Too Far Gone (20 page)

         

46

Leland's mouth was packed with a large wad of Juicy Fruit and he was humming a song his daddy used to sing all the time. Something about me ho my toe down the bayou. Leland's boat pulled the wardens' piece of crap flat-bottom easily. Leland's father had said his son had eyes like razor blades. That morning when he was leaving to check lines and get gas, he had spotted the tree camera because the sun made the thing cast a shadow where he'd never seen one. He had searched the bank and found the place where a boat's hull had pressed reeds down and left the impression of its bow in the mud, so he followed the boot prints across the peninsula to the suspect tree and looked at the camera from the side.

He had known that whoever had put it there would come back for it, and when they did, he'd make sure they paid for invading his place and spying on him. He remembered now that he had spotted the game wardens several times in the past two weeks, far more often than he usually saw wardens. One had been the bastard whose name was something that sounded like
pump handle.
The bastard had ticketed Leland more than a few times over the years, so he knew him.

Nobody liked them wardens.

Nobody would miss them.

Even if one was a woman.

He had never made a woman disappear before.

Their
boat was aluminum.

Leland truly loved his boat's shallow-draft fiberglass hull, but he was suspicious that Doc was going to try to pull a take-back deal. Doc had told Leland not to tell anybody he owned the boat or where he'd gotten it. He couldn't see why he should tell a lie about it, so he'd told Moody it was his on account he did a job to get it. Leland didn't like liars. Well, you could lie to wardens, because they were sneaky bastards that thought they owned the birds, the fish, and everything else God put around the world.

Most people couldn't be trusted to do what they said. They'd say they just wanted to talk to you, then they'd handcuff you, lock you up, and stick needles in you and say you were crazy.

Leland knew that he was only safe from being monitored deep in the swamp, because
they
wouldn't ever dare come in here. He had fixed it so if they ever did somehow track him to his cabin, they'd never get a chance to tell any of the others about it.

The boat was his because he had done everything Doc and the woman with the dark hair told him he had to do for it. If they kept adding things onto the list as long as they felt like it, Leland would have no choice but to fix them both good.

Every time Leland turned around and finished one thing, they had this next thing that needed to be done, and Doc went on about how they only trusted Leland to do it right, and how much the boat was worth, like he wasn't close to being even.

Doc said an FBI lady was fixing to make trouble, and what they might need to do about that, which meant what Leland might need to do. Doc said she could put Leland back in the hospital for keeps. Okay, if the FBI lady really had a mind to put Leland back in there and let them bastards shoot electricity into his head and all that, he'd knock her in the head. If need be, he would.

Well, maybe he could do one or two more things. It was a nice boat.

         

47

Grace Smythe unlocked her door and entered carrying packages containing clothes and things she'd be needing. She was surprised to see a paper bag and a bottle of wine and a glass on her kitchen table. Inside the sack were several stacks of new currency.

Grace smiled. She had expected the money, but the wine was unexpected lagniappe
—
a little something extra.

She picked up the stacks of new one-hundred-dollar bills. It would be fifty thousand dollars—traveling money.

She went into the bedroom and dropped the bags she'd brought in, as well as the sack of cash. She rushed into the bathroom and started hot water running into the tub.

Back in the kitchen, she opened the wine. Grace took the bottle and the glass with her to the bathroom, where she tested the water. The way to appreciate a good vintage was to open your pores with hot water, and sip the wine slowly, savoring the fragrance, the richness, the variety of flavors.

She poured herself a glass and took a test sip. She rested the glass on the side of the tub, and scooted the bottle to the floor so she wouldn't knock it over accidentally. You didn't waste wine this good. Not this special a Burgundy.

Lowering her pants and sitting on the toilet, she sighed as relief swept through her like a warm wave. After she finished, Grace stepped out of her slacks and underpants and removed her blouse and bra. Standing naked before the door mirror, she admired her body for several long seconds, turning first one way and then the other, trying to see her buttocks. She could stand to lose a few ounces, perhaps pounds, and inches here and there.

She put in her blue contacts, removed her wig, took out the hairpins, and shook out her bleached blond hair, which reached almost to her shoulders. Using her fingernails, she scraped the gold studs from her ear. Using cotton and polish remover, she rubbed the glue residue that held them on, and slipped on a pair of dark-framed eyeglasses.
You are not Grace Smythe anymore. After tonight, Grace Smythe is no longer.

