug shot of Willingham.

“I'm looking for Gary Don Willingham,” he told the balding man who was drying a glass with the dirtiest rag Justin had ever seen.

“He's off tonight.”

“Where does he live?”

The bartender hitched his head to one side. “Trailer out yonder.”

“Thanks.” Justin turned to leave.

“He ain't there. He's with his girlfriend.”

Justin left, deciding he'd check on the man later. Tracking down Lola Rae might take some time. He needed to see if Cooter had any valuable information first.

The drive to Shady Acres Trailer Village took longer than it should have. Justin had swung by Kat's place to see if she—by some miracle—had come home. Yeah, right. The studio was dark and there was no sign of her car. S'okay. What did he expect?

When he drove into the trailer park, he noticed most of the lights were on in the rows of single-wides. The one where he'd lived was dark. In the dim light coming from the neighbors, the place appeared more forlorn than it had during the day. He tried not to remember how cheery his mother had managed to make it look.

He parked in the back where Cooter lived in a trailer pocked by thirty years of rust and corrosion. The television was blaring and sounds of some reality show filled the night air. From his pickup, Justin could see a TV screen that dwarfed the small space. Cooter always had the biggest television he could fit into his trailer. He didn't spend a nickel on anything else, but he had to have a big new TV set every eighteen months.

“Hang in, boy.” He petted Redd's nose. “I'll be right back.”

The thunk of the pickup's door slamming brought Cooter to his door. “Thass you, Justin? Took your dadgummed time.”

Justin stopped a foot from where two planks on cinder blocks led up to Cooter's trailer. “You have some information about the Bitner case?”

Cooter put his index finger to his lips and shushed Justin. He motioned for him to come inside. The fine hairs across the back of Justin's neck prickled to attention. Never once—not ever—were the tenants invited into Cooter's trailer. Justin bounded up the planks, anticipating catching a case of terminal herpes just by crossing the threshold.

Well, I'll be a dawg.
He'd expected the inside to be trashed, but it wasn't. It was small and clean with a brand-new plasma television. A well-worn Naugahyde recliner was positioned in front of the set. The only other furniture visible from where he stood was a tiny kitchen table with one chair.

“I don't want no one to hear what I'm sayin'. Next, they be claimin' the reward.”

Could Cooter actually know something? The man was so agitated that Justin might have thought he was on something, but past experience told him Cooter was actually excited. The only other time he acted like this was when he was expecting the delivery of his newest television.

“Okay, what do you know?”

“Not so fast. My reward—”

“Cooter, the bank is offering a reward for the person who provides information that leads to the arrest and conviction of Elmer Bitner's killer. You know how long trials take….”

The old man grunted. “A year at least.”

“It's late. Did you drag me out here for nothing?”

“Quitcher sassin', boy. I seed that blue Toyota yer lookin'fer.”

Any hope Justin had been harboring evaporated. Everybody and his mother had spotted the car. That many blue Toyotas in Twin Oaks. Who knew?

“This mornin' the car was parked near Dwayne Hill's pickup.”

“What?”

The Hill family owned a big chunk of the unincorporated area not far from the casino. They were hollow people who didn't come into town much. They lived on the land that had been in their family since before the Civil War. The Hills claimed to be related to the Southern general, A.P. Hill. It might be a lie or just wishful thinking, but no one dared dispute the tough bastards.

Justin had been in classes with Dwayne Hill after the courts forced the folks in the hollows to send their children to school. They'd played football together, but they hadn't been friendly. Dwayne rarely talked to anyone. When he did, it was just before a fight. The kids had taken to calling him “Dwayniac.”

Justin suspected Dwayne was much smarter than he looked or acted. His father, Throck Hill, had outsmarted everyone when farmers had given up on growing sugarcane and rice. Throck plunged ahead and planted soybeans, and it had paid off—big time. They'd made so much money that Dwayne refused to accept a football scholarship to LSU. Instead, he worked with his father.

Kat couldn't possibly know the Hills, could she? Maybe their paths had crossed in high school. They both had been loners with few friends. But how had they reconnected—and why?

“Early this morn, ya know, afore dawn, I followed a deer. Jeez-a-ree! I didn't know I was on Hill land. Leastways I didn't see any signs.”

Justin wasn't buying this. The Hills were notorious for having their land posted every twenty feet. Not that they were opposed to hunting. They just didn't want anyone taking their game. If Cooter went after a deer, he must have been positive he could bag it and haul the carcass away before the Hills spotted him.

