Three Sides of the Tracks Page 21

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  Lenny didn’t bother running after Slink. He’d never catch up. Not now, anyway. There’d be time for that later.

  He saw the shovel as soon as he opened the beachside door. A few steps into the small yard, he saw the disturbed ground.

  As he began to scrape sand off the first depression, he heard voices and stopped. Was it the two women or the contract and Jessie’s daughter? The job would be much simpler if it were the women. Lenny dropped to his knees and lowered his head to the ground. He heard a male voice. Cursing under his breath, he stood back up and checked the number of bullets left in the .22.

  The voices stopped as he scraped away more sand. Wary the two might bolt as soon as the lid was loose, Lenny stooped and spoke into the air hole. “The others are gone. I’m here to rescue you, so take it easy. I’m taking the lid off now.”

  Lenny pried up the upper portion of the lid then raised it off the box and tossed it into the yard. He straddled the box and offered a hand to Caroline.

  She sat up but didn’t take the hand. He gave off the same vibes as Slink. “Why are you wearing those gloves?”

  Lenny hesitated. “Oh, well, kinda particular, I guess. Don’t like to get my hands dirty. All that digging. You know.”

  “Surgical gloves for working? Who are you? How did you find us?”

  Lenny lost patience. “Seems like you’d be grateful to get out of that box instead of pestering me with questions. You want out or not?”

  “Not if you’re one of them.” Caroline looked toward the house.

  “You don’t have to worry about them anymore. Trust me. They won’t be bothering anyone else.”

  Caroline stood up. “My daddy sent you, didn’t he?”

  “What does it matter? I’m taking you home,” Lenny replied in a gruff tone, tired of the banter, but not wanting to give Jessie an excuse to get out of paying him.

  Caroline glared at the man as she stepped out of the box.

  Danny grabbed the sides of the box to pull himself up. A foot pushed him back down.

  Lenny stepped into the box, above Danny’s feet. “Not you. You’re one of the kidnappers.” He pulled out the .22.

  “Are you crazy? He came to rescue me. He got here before you did,” Caroline shouted.

  “You’ve been misled, miss. He’s been with them all along. That’s how he found you so easy. Go stand beside the house, please.”

  “I will not. Put that gun away.”

  Danny saw the eyes change just before Lenny pulled the trigger. He rolled to his right as the pistol’s ‘phfft’ erupted. The bullet thwacked into the plywood behind him.

  “No. Not him,” Caroline yelled. She leaped at Lenny and grabbed for his gun arm.

  Lenny blocked Caroline with his body then pushed her away with his free hand. Just as he swung the pistol toward Danny, the boy rolled back over. In a flash of insight, Lenny understood the despair in the eyes of all his past victims just before they died.

  The hollow-point bullet from the hidden derringer struck his throat and expanded, ripping through flesh and blood vessels. His head flopped to one side as a copious spout of blood turned the sand red.

  Even the sound of the dying hurricane’s wind and rain stopped.

  Danny’s hand shook and he felt like throwing the derringer as far as he could. But he didn’t dare. So much had happened, he was afraid . . . just afraid. Finally, he climbed from the box and wrapped an arm around Caroline, who stood transfixed, staring at the grotesque body.

  “Oh, Danny.” She flung her arms around him and sobbed.

  He stroked her back and let her cry.

  “I know my daddy sent him. I just know he did. I feel so dirty, so ashamed. How can a person be so mean he wants to kill someone who’s never done anything to him? How can I be the daughter of someone like that?”

  “You’re not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re nothing like him, so don’t feel guilty for the crap he does. Okay?”

  Caroline cuddled her face between his shoulder and neck. “You have a big heart. As much as he’s done to you, you’ve never once blamed me or held it against me.”

  “I know you too well.”

  They held each other for a few moments then Caroline looked at him with a twinkle in her eye. “Maybe not as well as you think.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “You didn’t expect that first kiss, did you?”

  Danny chuckled. “No, you got me there. But I’d like another.”