She turned again to look at herself in the mirror, and smiled. She looked, if not just like Casey, like her actual sister. They had always been sisters. Thinking about Casey made her feel giddy, and she blushed. She hugged herself, closed her eyes, and imagined she was in Casey's embrace, feeling Casey's beautiful body against hers, their tongues entwined.

Soon it would all be over, and Casey would be hers alone. Grace understood, far better than Casey, that Gary had never belonged in their world. He said he loved Casey, but he could never love her like Grace did. He said he loved Deana, but, despite what he said, Deana was more Grace's daughter than his. The fact that he had given his sperm didn't mean anything. There were laboratories that did that without the complications a man brought to a situation. And the lily-hearted asshole had been going to give twenty-five million of Casey's money to a bunch of Africans for drugs and food, and who gives a shit if they die like they're supposed to anyway.

Grace had taken care of Gary—taken the bull by the horns. Now, after tonight, Gary would be no more. Casey would understand once and for all that it was Grace alone who loved her—only Grace who cared about the real Casey LePointe. Darling Casey, the girl whom Grace had been with until she was a woman—a woman who had given her heart to Grace as children, who had shared all of her pain, insecurities, and her sadness with Grace alone.

Gary West didn't know the real Casey, the child who had cried on Grace's shoulder a thousand times, and who had professed her undying forever love for Grace when they were both mere children. Casey hadn't said it since, but Grace knew it was still true. No matter what Casey told Gary, she had never loved him. She had only ever loved Grace.

She wet her index finger and massaged herself slowly, imagining it was Casey's wet tongue. Soon it would be more than an imaginary Casey who was making love to her. Soon they would be lying together in Casey's large bed, exploring each other's bodies while listening for Deana's waking cries. It would be Grace who made Casey forget she'd ever slept with any man, and Deana that she had ever had a father.

She had enough money, both to get to Spain to wait for the firestorm to go away and for her to become another person. She would have reconstructive surgery to give her a new and sculpted face worthy of Casey LePointe, have those additional ounces removed, her buttocks lifted, and wait patiently in Madrid for Casey's grieving period to end. Then she would be—in a far more acceptable and worthy form—the woman Casey deserved.

After the bath was drawn, Grace closed the door and eased slowly, inch by inch, into the hot water. She reached out and lifted the wine bottle to pour more into the glass, leaning back so she could see the picture of Casey and herself as teenagers that hung on the wall over the toilet.

The past weeks had been difficult. Watching Gary, knowing he was thinking he was about to be a very wealthy man. Whether he admitted it or not, the money would have changed him. And it wasn't his money, it was Casey's and hers. Yes, it had been hard, but, as her father always said, nothing worthwhile was easy.

Grace held her glass up to Casey's beautiful face, toasted the future, and the death of Gary West.

         

48

“The bloody print from the cigar box was too smudged to be worth much, but there are three points that could be used to compare for a match if we have a set to compare to. Not enough to hold up in court, but evidence is cumulative. The blood type is RH negative, which is a match to our nurse,” Manseur said.

“Any personal papers?” Alexa said.

“All we found were household bills. No Christmas cards, no letters from friends or family. No computer for e-mails. Just the pictures you saw. Looks like she didn't have much of a life outside her work.”

“She took her work home. I think her house was sanitized,” Alexa added. “Somebody went through and removed things that would lead us somewhere.”

“Maybe the perps? I imagine there is more than one person involved.”

“Makes sense. Or maybe it wasn't Sibby at the house today. Maybe one of them returned today to make sure the place was really clean—that they hadn't left anything to tie them to the house. They weren't expecting me to show up. When I called just before I went inside, the answering machine picked up, and they knew time was short, and they were already at work. The machine was taping when I called, so the message tape was in the machine then. When I was in the kitchen, the tapes had been removed.”

“Doesn't seem like something Sibby would do,” Manseur said.

“She might have taken the pill bottles on the bed, but I don't think so.”

“Those only tied LePointe to Fugate. You think he did it?”

“I'm sure LePointe knew I had been to Fugate's before I told him. He knew we'd been at the hospital. Maybe Malouf told Decell after she thought it over.”

“She could have decided to play both sides against the middle,” Manseur said.

Alexa put her hand to her forehead.

“What's wrong?” Manseur asked.

