Tumbledown (24 page)

Her hand was buried deep in the bag of chips, her third beer just foaming at the top, when she spotted the man on the path.

“Fuck.
Fuck
.” She wiped her greasy fingers on her pants and took up the Glock. She wasn’t drunk, but nor was she entirely sober, and her knees banged against the deck as she ducked low and pushed off the bench. In the kitchen, Tilly had started to bark, but the door was too far behind Alex for her to reach back and open it, and she didn’t want to take her eyes off the man.

Through the gaps in the wooden surround, she could clearly observe his approach. He was slim and of average height. In one arm, he cradled something that didn’t look like a weapon—if anything, it looked like a paper grocery bag. His progress became more tentative as he drew nearer, but he stayed on the path, making no attempt to conceal himself. Four more steps, and the mellow glow from the porch light caught his face. Alex stood, panting against a head rush, and took aim with the Glock.

“Stop right there.”

He halted immediately and began to raise his hands. She jogged down the steps, the gun unwavering in her grip.

“Don’t move, Emerson. I fucking mean it.”

“I’m not armed,” he said.

“How’d you get through the gate? You got Lyssa’s key?”

“No.” His eyes widened at the implication. “No, I left the car at the gate, then climbed over and walked.”

“What’s in the bag?” She was closer now, close enough to hear the clink of glass as he shifted its weight.

“Uh, it’s beer.”

“Beer?”

“Yeah, my pop always said, ‘If you’re gonna sneak up on an armed woman in the middle of nowhere, better take beer, son.’”

Ignoring this attempt to defuse the standoff, she kept the gun pointed at his chest. “Put the bag on the ground and turn around.”

He did as instructed. Then he lifted his arms without being asked and allowed her to pat him down. The bag, she found, really did contain a six-pack of beer.

“What the fuck?” She was so confused, and so tired of this cloak-and-dagger bullshit.

“Rob called me this afternoon,” he said. As she gaped at him, he picked up the bag and held it in both hands as if to prove he wasn’t a threat; he couldn’t hurt her with his hands full. “Told me a woman fitting your description had been around at the apartment asking questions. I figured it might save time if I explained a few things. I’m sure you have more important stuff to do than chase after me.”

She realized that her mouth was still hanging open and snapped her teeth together. Her shoulders sagged and she lowered the gun. “It’s been a really long day,” she said.

“Yeah. I can’t even imagine.” There was a quiet kindness to his voice and he sounded absolutely sincere. It was enough to shatter what little remained of her resistance.

“Want something to go with that beer?” she asked.

“I guess.”

“Give me a minute.”

Tilly, curious as ever and smelling turkey, followed at Alex’s heels when she came back out with a plate of sandwiches. There was a small, folded photograph lying in the space Emerson had left for her on the bench. He watched her closely as she picked it up. She had holstered the Glock, but it was still visible and within reach, and Tilly was by no means a small dog; she supposed he had a right to feel nervous. It was only when she unfolded the image that she realized he was nervous for an entirely different reason.

“Oh!” she said, unable to mask her surprise. She hadn’t seen that coming at all. “I guess this is Rob, then.” The man was blond and handsome, with a smile that showed pristine white teeth. Emerson was the second figure in the photograph. He was holding Rob’s hand and smiling just as broadly.

“We met in New York, four years ago.” He took the photograph back and tucked it into his wallet. “Rob lives there. He’s an architect. We keep the apartment for when he visits.” Emerson could barely look at her. “He’s never been to Avery.”

“Damn.” She gave a quiet whistle. “This the reason you’ve been such a shit with me?”

“I thought you’d know, that you’d take one look at me and just know. Isn’t that how it works?” He leaned forward, holding his head in his hands. “I figured the best way to stop that from happening was to treat you like crap and hope you’d either leave or decide I was a homophobic fuck who wasn’t worth your time.”

“You couldn’t trust me enough to confide in me?”

“I haven’t been able to trust anyone enough for that.” His response was fierce and immediate, a kneejerk defense, but then he opened his hands in apology. “It’d kill my parents, and probably end my career, at least here.”

“That’s not true, not the career part, anyway.”