“The dogs started barkin' 'n spooked the deer. Whoo-ee! It took off like a shot. I hightailed it.”

Justin bet Cooter had run as fast as his bandy legs would take him. No telling what the Hills would do if they caught anyone hunting on their land.

“Thass it. Thass when I seed the Toyoter.”

Running for all he was worth, Cooter couldn't be relied upon as a credible witness. Still, Justin couldn't help thinking about two loners who just might have reconnected—somehow. The bank could have been their connection. Justin instantly dismissed the idea. The hollow folks—especially the Hills—never trusted banks. What money they had, they kept God-only-knew-where.

“I'll pay Throck a visit and check it out,” he told Cooter.

“No can do. Throck's gone yonder.”

Gone to glory
meant you were heaven bound.
Gone yonder
meant gone to hell. Aw, shit. He would have to deal with Dwayniac. The sullen boy with a dirty look permanently imprinted on his face was now in charge of his own kingdom.

Common sense said to round up a few deputies before marching onto Hill property. But no one had ever accused Justin Radner of having a lick of sense.

He had no doubt that the Hills would be armed to the teeth, but other than that he had no idea what to expect. He hustled out of Cooter's trailer, wondering if he had a death wish.

“Don't cha be forgettin' my reward.”

“Can it. We're a long way from a reward.”

J
USTIN CHOSE
the direct approach to the largest house at the compound of wood frame homes on cinder blocks. He'd considered going around to the back to check on the Toyota, but he wasn't within a hundred yards of the complex when the dogs started baying and motion sensors flooded the yard with blinding light. Seconds later, a hulking shadow with a shotgun flung open the front door.

A gruff voice yelled, “Whoze out there?”

“Sheriff Radner.”

There was no response. Justin opened the chain link fence's gate even though seven blue-tick hounds, fangs bared, were gathered, snarling on the other side.

“Stand down,” the man called to the dogs as Justin strode through the gate. The hounds sat on either side of the flagstone path, still slavering, bodies twitching for his hide.

“Dwayne?” he asked, still unable to see the man because of the floodlights.

The figure stepped forward. “You're on private property.”

Justin immediately recognized Dwayne Hill, although the guy had gained weight, his body now bulked-up but still muscular. Dwayne's face had filled out, too. Deep creases at the corners of his eyes and skin toasted brown and crispy like a campfire marshmallow said he spent his days in the fields.

“Want me to come back with a warrant and a dozen highway patrolmen?” Justin was bluffing. No judge would issue a warrant on Cooter's suspicious sighting.

“Better come in,” he replied with a smile that seemed to darken his brown, almost black eyes. Just then, Justin remembered something about Dwayne—he'd always smiled at things that weren't funny. This and his combative personality made most kids in school avoid him.

Justin walked inside and was surprised by the pale yellow interior, tastefully furnished with a moss-green sofa and matching chairs. The wood floor had been buffed to a high shine and matched the handrail on the staircase leading to the second floor. The parlor opened up to a family room where a huge television was tuned into
West Coast Choppers.
A very pregnant woman waddled toward them from the family room. He recognized her but couldn't come up with a name.

“This here's Betty Jo,” Dwayne said as he shelved the shotgun on the wall rack with a dozen other weapons. “'Spect you remember her.”

Justin remembered Dwayne's cousin now. He'd had a couple of classes with her. “Hey, how are you?”

“Mighty fine.” Betty Jo said, revealing tiny, even white teeth. She looked at Dwayne.

“G'wan. I'll be down here a spell.”

Betty Jo mumbled good-night and went up the stairs, hiking her skirt as if she were wading through a stream. Dwayne motioned for Justin to have a seat on the sofa while he took a matching easy chair opposite him.

“Now what the hell are you lookin' for? You have no call to tear this place apart.” Dwayne flashed another ill-timed smile. He picked up a tin from the glass coffee table between them, took a pinch of Copenhagen, and wedged the tobacco between his jawbone and cheek. “I've got three young'uns upstairs. You can see my wife's about to pop out another. I don't want her riled up.”

Justin exhaled slowly, his eyes on the seascape that dominated the wall. He wondered if Dwayne had ever seen the ocean. Somehow he doubted it. Hollow people seldom ventured far from the backwoods.

“I don't have to search your home. I can rely on your word just the way I relied on you when we played ball.”