“I just assumed Sibby was in Fugate's house. Whoever was in Fugate's house went out the front door. I need to go back there,” Alexa said. “The house across the street. Someone was looking out at me when I drove up. Maybe they saw who went out.”

Manseur picked up the phone and dialed a number. “Manseur,” he said. “Who interviewed the residents in the houses across the street?”

He listened. “Let me speak to him.

“Jimmy Alexander did the canvass,” he told Alexa. “Jimmy, who lives across the street from there?” Pause. “Did she see anything?” Pause. “Okay. Thanks.”

Manseur hung up. “Elderly woman named Cline. She didn't see anything. She was watching her TV soaps.”

“I have to go talk to her,” Alexa said.

“Why?”

“She's lying,” Alexa said. “But she won't admit it to your detective.”

“How you know that?” Manseur asked.

“Because soaps run on weekdays. Plus I'm a woman, and so is she,” she answered, scooping up her purse.

“Let me tie up a couple of things. Take me fifteen minutes—”

“Stay. Get those prints off my mags and the cigarette case going. I'll call you if I need you.”

“Alexa,” Manseur said. “You carry a forty, right?”

“Yes,” she said.

He reached into his pocket and tossed her a full Glock magazine. “Take a spare, just in case. You never know.”

“I usually don't accept personal gifts from married men,” she said, winking.

         

49

A crime-scene van and two Crown Vics were parked on the street in front of the Fugate house. A uniformed patrolman stood on the walkway smoking a cigarette. No crowd had gathered, but a couple walking a dog craned their necks as they strolled past. Of course, most of the residents had probably already left town or were packing to do so. Alexa looked at the neighbor's house and saw the window curtain fall back into place.

Alexa was assaulted by the heat and humidity as she climbed from the Bucar. Purse over her shoulder, she approached the Cline house. She rang the bell and flashed a warm smile as she gazed through the sheer curtain behind the glass and saw a figure rapidly approaching the door.

An elderly, slightly stooped, and round-faced woman opened the door and stared at her through little reading glasses. The woman wore a rosy-cheeked smile and had a carefully trimmed helmet of white hair. The smell of cookies baking filtered out onto the porch.

“I'm FBI Special Agent Alexa Keen. Ms. Cline, is it?” Alexa held up her badge.

“Rosemary Cline.”

“I'm doing follow-up interviews, Ms. Cline.”

“The detective wouldn't tell me what's going on at Miss Fugate's. But I know enough to know that's a crime-scene van. If y'all don't want to tell me what's happened, that's fine. I'm sorry, dear, but I'm very busy. My son is coming to get me in two hours to take me to DeRidder for the hurricane. I've got more packing to do after the cookies are done.” Rosemary Cline started to close the door.

“I noticed when I drove up earlier that you looked out the window.”

“I occasionally look out my windows,” Ms. Cline said. “That's the value of having them. We have a neighborhood watch.”

“Did Dorothy Fugate attend watch meetings?”

“Goodness, no! She's lived in that house for over twenty years now and I've spoken to her maybe a dozen times. She isn't the outgoing type, you could say without telling a lie. She made it known as soon as she moved in that she had no interest in making friends or being involved with the neighbors. She was downright unpleasant, even for a Yankee, if you want to know the truth. Seven days a week, dressed in her uniform, going and coming at all hours. Until last year. She stopped going out in her uniform, moved in a roommate, and we all assumed she'd retired.”

“Can you describe the roommate?”

Ms. Cline smirked slightly. “She has the fairest complexion you'll ever see and long gray hair. Heavyset, but not obese, by any means. I've only seen her a few times on the porch with Miss Fugate at night, getting fresh air, I suppose. Is she all right?”

“Far as we know.”

“She stays inside in the daytime, but when the weather's nice she comes out at night sometimes, like I said, with Miss Fugate, and they sit on the porch swing and rock back and forth. Once I called out to them about how nice a night it was and they went inside like I'd shot at them. I don't think she's quite right. The roommate. Is that right? You know, some people thought she was, you know…”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“…a lezbin.” She resumed a normal tone. “But I say, live and let live and so what if it's true, and I don't have the foggiest idea yes or no. Living alone is lonely sometimes. Especially so when you're cold to your neighbors.”

You don't know the half of it.
“Did you happen to see the roommate leave this morning?”

“No, I didn't. A few nights back there was an old truck parked there when I went to bed, and the next day her car was gone and hasn't been back.”

