MURDERFIELD

A London Carter Novel

(Book 8)

__________________

BY

BJ BOURG

www.bjbourg.com

MURDERFIELD

A London Carter Novel by BJ Bourg

This book is a work of fiction.

All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or

reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief

excerpts used for the purposes of review.

Copyright © 2023 by BJ Bourg

Cover Art by Christine Savoie of Bayou Cover Designs

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

MORE FROM BJ BOURG

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

Broadmoore, Louisiana

Logan Snipes’ work boots echoed off of the wooden porch as he approached the front door. Without knocking, he twisted the knob and stepped inside. It was a little after ten in the evening and he found his dad sitting in his recliner watching television.

“What’s up, Dad?”

Austin Snipes lifted his head and gave a short nod as a greeting. “The weather’s about to come on.”

Logan strode to his mom’s recliner and grabbed the notepad she had left there. As he took a seat, he squinted at the shaky sketch that had been drawn across the thin blue lines on the grid paper. It was a rough square with six rows drawn down the middle. The notes scribbled in his mom’s handwriting explained that the garden was to be twenty-four feet by twenty-four feet with six rows for planting. There were small Xs spaced evenly along the rows with familiar numbers beside them that represented the vegetables to be planted at each location. Tomatoes, spinach, peppers, sweet peas, green onions, and beets were all represented.

Logan placed the notepad on the end table beside him. “Did Mom plant anything yet?”

“I thought you weren’t coming here tonight,” said his dad, glancing in his direction. “What happened to going to the bowling alley with Nora?”

Logan took a breath and cursed under his breath. “We got in an argument.”

“About what?”

“It’s nothing,” Logan said with a wave of his hand before repeating his question. “Did Mom plant anything?”

“No, the ground needs tilling and the rows need to be made.” His dad turned back to the television. “If it doesn’t rain, that’s what we’ll be doing tomorrow.”

“What?” Logan let out a grunt. “You know I don’t like messing with the garden.”

“We don’t have much work this week, so we need to help her. She needs to get those tomatoes in the ground. I’m tired of eating the store-bought ones with my mayonnaise. They don’t taste the same.”

“I thought we were going fishing if the weather was nice.”

“If we leave early enough to go fishing, we can till the garden afterward,” Austin said. “Your mom’s back started hurting again, so we need to help out.”

Logan’s face twisted in displeasure. Every year it was the same old thing. He had been working for his dad in construction ever since graduating from high school, because he dearly loved carpenter work. However, what he didn’t like about his dad being his boss was that it also meant he had to help out around the house whenever work was slow. Having spent most of his childhood summers wrecking his own back in his grandpa’s garden, Logan had sworn to never step foot in one again once he grew up.

After a long moment, Logan asked the same question he had asked every spring since graduating. “Will I get paid? I mean, I don’t live here anymore, so why should I have to work for free? After all, I’ve got my own place to keep up. If you don’t have any work for me, I can just stay home and cut my grass.”

Every single year the response had been the same: “Do gators like the cold?”

When his dad actually answered him, Logan was caught by surprise.

“Wait, what’d you say?” he asked, jerking his head around.

“I said sure.”

“Sure?” Logan blinked. “You’ll pay me?”

“Oh, yeah, just as soon as you start paying your mom for her cooking.” His dad’s eyes were sparkling. “After all, you don’t live here anymore, so why should she have to feed you for free?”

Logan burst out laughing and then settled deep into the recliner. “Touché, Dad. Touché.”

“I’m glad you could see it my way, Boy.”

Right then, the meteorologist began giving her forecast. She called for three days of sunshine, mid- to upper-seventies, and zero percent chance of rain. There was much more commentary, but Logan didn’t hear it, for he was thinking back to the argument he’d had with Nora. What did it mean for their relationship? Were they over? She’d been really pissed and had said some hurtful things—things she wouldn’t have said had she truly loved him.

He had first seen Nora at a restaurant three years earlier while eating there with his dad. He had been covered in sawdust and sweat that day—as he was most days—but she hadn’t seemed to mind when she’d stopped to talk to him. He had thought she was beautiful and it seemed as though she liked him, so he had convinced his dad to start eating there several days per week. Before long, he had gotten her number and they began talking on the phone. Three months later, he had asked her out on a date and she’d agreed. The rest was history.

At that moment, though, he wondered if their history had come to an end. He had done nothing wrong, or had—

“What’s wrong, Boy?” his dad asked.

Startled at the suddenness of his dad’s voice, Logan jerked his head around. “Huh?”