This time Dwayne didn't smile. With his tongue, he switched the chaw to the other side of his mouth. And kept staring.

“An informant tells me there's a blue Toyota out behind your house.”

“Yeah, so?”

Justin had expected shock or surprise or even a lame excuse but not Dwayne's casual reaction. He went rigid, every muscle tensed and his breath rattled against his ribs. “So? Haven't you heard about Elmer Bitner's murder two nights ago?”

Dwayne treated him to another off-beat grin and sucked on the wad of tobacco. “No. Don't get into town much. My brother Billy Dean gasses up the trucks and takes the gals shopping. Don't watch the news much. Just a bunch foreigners tryin' to kill our boys.”

“The Toyota was spotted on the road to the riverboat where Bitner was shot.” When Dwayne didn't comment, Justin asked, “How did you get the car?”

“I don't 'xactly have the car,” he replied.

“Come on, Dwayne. Don't fuck with me. Is there a blue Toyota behind this house?”

Eyes gleaming savagely, Dwayne stared him down. After a moment's silence, he grinned and cocked his head to one side like a bird. “Car's behind Ma's house.”

For a gut-cramping second, the room froze. Holy shit! Cooter had been right. The car was here. Kat must be around, too, or Dwayne knew where she was. His mind again scrambled to make the connection between them but came up empty except for the school connection. “There's a seven-state APB out on that car. Explain what you're doing with it, and where's the driver, Kat Wells?”

Dwayne threw his head back and laughed. An image came to Justin of Dwayne laughing after they'd lost a close game. He hadn't made any noise when he'd laughed. Still didn't.

Justin wondered if Dwayne was “a little skippy” as his mother used to say. He figured it came from too many cousins marrying each other. It had earned him the nickname Dwayniac, but Justin had the feeling it might be his way of keeping people at a distance. Whatever. It worked.

“Betty Jo and I were driving back from Jackson,” Dwayne said, his voice slurred slightly from the wad of tobacco. “She gets these…cravings. Gotta have Cherry Garcia. The nearest place they sell the friggin' ice cream is the capital.”

Get on with it. Justin couldn't believe the guy who rarely said two sentences was making a long story out of this. Justin tuned out the bit about the long line to get the ice cream, his mind on Kat.

He'd been missing Kat so much that it amazed him. Missing her tentative smile. Missing the way the breeze flirted with her hair. Missing the way her eyes held him. Missing her and hating himself for it.

He was going to find her. And then he'd have to haul her off to jail. He could do it, he assured himself. It was his job. His personal feelings didn't matter one damn bit.

“We ran into Billy Dean and Ma coming back from the Gator Grill. She fancies their chicken pot pies. They followed us back here. We hauled ass to get home before the ice cream melted. Know how much that stuff costs?”

Justin nodded as if he cared. “Ben & Jerry's is damn expensive.”

“That's Yankees for you.” Dwayne shrugged. “We come upon this car piddling along. A blue Jap car goin' real weirdlike.”

“What time was that?”

“A little before eight-thirty. I know 'cause Betty Jo wanted to make sure the kids were in bed so'z she could watch some TV show.”

“What happened?”

“The car fishtailed off the road into the bar ditch.”

Justin mentally kicked himself. His deputy had checked area hospitals and doctors and ruled out an accident. He hadn't considered Kat could be in a private home. He'd been too quick to condemn. Too willing to believe she was a con who would never reform.

“I jumped out to help. So did Billy Dean.”

“How bad was it?” Justin forced himself to keep his voice level even though a speedball of rage was shooting through him. What had he been thinking? Why hadn't he given her the benefit of a doubt?

“Not bad. She wasn't goin' that fast. She was wacky, though. Thought there was a bunch of us. She was yellin' ‘n kickin' 'n shiverin' like it was the dead of winter.”

This sounded like a concussion to him. “Had Kat hit her head?”

“Nope. Not a mark on her. The car had a bent fender where it plowed into the bank, was all. It still runs. Didn't take Billy Dean but two shakes to pull the whole shebang outta the bar ditch with the winch on his pickup. Ma drove it home. The woman rode with us, rantin' all the way.”

You stupid shit,
he silently cursed himself. His judgment had been so clouded by Kat's status as an ex-con that he'd assumed she'd run. He'd never considered the possibility something had happened to her.

“Where is Kat now?”

