Not This Time (3 page)

Ken shivered. Butting heads with NINA was way out of his league, and he was smart enough to know it. First sign, he’d suggest Bill contact Detective Meyers. With help, he’d battled and beat NINA twice.

Calmer with his mind settled on the matter, Ken parked his own cup between his legs and clicked his safety belt into place. Warranted or not, Bill drove like a demon was on his heels and woe be to his younger partner if he complained. Their first time out, Ken had learned to buckle up, hang on, and keep his mouth shut.

“Maybe NINA.” Bill took a sip of tea. “I meant the pornographers we arrested up off 126 and old Magnolia Branch Road—in that rusty abandoned shed down from Race Miller’s.”

Race Miller’s place was a fifty-acre plot north of Nilge Reservation out in the middle of nowhere. After Hurricane Ivan ripped through, it had taken two years to get electricity back out to Race—a fact he’d reported to the sheriff’s office every day, knowing they couldn’t do a thing but report it to the co-op. That whole northeast corner of the county was just about uninhabited, which meant it was prime real estate for dopers, transients, and, apparently, now for pornographers.

“Told you we should’ve shot ’em. We had just cause. The jerks pulled weapons on us.”

Bill laid a glare on Ken and without a word left the Pac-a-Sack convenience store’s gravel-and-dirt parking lot, swinging wide to miss a pothole large enough to swallow a truck, and then pulled onto Highway 90.

“Okay, okay.” Ken looked out onto the road. It was twilight and the scent of rain hung heavy in the air. “Lighten up, Deacon. I didn’t shoot a soul.” He sipped at his sweet tea. “But I could’ve and it would’ve been totally legal.”

Bill spared him a sidelong glance that made his forehead look even wider and his jaw disappear into his double chin. “Your professional ethics and morals need work, partner.”

“I’m all over it,” Ken said, though they both knew he wasn’t and the well-intended reprimand wouldn’t do a bit of good. He was doomed for life to float in humanity’s sea as pond scum. And he liked knowing where he fit.

Bill draped his wrist over the steering wheel. “After the last bust, Race sold that shed.”

“Hadn’t heard. To who?”

“Didn’t ask. Not my concern.”

“Will be if the same kind of folks bought it.”

“When and if it becomes our business, we’ll deal with it.” Bill took the left onto Tyner Road, which led to Gramercy down in Seagrove or up to 126, which led—directly—to the old road to Magnolia Branch, a little community that bit the dust when construction exploded on northwest Florida’s Gulf Coast thirty-odd miles south and Highway 126 lost favor to 331 over in Walton County.
Skipping the back roads cut nearly a quarter hour off the trip to Tallahassee or Pensacola, and Race Miller had been in a foul mood ever since.

’Course, he’d owned most of Magnolia Branch, and not one of his businesses had survived, so a man couldn’t blame him for that. At least he still had his church, even if he hadn’t found a preacher to run it since the community folded, but no nevermind. Race handled Sunday services himself, and Bill acted as a deacon.

He dragged Ken along every now and again, trying to save his soul, and Ken let him, in exchange for Bill not reporting Ken’s little indiscretions, like him saying they should’ve just shot the porno jerks and spared the county the expense of a trial.

But truth was truth, even if saying it was a professional offense Bill should report to Sheriff Dobson, and if they had shot them, then he and Bill likely wouldn’t be headed out to Race’s right now. It was also truth, and Ken gave credit when due, that no one preached with more vigor than Race Miller.

Pines twisted and bent from a couple bad years of hurricanes lined the road, and dense wild growth lay low to the ground beyond it; scrub, mostly, with a stray pin oak or magnolia sprouted here and there. Spiny bushes Ken couldn’t name but had seen all his life sprung up everywhere, and the thick woods filled in so dense that the sandy dirt floor didn’t see much sun even in noonday light. The whole place was riddled with rattlers, mostly pigmy, and cottonmouths. Aggressive as all get out, those cottonmouths. Ken hated them.

Race’s wife, Aline, hated snakes too. She had called Bill and Ken more than once to come handle “an intruder,” which turned out to be of the slithering variety. The last two times she’d called, she vowed if she opened the dryer door one more time and a snake was in the tub, she was moving down to the village and Race could like it or not. Bill figured the snakes were crawling in through the outside vent, plugged the hole, moved the vent up from ground level to under the house eaves, and that had been that—no more snakes in Aline’s clothes dryer.