He gave her a sardonic look. “You saw what happened to Sarah, what’s happened to you both since. There aren’t any pitchfork-wielding mobs around here, and everyone’s real nice on the surface, but the second they have an excuse…” He didn’t need to elaborate; Alex was already nodding in agreement, and they both knew there was no way she would say a word about what he had just told her. “I’ve lived here all my life, and it’s my home, at least while my mom and pop are alive,” he said. “I’m sorry I’ve treated you like crap, but I just couldn’t take the risk.”

“No need to have worried on that score. Apparently, my gaydar’s completely fucked up.”

He smiled weakly and put a hand into his pocket, making her tense until she realized he was merely taking out a sheet of paper, which he passed to her. It was a Xerox of a crumpled and faded order docket. She recognized Sarah’s signature in the bottom corner.

“What am I looking at?”

“Quinn’s big theory hinges on Sarah accompanying Lyssa to unlock the gate, which places her at the murder scene,” he said. “Sarah told Quinn that Lyssa had her own key, that you’d gotten one cut at the general store.” He gulped his beer and held onto the bottle, his fingers worrying at the label. “Took Jenny a while to find the record, but she managed it. She also remembered Sarah explaining that the key was for Lyssa, said Sarah had been excited about Lyssa helping her to study.”

“Jesus,” Alex said, seeing a glimmer of hope for the first time in days. “You don’t believe Sarah’s guilty, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Alex didn’t mention that she had only just crossed him off her own list of suspects, but he had probably worked that out. “Have you shared this with Quinn?”

“No. It’s enough to poke a hole in the case but not enough to blow it wide open, and he’s too busy having lunch with the mayor to put any serious effort into tracking down other suspects, like Caleb Deakin for example. Quinn’s a fucking embarrassment.”

“He’s a fucking liability,” she said.

They both leaned back on the bench and finished their drinks in silence. Emerson held his hand out to Tilly, who approached him warily and then allowed him to pet her.

“I tried to warn you, y’know.” He scratched behind Tilly’s ears, unwittingly choosing the best way to make a friend of her. “The day Sarah was arrested. I called, but I got your voice mail.”

“I was talking to Agent Castillo,” she said, remembering that she had a missed call. Following up on it had understandably slipped her mind.

“I knew Quinn had set her up for a perp walk and didn’t want her going into it blind. He kept me busy running errands all the rest of that day, so I couldn’t get down to the cells to check on her.” When he turned to Alex, he looked sickened. “I did my best to look out for her.”

“I know you did.” Desperate for an ally, especially one within the Avery PD, she came to a sudden decision. By the time she finished telling him about the tire treads and her suspicion that someone in the town—possibly even in the police force—was involved in framing Sarah for Lyssa’s murder, he was beet red with anger. She uncapped another beer and set it in front of him.

He took a long drink. “You’re not safe out here on your own,” he told her.

“I’m leaving in the morning. I found a rental.”

“Good.” He didn’t push her for details. “What else are you doing?”

“Looking into places Deakin may have stayed at. I can’t prove it yet, but I’m sure it was him. And I don’t think he’s slunk back to North Carolina; the surveillance teams certainly haven’t seen him since the murder. I think he’s still in the area somewhere.”

“But not at my apartment.” Emerson raised an eyebrow.

“No, not at your apartment,” she conceded.

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“I’m sure there will be.” She patted her pockets, found her cell, and opened the call register. The missed call was still logged. “This your number?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“There is one thing,” she said, her brain beginning to kick back into gear. “I need a list of the people who volunteered to search our woods. Whoever covered those tracks covered them quickly, so they must have been out here on the first day. It’s unlikely Deakin would have risked coming back here to do it himself. Having those names would narrow things down a little.”

“I’ll see what I can find.” Emerson stood and ruffled the fur on Tilly’s neck. “I’m working tomorrow, but call me whenever, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.” She stood with him. It was dark beyond the reach of the porch lights, the sun having set completely. “You want a ride back to your car?”

For a moment, he seemed uncertain, as if some innate pride stopped him from admitting that walking alone down the unlit track was a foreboding prospect.

“Be no fucking use to me if you snap your ankle,” she said, making it easy for him.

