Deadly Catch, page 17
It was Lamar’s old pickup, all right; the camouflage paint job was unmistakable. Instead of turning off for the garage, he parked in the circular drive. I grabbed the camera, zoomed in, and snapped a few pictures as he climbed out of the truck and headed for the door. The lighting was good, and I had the camera set on silent mode so he couldn’t hear the shutter clicking.
Lamar ambled up the steps and across the porch. I kept shooting as he rang the doorbell. A minute passed, and he rang it again. A few seconds later the door flew open. Lamar stepped back and nearly stumbled as Marilyn Harper came at him like a she-tiger, screaming at the top of her lungs, arms flailing and fists pounding Lamar’s head and chest as he retreated down the steps. I snapped shot after shot as she reached in a pocket of her robe and threw something at him, all the while screaming like a banshee. Her voice was so shrill and choked with sobs I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
Except for one specific word, a word she repeated three or four times during the brief tirade—“Maddie!”
“Dang, Mac, that is money! Look closer, right there.” Kate tapped the nail of her pinky on the screen. “Those are bills.”
I’d driven straight to Kate’s house when I left the woods, and she uploaded the photos from my camera to her laptop. The pics were pretty good as they were, but the Picasa program was bringing out even better detail.
Kate’s eyes searched mine. “Money. What on earth do you think it means?”
I looked again at Lamar, bent over, scooping up the bills that had spilled from the envelope Marilyn hurled at him. “I don’t know, but I doubt it’s a past-due stud fee. I could use a beer.”
I followed Kate into the kitchen and collapsed onto a chair. The surprise of watching Marilyn Harper attacking Lamar had knocked me for a mental loop. Or maybe the long hours I’d spent sitting and spying the past three days had caught up with me.
Kate handed me a beer and twisted the top off her own. She went back to the living room and returned with her laptop. “You’re sure you heard her say ‘Maddie’?”
“Three or four times, and loud enough to scare the bark off the trees.”
Kate scrolled through a few more photos, each one a little more blurry than the preceding shots. “You were shaking the camera on these.”
I took a big swig. “Well, excuse me. I was expecting to see them act all lovey-dovey, and then she comes at him like a mama bear screaming Maddie’s name.”
She ignored my explanation. “We need to find out what the money was for.”
I resisted the urge to say, “No shit” and grabbed the stack of 8×12s instead. I found the ones with Lamar Randall and Marilyn Harper together and set them side-by side. Then I found the one showing Lamar and Brett beside a pickup truck and added it to the lineup. “Scroll back to the clear shots I took this evening,” I said.
When Kate was ready I pointed to the photos of Lamar and Marilyn acting like love-struck teenagers inside the Continental. “Okay. Here, those two are love birds. And here,” I said, pointing to the ones showing Lamar walking from the Harpers’ garage to Marilyn waiting at the front door, “I’d guess they were fixing to get it on again while Friendly George was away.”
I picked up the shot of Lamar and Brett, where the camera had captured what appeared to be an argument of some kind. “Looks to me like Lamar is threatening Brett here, or at least they’re having a disagreement over something. What do you think?”
Kate picked up the photo and examined it again. “I agree, but what about?”
“Who does Marilyn Harper despise most in this world?”
Kate thought a moment. “Nora Barfield . . . and Brett.”
I took another swig of beer. “I think Marilyn was getting Lamar to lean on Brett, probably to get him and Maddie to stop seeing each other.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “She was paying him to break them up?”
“That’s my guess, but not with money. Lamar had been carrying a torch for Mare for years. She knew it, and started romancing Lamar to persuade him to be her lap dog.”
Kate took a sip of beer and lightly massaged her forehead. “But where does the money fit in, and all that anger toward Lamar?”
“Okay, think back. When did Lamar hurt his eye?”
“A couple of months ago, I think.”
“Around the same time that Brett and Maddie supposedly eloped, wasn’t it?”