  “Anytime,” Caroline said. She cradled his face in her hands and kissed him deeply, then suddenly broke their embrace.

  “Oh, my gosh. I forgot about Brandy. She’s there.”

  Danny found the shovel as Caroline stood over the pit and told Brandy through the air pipe that they were digging her out. Brandy didn’t reply.

  “Hurry, Danny. She’s not saying anything.”

  Danny scraped the sand off and pried up the lid.

  Brandy lay curled up in a fetal position, eyelids half open. She didn’t seem to notice she was free.

  Caroline stooped down and brushed sand off her face. “Brandy, come on now. It’s over. We can go home.”

  Brandy’s eyelids flickered. She looked suspiciously at Danny as he untied the knots around her ankles. “Who is he?”

  “This is Danny, my friend.”

  “The Danny you were calling for the other day?”

  Caroline fought back a blush. “Yes. He found us. Come on, we need to get you to the hospital to take care of that leg.”

  “I’m gonna help you up,” Danny said gently and reached an arm under Brandy’s shoulders and raised her up.

  Caroline untied the rope around her wrists.

  “Can you stand?” Danny asked.

  The knife wound had turned ugly. Half of Brandy’s thigh was now dark blue and streaked with caked blood.

  Brandy tried to stand, with Caroline holding her on one side and Danny on the other. The bad leg wouldn’t take any weight.

  “We’ll make better time if I carry you. Hold onto my neck. I have a car in the driveway.” Danny picked her up and carried her to the Taurus, thankful both for leaving the keys in the ignition and that Slink had taken off in the other car.

  Danny laid Brandy across the back seat. “You’re going to be fine. This is all over, okay?”

  Brandy nodded without speaking, her eyes still glazed.

  “Should we call the police before we leave, so they don’t think—”

  “I don’t give a damn what they think. Let’s get Brandy out of here,” Caroline said.

  She pecked Danny on the cheek, opened the driver’s side and slid over.

  “My phone. I have to go inside and get my phone,” Danny said. “Where’s yours?”

  “It was in that other car, I think. Anyway, don’t take time looking for it. Just get yours and let’s go.”

  Danny had driven past the hospital on his way in and remembered where it was. They were there in 10 minutes. He parked right outside the emergency room doors, and Caroline helped Brandy from the car while Danny found a wheelchair.

  Brandy settled into the wheelchair and looked up at Caroline with misty eyes. “Thank goodness that’s over. A nightmare if there ever was one, huh?”

  Caroline blinked back tears and squeezed Brandy’s shoulder. “It is over. Try not to think about it.”

  Danny wheeled her over to the admitting window. As he told the nurse why they were there, the nurse’s disinterested eyes lost their dullness and began their journey from disdain to incredulous. Danny leaned closer to the glass window. “Ma’am,” this lady has a very serious knife wound.”

  The woman’s gaze switched to Brandy, who was now parked behind Danny with Caroline holding onto the handles. The wretches standing before her made the homeless people the ER treated look like well-dressed storefront mannequins. Filthy; deep bruises; cut faces, arms, lips; matted hair. The trio looked more like disaster victim
s than the people who walked into her ER.

  She snapped out of her shock and picked up the phone to wake the dozing intern. She slid paperwork through the window and told Danny to fill it out and someone would be with them in a moment.

  Danny took the clipboard. “Ma’am, I don’t mind waiting, but Brandy’s in a lot of pain and—”

  The lady held up both hands. “They’ll be right with you; don’t worry. Just start writing, so they can get permission to work on you. All of you.”

  36

  Bart’s Duty

  Bart arrived at Grady Hospital and was listening to Bernard’s unorthodox, sometimes rambling tale of events when his cell phone rang and he learned of the shooting at Jessie Whitaker’s house. The only thing he’d learned for sure from Bernard was that Danny had not stolen the car and that the man who shot Bernard had done so in the process of trying to find Danny. That knowledge cleared up one mess but created another. At least he’d get the satisfaction of enlightening the all-mighty FBI men in the error of their so-called deductive reasoning.