He laughed, something she had rarely heard him do.

“Yeah, a ride would be good. Thanks.”

*

The sneakers were thin-soled and cheaply made, and Sarah would almost certainly give herself shin splints by trying to jog in them, but by the seventh day of her incarceration, she was willing to take the risk. A daily half hour of push-ups and sit-ups in a cell just wasn’t enough exercise for someone accustomed to a regular routine of running and swimming. When she asked Kendall about jogging laps around the outside recreational space, the guard had shrugged and found her the pair of sneakers.

Camille chuckled as she watched Sarah fasten her laces. “You know how hot it is out there, girl?”

“It does look quite warm,” Sarah said. The block had basic air conditioning, but today the heat was breaking through, making their current lock-down a sticky and uncomfortable one. They had finished their cleaning tasks and then taken turns to hold their faces beneath the cold tap.

“You’re crazy. You’re gonna miss—”

Whatever television show Camille was about to extol the virtues of was lost beneath the bang of their cell door slamming open onto the wall.

“Jesus, fuck,” she said, sitting bolt upright on her bunk.

“Both of you get over there now.” The guard, whose frame almost filled the doorway, grabbed Camille’s arm when she didn’t move fast enough. Already on her feet, Sarah was quicker to obey and stood where he indicated with her heels pressed flush against the wall. He wasn’t one of the regulars on the block; she thought she might have seen him once or twice, but couldn’t be sure.

“Aw, man.” Camille threw up her hands; unlike Sarah, she’d obviously worked out what was going on. “You couldn’t have tossed it before we finished cleaning it?”

He grinned but there was no humor in it. “I guess not.”

Sarah put her hand on Camille’s wrist, preventing any further protest. They watched in silence as he threw their bedding onto the floor and upended their mattresses, then shook out their clothing and leafed through the pages of the books they had stacked on the desk. He ran his fingers beneath the bed and window frames and along the underside of the desk. Camille had accrued more personal possessions than Sarah, and she stood seething as he rooted through them.

“Fucking asshole,” she muttered.

Sarah tightened her fingers as his head snapped up.

“What the fuck you just say?”

“Nothin’.” Camille directed her denial to the floor.

He turned to Sarah. “What the fuck did she just say?”

Sarah felt the cool of the concrete propping her up; it was the only thing keeping her on her feet. “I didn’t hear her say anything,” she told him, damned no matter what answer she gave.

He stared at her until the sound of approaching footsteps made him look toward the door. “Get this shit cleaned up.” He made a point of grinding his boots into their bedding as he left the cell.

“Bloody hellfire.” Sarah crouched down, relief beginning to make her feel shaky. “Who was he?”

“Fuck if I know. They rotate the shifts every few weeks, stop folks from getting too friendly.”

“I doubt that’s ever been much of an issue for him.” She started to collect Camille’s various keepsakes. “These all look okay,” she said, arranging them back on the desk.

“Thanks, honey.” About to refold a blanket, Camille hesitated. “Hey, maybe you’re bad for my karma.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…” She counted slowly on her fingers. “I’ve been in here six months and eighteen days, and that’s the first time I ever had my cell tossed.”

A slight tremor in Sarah’s hand made her knock one of the ornaments onto its side. “The first time ever?”

“Yeah, they don’t do it much in here, not unless you got a bad habit and they think you’re hiding shit.”

“Right.”

A new guard breaking with jail procedure and targeting their cell was far too coincidental for Sarah’s peace of mind. She started to remake her bed, turning the sheet so that the boot prints were against the mattress. Every little noise from the corridor made her jump and look toward the door. She thumped her misshapen pillow, taking her frustration out on its lumps.

So much for keeping her head down and staying out of trouble.

*

From deep within his carrier, strapped onto the rear seat of the Silverado, Bandit let out a pitiful wail.

“One hour, little guy, that’s all. Then you get a whole new house to explore.” Alex managed to keep her voice cheerful, but she felt as miserable as Bandit sounded. She and Sarah had loved this cabin. They had fixed up the rooms one by one and spent countless hours working on the yard, every little alteration putting their mark on the place and making it their home. She could barely believe how quickly and how completely their life here had been destroyed.