The Deep Abiding Page 11

  Those were the words Ty had feared. Lock rarely, if ever, took a vacation. Ty didn’t want to ruin this one. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll be able to post bail and be out of here in a couple more hours.”

  Lock was abrupt. “I’m not doing it for you. Your principal is my principal, and this mission sounds like it needed more than a sole designated bodyguard.”

  “Listen, Ryan, I messed up. I should have gotten her to follow the patrol car. It was the wrong call to let her go back to the house.”

  “You don’t know it was, but listen,” said Lock. “She lied about the risk level. That’s not on you. But what matters now is that she’s safe. I’ll call her, mop up the immediate threat, make sure she gets to a clean location, and you can take it from there when you’re released.”

  “Thanks,” said Ty.

  “What about your side arm?” said Lock.

  “Cops have it.”

  “That’s a shame. She could have used it. Listen, hang tight. If there’s any snag with bail, give the bond company my number.”

  “Appreciate it,” said Ty.

  “Don’t,” said Lock. “You’ve saved my ass. More than once. When we get close to even, you can start thanking me.”

  27

  RJ powered down his cell phone. He didn’t want Sue Ann, or anyone else for that matter, trying to talk him out of this. It wouldn’t take much for him to lose his nerve, go home and forget all about speaking with the reporter.

  Doing nothing had always been a heck of a lot easier than facing up to reality. He guessed most people were the same as him in that respect. He sure knew that Darling people were.

  Keep your head down. Keep your mouth shut. Let it be someone else’s problem.

  Except that wasn’t how life worked. You paid a price for the quiet life. In your head. In the dark, lonely hours before dawn. When it was just you and your conscience.

  Church was worse. It had gotten so bad that he had stopped going. Not that he loved God any less. It was just sitting with all those hypocrites who lived the exact opposite way to how the Good Book told them to.

  What he was going to do felt right. Frightening, but right. It would be his confession. He would offer up what he knew, and then he would go to church to beg God’s forgiveness for his sins.

  He turned the steering wheel, hanging a sharp left and easing down the dirt track towards the dock where he kept his airboat. He switched off his radio and lowered the front cab’s windows so he could feel the gentle breeze that whispered through the cypress trees.

  At the end of the track, he turned into the parking area. He reversed into a spot, killed his headlights, and checked his watch. He was early.

  He had hoped she might be here by now, that she’d be so anxious to get his story she’d be early, but the parking area was empty. Maybe she wasn’t coming.

  What then? he asked himself. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to do this again.

  He had resolve, but it was brittle and weak. It would crumble with even a little bit of resistance.

  He wasn’t a strong man. Physically, yes, but mentally, he couldn’t say he was. He had come to realize that as he had grown older. It didn’t make him feel good about himself, but there it was. Some people didn’t look much but they had inner steel. Mimsy had it. So had that other young reporter, with his horn-rimmed glasses and small, probing eyes, who had come down here ten years before asking what had happened to Carole Chabon.

  Not that it had helped him much. His resolve had ended in death. A horrible death too.

  RJ grabbed the steering wheel and squeezed until his hands went white. He had to get a grip of himself, stop with all this thinking.

  He prodded the button to switch the radio back on. It started up so loudly that he startled. He hurriedly turned down the song.

  He looked again at his watch. Why, he didn’t know. It had only been a minute since he’d last checked it.

  Relax, he told himself. All you have to do is sit here until she shows up, then tell her what you know.

  Then you need to get her the hell out of town before they kill her too.

  The sound of a vehicle. The sweet, merciful roar of someone driving down the track.

  For the first time in quite a while he felt something approaching relief. She had decided to come early after all.

  His wait was over.

  He switched off the radio and opened the door. He would get out of the truck, show her that he was alone and offered no threat.

  She would be nervous too, meeting a stranger in the middle of the night.

  But she’d have that big black guy she was with. He was some kind of bodyguard, something like that. That was the talk around town.

  If he was with her, RJ really could relax. Put the guy at ease and it would all be smooth sailing.

  RJ began to fantasize a little about how good this would feel. A burden shared was a burden halved—wasn’t that how it went?

  Headlights appeared on the track. They were bright, on the maximum setting. So bright that he couldn’t make out the vehicle.

  He stepped away from his truck and off to one side as the vehicle made the turn. It stopped.

  He held up his hand and waved. “Kill your lights,” he shouted.

  They stayed on.

  “We don’t want no one seeing us,” he shouted again, as the vehicle rolled slowly to a stop. He saw it was more a pickup truck than the Honda but he was sure the reporter and her bodyguard had been driving.

  Maybe it was someone who’d taken a wrong turn. Or maybe they’d switched vehicles. Yeah, RJ told himself. That could be it. They hadn’t wanted to be seen coming here in the Honda so they’d borrowed a truck. It was smart.

  “Hey,” he said, stepping towards the pickup, and holding his hands over his eyes to shield them from the glare. “You made it.”