Dwayne studied him a moment, and Justin wondered if he sounded more personally involved than someone would expect the sheriff to be.

“Ma checked her. Said the gal was sick. That's why she was acting so…goofy.”

“Where is she?”

“Ma's takin' care of her. She's better. 'Spect she can go home tomorry.”

Justin nodded slowly. Most people would have taken Kat to old Doc Walther's twenty-four-hour clinic. A nurse was on duty every night. If someone was seriously injured, Doc lived in a cottage behind the clinic.

Hollow folks were different. They treated their own when they could. Dwayne's mother, Mavis, was well-known in these parts as a healer. Of course she would have taken care of Kat.

“I need to see Kat.” Justin stood up.

“I'll ask Ma if it's okay.”

Justin followed Dwayne out the back door. Light from a new moon shafted through the clouds. A whorl of June bugs danced around the light posts along the path. They walked over a swale toward a smaller home where a single lamp burned in the front window, the pack of dogs at their heels. Dwayne knocked softly and waited.

The door opened and a stout dumpling of a woman with silver hair hanging to her shoulders answered the door with a frown. She spotted Justin and her scowl deepened. “Who's he?”

“It's the sheriff, Ma. Remember Justin Radner? I played football with him.”

“'Course I remember.”

“He needs to see that gal we found.”

She turned to Justin and trained her dark brown eyes on him. “What fer? She's sleepin'.”

“She's wanted for questioning in a murder case,” Justin responded, although he now thought Kat had an ironclad alibi.

Mavis stared at him in a way that sent a cold, liquid tingle down the back of his spine. After a long moment, she asked, “Whose murder?”

Justin explained but omitted that the crime had occurred after the Hills had come upon Kat.

Mavis gazed at him from between drawn brows. “When was this exactly?”

Smart woman. Not much got by her. No doubt she was the Ma Barker of this clan. Planting soybeans had probably been her idea.

Justin explained when Bitner's body had been found. Dwayne cut loose with one of his soundless laughs. Mavis stopped him with a look that would have felled a charging rhino.

“Couldna' been Kat. We picked her up at eight-thirty. She was fixin' to feel puny. Weak. Upchuckin'. We brought her back here.” Mavis offered him a proud smile. “I cured her with one of my potions.”

“Food poisoning,” Dwayne told him. “Betty Jo heard the symptoms on TV.”

Mavis harrumphed. “What does Betty Jo know? She's a Buford.” Mavis turned to Justin. “Someone tried to poison the po' thing.”

The softly spoken words rang in his head like a furious shout. Pequita Romero had been poisoned, too. He barged his way by Mavis into the small parlor where a marmalade cat was curled into a ball on the sofa. “I need to see her—now!”

Mavis stared pitchforks at him. “Your mother wouldn't cotton to you bein' uppity.”

How did she know his mother? They must have talked years ago while in the stands watching their sons play football.

“Look, this is official business,” he said with all the patience he could muster. “Two people have died already. Someone might have tried to kill Kat.”

She stepped aside without uttering another word and gestured to a room nearby. Justin rushed into a small bedroom where a single lamp not much brighter than a night-light cast a mellow glow. A four-poster brass bed was centered in front of a fireplace that must be the room's only heat in the winter.

Justin paused in the doorway to allow his eyes to adjust. Ahead of him he saw a small figure dwarfed by the bed. Dark hair spread across a stark white pillow. A petite form, sleeping, encased in a quilted comforter.

Kat.

Thank you, God.

He heaved a sigh of relief and stepped forward. The scent of pine mixed with lavender greeted him. The light flickered, and he realized it was a pillar candle lighting the room, not a lamp.

In the dim light Kat seemed unusually pale. The vision shouldn't have shaken him so much, yet it did. He knew she'd been in a crash—but a minor one. Could Mavis be right about the poison?

“Is she okay?” he whispered to Mavis.

“She's just weak and needs her rest. Don't you be long.” Mavis turned and left the room.

Walking softly across the wooden floor, Justin ventured closer. He stood over Kat for a moment, then lowered himself to his knees on the rag rug beside the bed. “I'm sorry, babe,” he whispered. “I was thinking…bad things. You've done nothing wrong since I met you.”

He gently brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead with his fingertips. “I'm crazy about you. That's why I was so upset and—” he stopped himself, not realizing the truth until this moment “—hurt. I'll make it up to you.” He lightly kissed her cheek. “I promise.”