  “You look like somebody run off with your wife,” Bernard said after Bart ended his call.

  “Cut the homilies, Bernard. What state was Martin in when he left here?”

  A completely confused expression replaced the half smile on Bernard’s face. “State? What the hell you tryin’ to pull? You know what state we’re in. You tryin’ to make out I’m crazy now or something?”

  Bart controlled his impatience. Bernard obviously wasn’t trying to be funny. “I mean state of mind. Was he mad? Furious? You said they left abruptly after you told them the man who shot you was looking for Danny. I just need to know how Martin reacted.”

  “He was mad as hell. What’d you expect? Crap, find out a man’s been creeping around yore woman’s house looking to kill yore son, I spect you’d be mad as all get out too.”

  “I need a straight answer from you, Bernard. Did Martin seem to think Jessie Whitaker was behind all of it?”

  Bernard averted his eyes.

  Bart grabbed both Bernard’s shoulders. “Uh uh. No bull crap now. I’ve never prosecuted you for all the things you’ve done, but if you don’t level with me—”

  “Yes, damn it. Yes. He figured it right quick. Any idiot could figure that. Cain’t you?”

  Bart released him and sighed. “Figuring and proving are two different things. Jessie just shot Martin. He’s dead.”

  All the deviousness, duplicity, and evasiveness left Bernard’s eyes as the color drained from his face. His jaw sagged open, then his mouth worked attempting to find the words to say.

  Bart put a hand on Bernard’s back and tried to block all the emotion he himself felt. If he succumbed to his feelings, he might miss something, and this was one case where he determined justice would be served.

  Bernard covered his face with his hands and lay back against the raised bed. His shoulders shook with sobs amid bits of recriminating mumbling.

  Finally, he lowered his hands and wiped his face. “Mr. Phillips, that’s about the worst doggone news I ever did hear. You should’ve seen ‘em together today. And now her and that kid gotta go through . . . I know I’m somewhat to blame. Just don’t know ‘xactly how. But whatever you want to tie on me is plum fine with me.”

  It was all Bart could do to hold himself together. He took Bernard’s hand with a strong grip. “I don’t know so much about your blame, Bernard. If we knew how every little thing we did was going to turn out, none of us would ever do anything. Just how it is sometimes. I know what you did, you did out of kindness, and that’s not a bad thing. Don’t be too hard on yourself. I’ve gotta get back home and see the evidence. It happened at Whitaker’s house, so I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Hanging anything on him, that is.”

  Their eyes met in mutual respect then Bart nodded and left to face the grim task of seeing Martin’s body. But first he had to reach Belinda before she heard the news from anyone else. A few hours ago they had gone back in time and been teenagers again. And now, well, now there was nothing. That’s what death did: Turned everything to nothing.

  37

  Scot-free

  Charles Morrison knew a big fee when he saw one. He left Atlanta a few minutes after Jessie’s wife called. Jessie had been paying him a fifty thousand dollar retainer for several years now and this was the first time he’d have to do more than make a few phone calls to earn it. Plus the fee for his actual work, but, from what little the surprisingly calm Mrs. Whitaker had told him, this should be a cake walk.

  There was no dearth of flashing lights when Morrison stopped at the police road block across Jessie’s driveway. He sat in his forest green Jaguar until an irritated deputy sheriff walked over to see who was behind the tinted windows. It was important to establish hierarchy at the beginning.

  Morrison let the deputy wait a few seconds before rolling down his window halfway. “I’m Mr. Whitaker’s attorney. Would you please move the barricade?”

  The deputy, a young man in his middle twenties, tried to conceal his awe of the expensive car and imposing physical presence of Morrison, whose steely grey eyes matched the color of his tailored suit. The maroon bowtie held his gaze far too long because he’d never seen anyone in Benson wearing one.

  “Do you have identification, sir?” the deputy finally stuttered.