Kate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, it was. Wait, you don’t think—”
The Marines’ Hymn cut off Kate’s words. I grabbed the cell phone and answered.
“McClellan?” It was Sheriff Bo Pickron.
“Go.”
“I need to see you this evening.”
“What for?”
“Brett Barfield turned up this afternoon.”
Barfield? This could answer a lot of questions. “Where?”
“In the national forest, at the bottom of a sinkhole. Dead.”
That evening at dusk I was on my way to Parkersville to see Sheriff Pickron when an older-model white Ford sedan pulled onto the highway just in front of me about a block from Canal Park. I had to hit the brakes, even though I was observing the seasonal city speed limit of 35 mph. The driver’s head barely cleared the top of the seat. He was wearing a straw fedora like many of the older male tourists in these parts, but with my headlights practically on his bumper I noticed right away the car bore a Florida license plate.
I muttered a few choice words and backed off. Just outside the city limits he sped up gradually, but he was still doing well under the posted limit of 60. I closed the gap a couple of times as an incentive for him to speed up, but each time the old geezer tapped his brakes.
It was after what passed for rush hour around the St. George-Parkersville metropolis area, and there was very little traffic, but I didn’t want to risk passing yet because there always seemed to be some fool driving without lights in this twilight between day and night. The highway between the two towns passed through a few miles of paper company land planted in slash pines, which made visibility that much poorer. A long stretch of straight highway was coming up in another half mile, so I decided to play it safe and wait.
The road finally straightened out. I eased over near the center line and squinted past the slow-moving Ford ahead. Satisfied it was clear, I turned on my left blinker and pulled into the other lane. Damned if the car didn’t speed up when I did, not an uncommon occurrence with some assholes who think they own the road. I gave the Silverado a little more gas and then floored it. Just as the passing gear kicked in, the passenger-side window exploded, peppering my right cheek with glass shards and blasting a hole through the driver-side window.
At first I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but when the second round buzzed past my head and took out the rest of my window I pretty much had it figured out. I ducked as low as I could while still maintaining control and cut the wheel left, at the same time lifting off the gas and braking as quickly as I dared. The truck ran off the shoulder of the road, jolted across a shallow grassy ditch, and plowed into the forest. Luckily, the Silverado came to rest between two rows of pines planted just far enough apart to accommodate it.
Keeping low, I grabbed the shotgun off the floorboard where I’d kept it whenever driving since the goons from up north had made their late-night visit. I jacked a shell into the chamber, then slipped the transmission into park, killed the engine, and pulled the key out of the ignition. I left the headlights shining into the woods, hoping the ambushers would think I was injured or dead. Reaching up, I flicked the dome light switch to “off” so it wouldn’t come on automatically. I unbuckled my seat belt, then, easing the door open just enough to get the job done, I slipped outside.
I crawled to the back tire. Using it as a shield, I peeked under the truck bed. Down the road, headlights flashed in a half circle and headed back my way, then went out. I heard the Ford swishing through the high grass growing in the shallow ditch. I kept my eyes away from the glow of the taillights and hoped like hell my eyes would adjust to the darkness in time. The Ford’s motor died; a car door creaked open and then closed with little noise. Whoever it was had been wise enough to turn off their interior light, too.
I took some deep breaths and let my ears do the work while my eyes got better adjusted to the dark. I was in combat mode now, and I felt that rush I’d experienced during my tours in Iraq. A minute or so passed, then I heard footsteps, barely audible but coming my way. All those long nights on watch as a Marine were paying off.
A hulking shadow with pistol drawn approached the truck and crept toward the passenger-side door. I eased into a catcher’s squat, shotgun at the ready, safety off. Damned if I was going to give the shooter another crack at me. When he was just a few paces from the truck I bolted up, point-aimed the scattergun, and squeezed the trigger, no questions asked. The Maverick roared and bucked, and in the muzzle blast I saw the dark figure tumble backward. I chambered a round, ready in case another shooter might be approaching. Instead, I heard the Ford start up, and then the squeal of tires on pavement as it sped back toward St. George.