  The passenger door opened. Looking at the ground, he could just about make out the person’s lower half. They had slippers on their feet, and were wearing a robe. It was pink and white, with soft, fluffy edges.

  What the hell was this?

  The headlights were switched off. His eyes adjusted from the dazzling brightness to the gloom.

  RJ’s stomach turned over.

  How? How was this possible? He had watched the big black guy pluck the note from the windshield.

  How could she have known?

  He looked at the figure in front of him. He took in the person driving. He thought back to his conversation with Sue Ann. That was how, he told himself.

  He held up his hands for a second time, this time in a gesture of supplication. “Please,” he said, his voice high-pitched. “Don’t do this.”

  28

  As the Honda bumped down the dirt track, Cressida could only hope that whoever had left the note asking to meet her hadn’t gone. It was already a solid five minutes after the time they had given.

  Anonymous sources could be jittery. They were anonymous for a reason, and that reason was usually fear. Fear of losing their job, fear of someone looking for payback. In extreme cases, fear for their own life or those of their loved ones.

  Off to the left there was a parking area. She headed into it. If nothing else, she could use the area to turn around. The note hadn’t said how the person was getting there. Were they walking? Driving? Without that information it was hard to know what to look out for.

  And there was still the possibility that the whole thing was a set-up. A lure to get her alone. The second part of a plan that had begun with Ty’s arrest.

  Driving in she had noticed a dock that led out into the swamp. She wanted to get out and go take a look, but something told her that wasn’t a good idea.

  She should stay in the car with the engine running and the doors locked. When the person arrived she would be able to make a call on whether she should stay and speak with them or run for it.

  She settled in to wait. Five minutes passed. Then five more.

  There was no sign of anyone. The place was dea
thly still.

  The hell with it.

  She opened the door, and got out. She looked around at the thick undergrowth. Apart from the slow symphony of crickets, there was only silence.

  Was the person here? Were they watching her?

  If it was a set-up, wouldn’t they have made their move by now?

  She walked away from the car and down towards the dock. She stepped onto it. She could see an airboat tethered at the end.

  Cressida kept walking down the dock towards the boat. She reached it and peered down into it. It looked empty, bar some fishing gear and a couple of fuel containers.

  She walked back up the dock. Suddenly from the water next to her a black shape seemed to rear up. Despite herself, she screamed, and started running as fast as she could back up the dock.

  At one point, she tripped, and landed heavily on her right knee. She felt the skin peel back, and the painful jar of bone on wood. She managed to get back to her feet and hobbled the last few yards up the dock.

  She reached down to her knee, and her fingertips came up slick with blood. She hobbled over to the car, got in, and locked the door. She started the engine, threw it into Drive, and took off, the back tires spinning on the dirt.

  Turning back onto the track, she hunched over the wheel, feeling suddenly ridiculous. Something had moved under the dock. That was all. No one was after her.

  The Honda reached the end of the dirt track and, without looking, she whipped the wheel hard, turning back onto the road.

  An air horn blared behind her, lights filling the inside of the little Civic. Brakes squealed.

  The metal grille of a big rig filled her mirrors. She pressed down on the accelerator as hard as she could as the front of the truck touched her rear bumper, sending her car lurching forward.

  She was clear, pulling away, putting distance between the back of the Honda and the front of the huge truck. Behind her, the trucker pulled down on his horn a couple more times, signaling his displeasure.

  Cressida kept her foot on the gas until she was at a safe distance. Gulping hard for air, she tried to gather herself but found herself laughing hysterically. All these imagined horrors and she had almost killed herself by pulling out onto the road without even looking.

  Her cell phone lit up with an incoming call. She looked down at the display, trying to figure out who it might be.

  The number read as withheld. She tapped to answer and put it on speaker.

  “Hello,” she said, hesitant.

  “Cressida King?” said a man’s voice.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Ryan Lock, Ty’s partner. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the car.”

  “That’s good. Are you under any immediate threat? Is anyone with you? Anyone following you?”

  Cressida exhaled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. “No.”

  “Okay, here’s what I want you to do,” said Lock.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you have satellite navigation on your phone or in the car?”

  “On my phone, but signal’s patchy.”

  “Okay, there’s only one main road in and out of Darling. Can you get to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, get on it, and drive out.”

  “But I have a story to cover, and I’m finally getting somewhere. Tonight, the man we’re staying with—”

  Lock cut her off. “Stop talking and listen to me. Your life is at risk. I need you to drive out of town about twenty miles. There’s a Motel 6 just past exit seven. I want you to check in there. Do not give your real name, and pay cash. Park your car at the back, or anywhere that’s out of sight of the freeway, then go to your room, lock the door, and don’t answer to anyone but Ty. Can you do that?”

  The adrenalin from the near miss with the rig had started to dissipate, replaced with violent indignation at being spoken to like this. She had the biggest story of her career right in front of her. It was Pulitzer stuff. There was a book in it. Her career would be set.

  As a kid growing up she had been obsessed with Muhammad Ali. An unlikely hero for a little mixed-race girl, but her mom had indulged her interest. She’d even had a poster of him above her bed. Ali was coated in sweat, fresh from a long sparring session. There had been a quote on it. She thought back to it now.