“It’s Nora, isn’t it?”

Logan forced a smile. He didn’t like talking about his personal problems with his dad. The elder Snipes had enough to worry about without bearing the burden of his son’s girl problems.

“It’ll be alright,” Logan lied. “It wasn’t a serious argument.”

Not convinced, his dad grunted and turned back toward the news. There had been another carjacking in New Orleans that had resulted in the murder of a tourist, and community leaders were calling for more police to combat the ever-increasing violence in the city. Grumbling, his dad switched the channel to old reruns of the Dukes of Hazzard.

Logan went back to thinking about Nora and the source of their argument. On the previous day, Logan had gone to the Goal Post Drive Inn in Gracetown and had been sitting at an outdoor picnic table when his ex-girlfriend had shown up and sat down across from him. She had asked about his mom and dad, and he had answered her. She asked a few more questions, nothing major, and he had answered those as well. The entire conversation hadn’t taken more than three or four minutes when the girl working the window had called out his order number. He had retrieved his food and left without looking back. The problem? One of Nora’s friends had been sitting in her car waiting for her own order and she’d snapped a photo of them sitting on the picnic bench together.

“So, what’d you do yesterday?” Nora had asked when he’d stopped by her house earlier to bring her to the bowling alley. He’d immediately noticed her red eyes and the nighttime shorts she had worn. She never went out in public wearing those.

He had blinked in confusion, but recounted his every action of the previous day. Apparently, he had left out the part about seeing Tina at the diner, and Nora had immediately seized upon that fact, calling him a liar and a cheat. He had tried to explain that the encounter meant nothing to him, and that it was she who had taken a seat across from him without being invited, but Nora hadn’t cared. She had cursed the very air he breathed, had cursed the day they met, and had cursed his mom for having him.

Logan sighed and glanced down at his cell phone for the millionth time. Like past arguments they’d had, he expected her to text him wanting to talk, but, so far, he hadn’t heard a peep from her in four hours. He shifted uneasily in the recliner, and this brought a concerned glance from his dad.

“Logan, if there’s anything I can do to—”

Before his dad could finish his statement, they heard the sound of a loud truck approaching. It seemed to pull quickly into the driveway. A few seconds later, loud boots sounded on the porch outside. Thinking Nora had tracked him down to talk, Logan leapt out of his mom’s chair and rushed forward. He hadn’t taken two steps when he realized something was wrong…very wrong.

The sound of boots was heavy and plentiful, like more than one large man was storming the house. And storm it they did, because as soon as the footfalls stopped outside the wooden door, it came crashing inward, followed quickly by two masked men who were brandishing rifles.

Logan immediately lurched to a stop and lifted his hands in surrender, but the home invaders either didn’t notice or they didn’t care. The first one raised his rifle and began firing directly into him, while the other man stepped to the right and shot past him toward his dad’s recliner. The explosions of each bullet pierced his eardrums and rocked him to the core, but the noise was nothing compared to the feeling of burning lead punching holes through his body. The pain ran deeper than he’d ever imagined, and each bullet that tore through his flesh zapped him of more and more life. He felt dead on his feet.

Through a blur of pain, confusion, and ringing ears, Logan teetered precariously on the balls of his feet as he watched the man in front of him quickly pull the magazine from his rifle, tuck it in his back pocket, and then insert another one. The second shooter did the same, but Logan sensed it more than saw him, because he was fixated on the masked face of his own killer, trying desperately to penetrate the dark fabric and see the face beneath. He wanted to identify this man, to understand who he was and why he was doing this, but it was no use. The eyes beyond the mask appeared black and foreboding as they bore into his own. They were like none he had ever seen. They looked more fitting for a demon rather than a human. Could it be the pain or the confusion that made them appear that way?

Somewhere in the ringing distance, Logan heard his mom screaming hysterically, and he knew the sound was coming from her bedroom upstairs. His thoughts went immediately to her and what might happen to her if the men got their hands on her, and it was the first time during the brief incident that he’d had time to be scared.

Fear spawned within him a violent surge of energy, and he tried to rush forward, toward the sound of his mom’s voice, seeking to do what he could to protect her, but he had no chance. The man raised the rifle and fired again. Logan felt his legs give out under him and he spilled to the floor. As he fell, he glanced toward his dad, and a gasp escaped his bloody lips. Austin Snipes was sitting there with his lifeless eyes and mouth agape, the front of his nightshirt covered in blood.