“Nurse Fugate's?”

“A small black one of some sort. I don't know cars.”

“Did Nurse Fugate have any company over? Any friends or relatives?”

“Nobody ever spent the night that I recall. This man with white hair used to come by at night, parked in the back of the driveway. And years ago a young man used to visit her during the summers for a few days. He was a small boy when he started coming. Stayed inside mostly. Odd-looking child. He stopped coming years ago. The last time I saw him he was high-school or college age, and he hadn't changed much. Still odd-looking. Miss Fugate never took a vacation, as far as I know. I don't know which hospital she was affiliated with.”

“River Run. It's a mental facility.”

“So, when can
we
know what's happened over there?” The older woman crossed her arms under her breasts as though she were suddenly chilled.

“Nurse Fugate passed away,” Alexa said.

Ms. Cline shook her head sadly. “Heart attack?”

“We're not sure as to cause of death yet,” Alexa replied. “We have to locate next of kin before we make any announcements.”

“We get mostly heart attacks, cancers, and strokes in this neighborhood. Mrs. Childs caught her robe on fire once. She has scars all over her legs and arms, poor thing. You were to see it, you'd just cry. All that exercising she has to do, but she never complains.”

“Can you remember when you last saw her?”

“Day before yesterday morning. I took her over some sugar cookies. She says I could sell them in grocery stores. I couldn't make enough to do that.”

Alexa was confused. “You saw Dorothy Fugate day before yesterday morning?”

“Oh, no. I thought we were discussing Mrs. Childs. She doesn't get out much, she's eighty-one. All of her family's left the area. My son offered to take her out of here, because of the hurricane, you know. She might go, but she's stubborn.”

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Fugate?”

“Maybe Sunday. It was a few days back I saw her when she was taking groceries inside. Didn't see her after that.” She shook her head. “Most of us are retired. Some young people have started moving in as some started dying or going to nursing homes.” Sadness crossed her eyes. “It's not a real official neighborhood watch or anything. I had my lawn mower stolen and Mr. Hamilton saw the man and called the police. That was last summer. No, the summer before. He was a black man with pants falling down so his shorts showed plain as day. The police didn't catch him, said he probably sold it and bought crack to put up his nose. I had a nephew who crushed up his father's medicines and sniffed them. The police that took the report said I probably wouldn't get the mower back and I didn't. Then Mr. Hamilton had a big hanging plant taken right off his porch in broad daylight. A plant, can you imagine that? Why would anyone steal a fern and leave two beefsteak begonias sitting right there. He collects coins. His son's a plumber, but I don't use him because he charges way too much and gets the floor dirty and doesn't clean up behind himself.”

Alexa had to let Ms. Cline talk because the woman might tell her something useful, but now she interrupted since she didn't have time for the grand tour of the neighbors. “Nobody else coming or going lately?”

“Just you and the salesman this morning, and I thought how unusual it was to see visitors there in the daytime.”

“Salesman?”

“I was waiting on the mailman and I looked out the window and saw the salesman going to the door. That was a little while before you got there.”

“How long?”

Ms. Cline looked at Alexa as though she were an idiot. “Well, you two were inside together. He got there twenty minutes or so before you and came out after you were in there a few minutes.”

“How do you know he was a salesman?”

“Because he was carrying one of those little suitcases.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, not that I was paying attention or anything, but I noticed the suitcase. He was white. He seemed tall, but I'm not sure. He might have had a sports jacket on, or not. He didn't look suspicious, so I didn't look for specifics. You had to see him in there.”

“Did you see his car?” Alexa pressed.

“Come to think of it, he parked down the street. Salesmen do that, going from one house to the next. Like I said, I don't know kinds of cars, but his looked new and was gray, or silver.”

“Can you remember anything else about him?”

Ms. Cline gazed at Alexa over her glasses. “I'd guess older than you. Are you sure you're an FBI agent? You're awfully young and pretty to be one.” She smiled, trying to please the agent.

“Did you see his hair?”

“Red. Oh! I forgot about my cookies!”

“Thank you,” Alexa began, but Ms. Cline had already locked the dead bolt and disappeared. Through the sheers she looked like a body sinking in water.

Kenneth Decell,
Alexa thought.
That son of a bitch could have broken my neck.

She strode to her car, dialing Manseur as she went.