  Don’t quit. Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.

  “Can you do that for me, Ms. King?” Lock asked again.

  “Yes, I could,” she said.

  “Good. Call me when you get there.”

  I could, she thought. I didn’t say I would.

  Up ahead was the main road. Turn right and she’d head out, towards the highway, and the motel Lock had directed her towards.

  She turned left. Middle of the night or not, she was going to speak to Mimsy Murray, and this time she planned on getting the truth.

  29

  The drunk-tank door slid closed with a clang. Cells didn’t particularly faze Ty. He’d seen his fair share. He considered himself law-abiding, but he was hardly what anyone would describe as a choir boy.

  Both he and Lock had found themselves in conflict with law enforcement about as often as they had found themselves on the same side. It had never been by choice as much as circumstance.

  The law was an institution that moved slowly. Apprehension, ascertaining the truth: these took time. And the law was reactive. First a crime had to be committed. In the military, and now in the private sector, you couldn’t wait for something to happen. By then it was too late.

  Ty didn’t pay much attention to his cellmates as he settled himself on a hard wooden bench at the far end of the room. It was around twenty feet long and ten feet deep with benches on two walls and a metal toilet at the opposite end from where he was sitting.

  Despite the lack of fixtures and fittings and the spartan decor, the walls, floor and benches had still managed to absorb the fetid, dank odor of its transitory occupants. He rubbed at the stubble on his face, and tried to figure out his immediate next move when he was released.

  Cressida would want to stay in Darling and keep investigating. Of that much he was certain. She had grit, but grit could get you killed.

  He doubted she would listen to him. But she’d listen to her editor. She’d have no choice. But then Ty would have to share the details that she hadn’t. But what then? She might be fired for not telling Gregg back in New York about Timothy French.

  Ty didn’t want to see her get hurt. But equally he didn’t want to get her fired.

  He would use it as leverage. Either she backed off, at least temporarily, or he’d have no choice but to share with her boss what she’d withheld.

  That would do it. He hoped.

  “What the hell are you looking at?”

  It took the question to be repeated for Ty to realize it was aimed at him. He wouldn’t be the obvious candidate given that, right now, he was staring down at the concrete floor, stained with who knew what.

  It was a standard jail-cell query. The precursor to what prison slang called a heart or gut check. Not so much a question as a challenge to assert one’s masculinity. The only snag was that any disturbance could delay his release. And Ty needed to get out of there way more than he needed to prove his mettle to some thug or drug addict.

  Ty looked up. Three scowling faces stared at him from the other bench. They each had long, lank brown hair, beards, tattoos, earrings, and cut-off denim jackets that Ty guessed had some kind of outlaw motorcycle-gang patches sewn onto the back.

  Although a few ‘1%’ biker gangs had black members, they weren’t noted for their racial tolerance. Ty guessed that was one reason the smallest of the three had decided to call him out. That, and the fact that Ty was the largest man in the holding cell.

  Ty stared back at the diminutive biker as he got to his feet. He was maybe five feet four inches tall, at a pinch. “Why don’t you do yourself a favor and sit yourself back down?” he growled. “Assumin
g you’re not still sitting down already.”

  Sometimes a strong enough verbal pushback could settle a matter like this. Ty had a feeling this wasn’t going to be one of those times. You never got the breaks when you needed them. It wasn’t how life tended to work.

  One of the biker’s brothers in arms, the largest of the three, snickered, all but guaranteeing that things were going to escalate. Ty saw an opportunity. Glancing up, he located the lone security camera above his head in the far corner. Where he was sitting was a blind spot. He knew what he had to do.

  Ty switched his attention to the largest of the bikers. He locked eyes with him. “What are you laughing at, asshole?”

  30

  Cressida looked down at her cell phone. The signal had dropped to zero bars and with it the Google Maps navigation that was directing her back to Mimsy’s house. A few seconds ago Google had told her to take a right down a narrow road that would get her there faster . . .

  She pulled over for a second. She had a decision to make. She could double back to the main road through town and pick up the route from there. Or she could keep going and hope her phone picked up fresh signal.

  She bit her lip as headlights bore down on the Honda. Without thinking she hunkered low in the driver’s seat as a pickup truck swept by, squeezing past her with only a few inches to spare, the driver honking his horn.

  Cressida froze. She was sure she’d seen Mimsy Murray sitting in the front cab next to the driver. Either it was her or she had a twin that Cressida didn’t know about. Seeing Mimsy, or a woman she thought was Mimsy, chilled her blood. What the hell was she doing driving around in the middle of the night?

  For a moment, Cressida started to have second thoughts. Was it a good idea to confront her without Ty? Or was it foolhardy? Maybe Ty’s partner had been right when he’d told her to head to the motel and sit it out.

  She’d hedge her bets. She could follow the truck, and see what Mimsy was up to. Then she could decide whether to confront her, or leave it until she had back-up.