Race was still a little ticked off about that too. Aline was an accomplished harper. No doubt Race had looked forward to her village stint giving him a little peace.

They passed a couple Hank Green for Mayor signs and at least a dozen for Tack Grady. It was a Seagrove Village election, but lots of folks up north had businesses and tight connections down south so politicians campaigned in both. “Who you figure’ll take mayor?”

Bill cocked his head. “Hard to say. Hank’s been a good coroner, but with his brother tagged as a NINA conspirator in that terrorist-smuggling business, I figure Tack’s got the edge.”

“I don’t know.” Ken weighed the matter. “John wasn’t mixed up with that—he was a God-fearing man. But Tack knows a load of people.” He’d owned a diner on the harbor for years, until the economy tanked and he lost everything. Tack Grady needed the job.

“It isn’t helping Hank that Darla’s just out of jail.”

Her being charged with John’s murder had been hard on Hank. “Yeah. The gossip mill is chewing on the whole mess again, but it would be anyway with Lance shunning her in court and all.” Darla was the richest woman in the county. It’d taken months to clear herself from her husband’s murder, but by then her relationship with their only son, Lance, was shot. The teenager lived with Hank, and they’d gone to court to make sure Lance could stay with him. Freezing his mom out had to be hard on her, but the whole mess was hard on the boy and Hank too. “Sad situation.”

“Tragic. The boy and John were close. He’ll never believe his dad came down on the wrong side of the law.”

Ken looked at Bill. “You don’t believe it either, do you?”

“No, I don’t. John Green was a good man and a good mayor.”

“So you’ll be voting for Hank?”

“I will.”

Ken would be too—and hoping it wasn’t a mistake. “I thought Tack was broke, but he’s sure campaigning like he’s got deep pockets.”

“You said yourself he knows everybody in the county.”

He did. Still …

They didn’t pass a single car on the road—or on old Magnolia Branch. Bill drove down to the fork, headed left, and the pavement gave way to a red dirt washboard that was hard on the cruiser’s shocks. The ice in Ken’s sweet tea sloshed against the sides of his cup, and he spotted the gap in the woods marked by a rotted-out post, which probably once held a mailbox. Whoever bought the place wasn’t getting mail here.

“That’s it.” Ken motioned left to a rutted path.

Bill turned into the ruts and headed up the mile-long trail paralleling Bear Creek. Halfway, he eased the cruiser up against the brush, stopped, then shoved the gearshift into Park. “Best walk it in from here or they’ll see us coming.”

Not eager to interact with nature but less inclined to complain and hear another lecture, Ken hauled himself out of the cruiser. They had walked in last time and had been successful. Maybe it’d be worth it. “Fair warning. If I get eaten up by chiggers again, I
am
gonna shoot the jerks.”

Bill sent him a “grow up, boy” look and seated his black-frame glasses on his nose with a paternal sigh. “Can’t tromp the woods and not run into what’s natural to ’em.”

Ken didn’t bother responding. He respected Bill. Admired him. But on occasion, living with his righteousness and calm acceptance was a pain in the backside for a regular guy. Just once, Ken wished the deacon would raise a little sand. Of course, the odds of that happening were about as good as Ken’s were of salvation and surviving Armageddon. Pond scum just couldn’t quite make it from here to there without a miracle, and he hadn’t seen any lately.

They moved down the trail. Twigs and dry leaves crunched underfoot. Even with twilight settling in, the humidity was heavy and it was still hot. In no time, Bill’s breathing turned raspy and Ken was sweating profusely. His sleeve was soaked from swiping at his face. Heat being this bad in early June, August and September would be pure killers.

Finally the trail narrowed to a path and the rusty metal shed came into
view. At one time it likely held farming equipment: combine, tractors, maybe a cotton picker. But the land was bitter, didn’t welcome crops, with the exception of a little pot they came across now and then. Ken had wondered aloud once if maybe smoking a little wouldn’t improve Aline’s disposition. Big mistake. The deacon had taken serious exception—and Ken’s backside had been parked on the front row pew for the next four Sundays.

He hadn’t risked rendering many unsolicited opinions since then, or again made the mistake of commenting on Aline or her disposition.

Bill stopped at an old oak, cocked his head, and listened.