I waited a moment, then crept around to the other side of the truck. The shooter lay sprawled on the forest floor, arms outstretched above his head like he was reaching for Heaven. He wasn’t moving, but I kept the barrel trained on him as I approached to check for a pulse. I gave the body a light kick in the ribs, then bent down and placed my fingertips on his neck. Nothing.
I tried to feel something inside, but all I came up with was numb. This wasn’t the first life I’d taken, but after Fallujah I’d hoped to never face this kind of situation again. But life is that way. We don’t always get what we hope for.
And there was no mistaking who it was lying at my feet. The King was dead.
While I caught my breath a few vehicles passed by in either direction, but I had already doused the truck lights and was far enough off the road and in the woods that none of them even slowed.
I figured Blondie must’ve been driving, wearing the hat and slumped low in the seat while Elvis had kept out of sight in the back. But how the hell had they tailed me from Kate’s house? Then it struck me. Somebody, and my money was on Merritt, must’ve known I was there and somehow tipped them off that I was heading out on Highway 98. The no-good bastard.
When I’d calmed down enough, I called Pickron on his cell phone and told him where I was and what had happened. He came out right away by himself, listened to my spiel, and checked out the scene.
Long story short: Bocephus warned me not to mention a word to anybody about what had gone down. His department would keep things under wraps as long as possible while they ran a make on the guy. Meanwhile, if any reporters came snooping around, a John Doe had been found in the woods, cause of death as of yet undetermined.
Not a problem. I sure as hell didn’t want Kate knowing how close I’d come to buying the farm. Luckily, there were no bullet holes or other damage to my Silverado that I could see, other than the shattered glass. A vandal or would-be thief had busted out the windows while my truck was parked on the street during my meeting with the sheriff, and I’d nicked myself in a couple of places while shaving above my beard.
I figured Kate would buy it, especially if I kept busy for a couple of days getting the glass replaced and giving my peppered cheek time to heal before seeing her again.
Before he left, Pickron filled me in on what he knew about Brett Barfield’s untimely demise. A group of archaeological students from FSU had been exploring sinkholes for artifacts and other evidence of Native American culture in an area of the national forest only a couple of miles from the Grand Gator Bay Wilderness Area. Rappelling to a wide ledge in one sinkhole that led to a cavern, a student had spotted a body floating in the water twenty feet below. The U.S. Forest Service and local sheriff’s department were called in and the body recovered. Brett’s wallet was still in his pocket, his ID, a few dollars in cash, and credit cards intact.
So much for my theory that Brett Barfield was alive and on the lam.
Pickron’s parting words: “Watch your ass, McClellan. I doubt this character will hang around, but you never know.”
A week later, the autopsy results revealed that Brett Barfield had suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen at point-blank range. The bullet had passed through the body and wasn’t recovered. His lungs contained fresh water, indicating the wound had not been instantly fatal. A rope was found around the body. Someone had shot Brett, tied a rock or some other weight to his body, and dumped him into the sinkhole. Somehow over time, the weight had worked loose and the body floated to the surface. Though the medical examiner estimated Brett had been dead two to three months, the body was in much better condition than Maddie’s due to the cold, mineral-laden water and lack of scavengers.
More telling, limestone samples taken from the sinkhole matched those found imbedded in the scalp of Madison Lynn Harper. It was likely that Maddie had met her fate in the same location.
Kate had been right all along; Clayton Barfield and Chief Ben Merritt had been arguing, not laughing, the night we’d seen them in the alley beside the bank in Parkersville. That was evident at Brett’s funeral. Clayton seemed as distraught as his wife, Nora, and something told me it was no act.
Damn fine detective I was turning out to be.
“Don’t you think you should let Bo Pickron in on what we’ve learned?” Kate said, snuggling closer. She’d come over after work Friday for grilled trout and vegetables. One thing led to another, and now we were lying in bed, staring out the window at the myriad of stars visible through the pine tops.