  Morrison couldn’t resist looking amused. “You mean do I have a card that reads ‘Jessie Whitaker’s attorney?’ ”

  The deputy’s expression went blank then embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess I see what you mean.” He turned around and moved the temporary blockade and waved Morrison through.

  Morrison stopped beside the deputy. “My intern will arrive soon. His name is Gant. Anthony Gant. Please let him through without delay. We need to take time-sensitive photographs. Will that be a problem?”

  “Does he drive a silver Toyota, sir?”

  Morrison nodded.

  “I believe he’s already here. I thought he was with the crime scene folks.”

  On his short trip up the driveway, Morrison realized that, since Whitaker lived outside the city limits, the sheriff’s office would be in charge of the investigation. He smiled knowing that Jessie Whitaker certainly would have any and all elected officials in his little domain firmly in his pockets. “I should have just sent the intern,” he muttered.

  He parked behind a dark Crown Victoria he recognized as belonging to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent or agents aiding in the investigation. They weren’t hard to spot among the local detectives. Suits instead of slacks and short-sleeve shirts. Different hair styles. Different bearing. Definitely a different bearing. Morrison saw only one though, and he appeared to be on good terms with the locals as they stood in a group apart from the uniformed deputies, who were more concerned about protecting the crime scene than anything else.

  Jessie and Marie sat together on a front porch step, the latter obviously upset judging by the Kleenex in her hands and swollen eyes. Jessie, as expected, had a drink in one hand and a belligerent expression on his face, but, unexpectedly, cuts and abrasions covered his face.

  Morrison didn’t wait to be asked. He handed one of the uniforms a business card as he walked past the cordoned-off alleged crime scene including a chalk outline of the deceased’s body and small pools of blood.

  Morrison adjusted his rimless glasses and laid a hand on Marie’s shoulder as he knelt to eye level. “I know this has to be very upsetting, Mrs. Whitaker. Is there anything I can do?”

  Marie trembled under his touch, and the surprised expression in her eyes came from being acknowledged first, if at all, when Jessie was present. Surprise gave way to a mixture of fear and anxiety about what was likely to come next. She’d already given statements to the local detectives and the GBI man. Now, she’d have to contend with this lawyer and later Jessie’s berating because whatever she said would be wrong in Jessie’s view.

  She dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex and said, “No, but thank you for asking.�
��

  Morrison offered his hand to Jessie. “I’m very sorry, Jessie.”

  Jessie shook the hand. “Sumbitch attacked me. Me. At my own home,” he said through swollen lips.

  “I’m glad to see you kept your head. Or ‘wits,’ I suppose would be more appropriate.” Morrison referred to the obviously untreated condition of Jessie’s face and head, which had clumps of matted blood in several areas.

  “I want my assistant to take some photos before I ask you any questions,” Morrison said and waved the young intern forward.

  “He’s done took ‘bout a thousand. How many more you want?” Jessie growled.

  “I need to be sure he takes the ones I want him to take, although I appreciate his eagerness.”

  Morrison instructed Gant to take several shots from different angles of every cut and abrasion on Jessie’s face, arms, and head. He learned long ago that the same cut could look very different depending on the angle and lighting it was photographed under. And, if in the million-to-one chance this ever went to trial, he wanted every possible advantage. He would do the same to the deceased if he thought it necessary.

  “Okay, that’s out of the way. I hope I rightfully assume that since you refused medical treatment you also refused to give a statement.”

  “Damn right I did. Not her. Blab, blab, blab. That poor man this. Poor man that.”

  Morrison gave Jessie a warning look. An antagonized witness would not do. Not at all.

  “I’m sure Mrs. Whitaker did what she thought appropriate,” Morrison said along with the most understanding smile he could muster.

  Marie understood the comment for what it was and sat stoically on the step.

  “Let’s go inside, shall we?” Morrison said.

  “Sounds like a winner. Come on, Marie.”

  Morrison held out a hand to assist Marie while Jessie stood and strode through the doorway without a backward glance.