Had he sensed something? Ken hadn’t picked up on a thing. Still, he waited a long minute before swatting at another mosquito buzzing his head. The pests were thick as thieves. “You want me to go round back?” he whispered, wondering when he would develop that instinct the sheriff called “cop’s gut.” Bill had it. Others on the force had it. But even after two years, Ken hadn’t so much as sniffed a whiff of it. Would he ever?

“No sense in it.” Bill pulled a folded paper napkin from his pocket, then mopped the sweat from his brow. “Shed’s just got the one door.”

“No cars around.” Ken scanned the clearing, which was about the length of half a football field. The shed sat dead center. It looked empty, but he glanced at Bill for confirmation.

“Fresh tracks everywhere.” Bill hitched his pants to shake a snagged leg loose from a briar. “Appears they’ve already hightailed it.” He stepped out from behind the old oak’s twisted trunk. “Let’s take a look inside anyway.”

Race Miller’s place was within shooting distance. If he noticed something amiss, he’d been known to fire off a couple rounds before calling the sheriff. He could have scared ’em off.

“What for?” Ken was curious, not opposed to going inside. “They sure didn’t hoof it up here, not hauling cameras and lights and all their equipment.”

Bill didn’t look back. “Got a feeling.” He unstrapped his holster. If he needed to draw his weapon, he was ready. “Step left. Snake.”

Ken grimaced at Bill’s shoulders and took a couple steps left, avoiding a rattler
slithering away from them. His skin crawled. “What kind of feeling—exactly?” He didn’t like the sound of it.

“A bad one. A real bad one.” Bill took off walking toward the shed door.

The hair stood up on Ken’s neck. Bill had a decade more experience, and in the two years they’d been partners—Ken’s first assignment—he had come to respect the man’s cop’s gut. By anyone’s measure his instincts were honed razor-sharp. Tensing up, Ken thumbed the snap on his own holster and followed Bill in.

The broad shed door creaked and groaned and finally swung open. It was dark inside. Dark and hot and stuffy. “No filming going on in here today. New owners must be into something different.” Ken stepped back out to grab a breath of fresh air.

Bill reached for his flashlight. “We’re going in anyway.”

“Why?” The place gave Ken the creeps. “It stinks to high heaven and it’s empty.”

“We’re going in.” Bill’s tone didn’t welcome argument.

“All right, then.” Ken grabbed his flashlight and swatted at another mosquito buzzing his head. “Whatever you say.” It’d take a week to get the stench out of his pores.

Moving right, Bill motioned Ken left. They walked inside, fanning their flashlights. A glint caught Bill’s wedding band. His hand was on his gun. That set Ken’s teeth on edge and strummed his nerves. Bill never touched his gun without reason. “What’s going on, Deacon?”

He directed his beam to light up a distant spot on the floor. “That.”

Ken looked over. A mattress rested on the dirt. Likely somebody had dumped it in the woods. It happened all the time. Folks not wanting to pay the fee at the landfill would toss old washing machines, refrigerators, and such in the woods. Transient probably came up on it and dragged it into the shed to get out of the rain or something.

“What’s all over it?” Ken couldn’t make it out from this distance. “Too bright to be mud.”

“Ain’t sure yet.” Bill moved in close and then stopped beside the mattress. “Oh, sweet mercy.” He made the sign of the cross.

The mattress was covered in blood.

Ken swallowed hard, swept the corners of the shed with light, but saw nothing, heard only his own pulse throbbing in his temples and the squishing, grumbling sounds of his stomach roiling.

“Mattress is saturated.” Bill stooped to a crouch, then held his hand in a hover just above it. “Cold.”

“In this heat?” Ken couldn’t believe it. “Blood would be warm coming out of a body. How can it be cold? Besides, it’s sweltering in here.” Didn’t make a bit of sense.

“Ain’t sure yet.” Bill slowly swept the mattress with his flashlight. “But, Lord, help ’em home. Nobody could lose this much blood and live.”

Ken watched their backs, turned his light on a cluster of stuff to his right. Cracked wooden boxes stacked haphazardly and covered with inch-thick dust and cobwebs stretched between them and the wall. The boxes hadn’t been moved for a while. Nearby, wadded paper, trash, and a couple kinds of cans and bottles littered the floor. And beside that—“Someone’s tagged that area as a rest room.”

Bill glanced over. “Chain marks in the dirt between the pole, the mattress, and the area you’re talking about.” His expression soured, then turned rigid and his jaw snapped tight. “Someone’s been held hostage here … and died.”

Ken feared Bill was right and examined the mattress closely. “There’s no bullet hole.”