I let out a deep breath, being careful not to trip up and let slip anything about the shooting incident. There had been no trace of Blondie around the area the past few days, and I was beginning to breathe a little easier. “Maybe, but we can’t prove anything except that his sister and Lamar were probably having an affair. I doubt if he’ll be overjoyed to hear that. And the rest is just our theory.”
“But it all makes sense,” Kate said. “Lamar injures his eye around the same time Maddie and Brett disappear; the photos Tom Mayo took showing they were lovers; and yours, showing Marilyn attacking Lamar and throwing an envelope full of money at him while screaming Maddie’s name.”
“That money could’ve been for anything. Maybe Lamar did some work for her and she wasn’t satisfied with the results.”
Kate propped up on an elbow and stared at me. “Dang, Mac, you can be so stubborn sometimes. What do we need, then?”
“Let’s see . . . a motive wouldn’t hurt, and the weapon whoever shot Brett with would add a nice touch.”
Kate gave my shoulder a shove, then snuggled close again and draped an arm across my chest. “I’m going to sleep. Some of us have to get to work early.”
I lay there for a long time, feeling Kate’s warm body nestled against mine, listening to the sound of her soft breathing. I recalled her words, “Some of us have to get to work early.”
I was one of them.
The next morning I was up in time to cook Kate breakfast. As soon as she left for work I began rehearsing just how I would approach Marilyn Harper and what I’d say when I paid her an unexpected visit. I was heading out the door when my phone rang. I sat on the picnic bench and punched the talk button. “McClellan.”
“It’s J.D. Owens, sir. You got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I was in Chief Merritt’s office this morning right after my shift ended when he got a call,” J.D. said, talking faster than usual. “Soon as he answered he told me to get lost, so I went to the lobby. Beth asked me to watch the desk for her while she went to the bathroom, so I told her I would.”
“Slow down, J.D., I can hardly make out what you’re saying.”
“Yes, sir, sorry. Anyway, Beth usually takes her time when she uses the bathroom. I don’t know what all she does in there, but—”
“Get to the point, J.D. This isn’t about Beth using the bathroom, is it?”
“No, sir. So, I’m sitting in her chair, and I get to thinking about what you said, about keeping my ears open and all. Anyway, I picked up the phone quiet as I could and listened in on what the chief was saying.”
There was a pause. “What did you hear?”
“He was talking to Clayton Barfield. Mr. Barfield said something about a boat coming in, and going floundering tonight, after midnight I think he said, but I’m not real sure. What do you reckon he meant by that?”
“Floundering? I don’t know. Anything else?”
“The chief said something about him taking care of it. Don’t know what he meant by that, either. I was starting to get scared by then, thinking I might get caught, so I hung up. Good thing, too. Beth come out of the bathroom about two seconds later.”
“That’s good work, J.D.,” I said, “but don’t go taking chances like that again. We don’t need you getting your butt in a sling with Merritt.”
Had J.D. Owens stumbled onto something important? Why the hell would Clayton Barfield advise Ben Merritt he planned to go floundering after midnight? What business was it of Merritt’s, and what was it that Merritt would take care of? My gut told me the chief wasn’t the least bit interested in buying any fresh flounder from Barfield Fisheries.
Then the proverbial lightbulb switched on in my head. Damn, sometimes two plus two really does equal four. I’d deal with the floundering issue later, but right then I had another fish to grill. I drove to the Harper property and turned onto the winding drive toward Tara. I parked just past the front porch and grabbed the manila envelope off the seat. To my surprise Marilyn Harper opened the door after the first ring.
“Morning, Mare.” It was only nine-thirty, but she was already slurping down the martinis. She was wearing a white bathrobe with matching slippers and looked like she’d aged ten years since my previous visit.
Her eyes narrowed and she leaned her face closer to me like she was trying to focus. “Do I know you?”