Logan’s head bounced off the floor and his eyes slid shut, but not before he heard his mom let out a rebel yell in the distance, followed immediately by a blast from what had to be his dad’s twelve gauge.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, April 17

I was sound asleep dreaming that the indoor gym in our future house was the size of a closet when my ringing cell phone wrenched me from my nightmare. I sat immediately upright in bed and was reaching for the nightstand when Dawn’s phone also began to ring. She grunted incoherently and fumbled around in the dark.

She and I had been up for thirty-six hours straight working on last minute details for the wedding and driving around searching for suitable land to buy, and we had finally gotten to bed at eight o’clock Sunday evening. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I groaned when I saw that it was the sheriff’s office calling, and I cursed out loud when I saw that it wasn’t even eleven o’clock yet. I wasn’t sure what they wanted or how much good we would be to them operating off of three hours of sleep, but I never failed to answer the call.

“This is London,” I said, trying to sound wide awake. “What’s up?”

“London, it’s Jules,” came the familiar voice of one of our veteran dispatchers. “There’s been a murder.”

I scowled, remembering instantly that neither Dawn nor I were on call. If I remembered right, it was Melvin and Warren’s rotation, and I asked about it, knowing it had to be bad if the sheriff wanted more than two detectives on the case.

Warren Lafont and Melvin Ford were usually partnered up when working major cases and they were a solid team.

“There’s been a home invasion murder,” Julie said, her voice terse. “They think it was a hit job.”

“Drug related?” I asked.

“No, these were good, hardworking people, living in a good neighborhood.” Julie sighed. “A man called it in. He heard a loud truck drive past his house and then he heard what he described as a warzone taking place at the back of the street. When the first deputies arrived, they found a woman named Deborah Snipes freaking out. They said it was hard to understand what she was saying, but they gathered that she woke up to the sound of her door being kicked in, and then gunshots started going off. Apparently, she made it to the living room and found her husband and son shot full of holes. The deputies said a shotgun was next to the woman when they got there, and they weren’t sure if she would pick it up or not because she wouldn’t respond to their commands. There was a bit of a standoff while they tried to calm her down enough to safely approach her.”

“Damn!” I glanced at Dawn, who was leaning close and listening. She pursed her lips and shook her head. I turned my attention back to the call. “Did the woman use the shotgun?”

“They’re not sure. They knew y’all would be called right away, so they tried not to touch anything.”

“What about the man and his boy?”

“Both gone. They were each shot a bunch of times from close range.”

I hesitated to ask the next question, but I had to know. “And the boy—how old was he?”

“Twenty-eight.”

I was relieved that it hadn’t been a child, but then felt instant guilt for feeling that way. A mother had lost her husband and son in one fell swoop. There was nothing good about that, regardless of their ages.

“I’m on my way,” I said, but then hesitated. Dawn hadn’t answered her phone, so I asked Julie if they were reaching out to her for the same thing.

“Yeah,” she said. “The sheriff wants everyone working this one.”

I got the address from her, told her we’d be there within fifteen minutes, and then ended the call. Dawn was already rolling out of bed and heading for the bathroom, with me right behind her. We had eaten supper before bed and wouldn’t be hungry for a few more hours, so we rushed out the door as soon as we were dressed. I was the leader of our parish’s sniper team, and I brought my gear everywhere I went, so Dawn was able to get the jump on me when I stopped to secure my sniper rifle in the gun case under the back seat of my truck. Although I moved as fast as I could, she was speeding up the street in her unmarked Dodge Charger before I could even jump in my driver’s seat.

I caught up to her on the highway to Broadmoore, and we met two ambulances heading back in the opposite direction, no lights on and no siren blaring. I sighed heavily, preparing myself mentally for what we would find at the scene. I was hoping the department’s social services deputies were there to deal with the wife. Sure, I might’ve lost my siblings and my parents at a young age, but that didn’t mean I knew how to counsel people who had suffered similar losses. In actuality, I was arguably the worst person to talk to, because I had been filled with bitterness and hate toward the man who had killed my family, and I had spent most of my youth plotting revenge.

After heading south on Highway Three for a ways, we crossed Bayou Magnolia and continued southward on Highway Eighty until we reached Wright Drive. I could see the flashing blue lights before we turned down the street. There were at least four patrol cars present, but that was it. It looked like we had beaten the on-call detectives to the scene.

I parked behind Dawn and met her on the street. Andrew Hacker, who was a patrol deputy and also served on my sniper team, was standing at the edge of the driveway outside of the yellow crime scene tape that had been strewn across the front of the property. His square jaw was set.

“London, Dawn,” he greeted in his thick Cajun accent. “It ain’t good in there.”

I glanced toward the house. The first responders had cleared out and left the house sitting vacant. Extending up to the right side of the house was a wide concrete driveway, and a portion of it was covered by a custom carport. Farther right still, and set far back from the street, was a large barn. In front of that barn was a section of property that had been previously wrapped in a wooden fence, but the only things still standing were two six-by-six posts that protruded six feet out of the ground.

The night was misty and an eerie silence had befallen the place. I turned back to Andrew. “Where’s the wife?”

“She’s en route to the hospital for observation.” He shook his head somberly. “She’s a wreck, London. I…I can’t imagine.”

Andrew had two children—a boy and a girl—and a wife named Shelly, all of whom he loved dearly. I knew he was probably imagining how his wife would feel if she were to find him and his son murdered in their home.

“Were y’all able to get anything out of her before they took her away?” I asked.

“I got here first, and she didn’t say much to me,” he said. “I found her draped over her son’s body, screaming and wailing. There was a twelve-gauge pump on the floor next to her, and I think she fired it at some point. I saw right away that the son and husband were dead, and I didn’t know if the suspects were still on the premises, so I grabbed the woman and pulled her out of the house. She didn’t go willingly.”

He took a breath before continuing. “I had to lock her in the back of my car to keep her from running back to her son. When backup arrived, I went back in and swept the house, but it was empty. The television was on, and it looked like they were just sitting there watching the Dukes of Hazzard when they were gunned down.”

There was movement in the shadows toward the back of the street, and I turned to see a number of neighbors milling about. I pointed in that direction. “Did they see anything?”

“I haven’t had a chance to ask them yet, but I did talk to the man who called it in,” he explained. “His name is Carl Beasley. He said he woke up to the sound of a loud truck coming down the lane. He said it sounded like his son’s truck, so he got out of bed to see what he wanted, but the truck drove past his house. He was turning to go back to bed when he heard what he described as a bunch of explosions coming from the back of the lane. He said it sounded like a war zone. He was afraid some of the bullets might go through his house, so he ran to the bedroom and dragged his wife to the floor. He said they crouched behind the dresser while he dialed 9-1-1. A few seconds later, he heard the truck racing back up the lane.”

“Where is he now?”

“He’s sitting in Arlene’s unit.”

Arlene Eiland was a solid patrol deputy. Our paths had crisscrossed a lot since she’d first started working for Magnolia S.O., and I liked what I’d seen of her efforts thus far.

I was just turning to Dawn when we saw an unmarked Dodge Charger racing down the street toward us, it’s grill lights flashing brilliantly. When it got closer, I saw that it was brand new and red. I recognized it immediately as Detective Abraham Wilson’s unit. His previous car had been shot up by a killer with a rifle a few months prior, and the sheriff had elected to get him a new unit rather than make him drive a pool car.

“Since you’re the lead on this one, why don’t you take Abe into the scene with you,” Dawn said. “I’ll interview the neighbor and then canvass that crowd.”

“I’m lead?” I asked, cocking my head to the side. “Why so?”

“You answered the call first.” She paused, and then grinned. “Besides, I have to be at a wedding in two months, so I can’t be saddled with a long investigation.”

“Don’t I have to be at that same wedding?”

“Yep, so you’d better get your ass in gear,” she said. “I don’t want to walk down that aisle alone, so you need to solve this thing in a hurry.”

I shook my head and smiled as I watched her walk away.

CHAPTER 3

With Abraham by my side, I slowly picked my way across the driveway, searching the concrete intently with my flashlight as we walked. Abraham held a notepad in his hand and had a camera dangling from his neck. He wrote down everything I reported and snapped photos as we went.

There were two trucks in the driveway—a silver Nissan and a green Ford—and I glanced inside of them as we made our way past. The Ford was closest to the street and the Nissan was parked under the carport. Nothing seemed amiss with either of the vehicles.

I took the side steps leading up to the porch and slowly picked my way toward the front door. It had been plain to see from the street that the door had been kicked in, but we were finally able to get a closer look at the damage. There wasn’t much to see, as the door was a solid one and had withstood the force of the kick. The deadbolt hadn’t been engaged, so it had been a simple matter of busting the latch bolt.

I aimed my flashlight at the door, searching for the spot that had been kicked. There was a black smudge near the knob. I pointed to it and said, “We need to dust that for a boot print.”

Abraham snapped a photograph and made a note.

With a sigh, I pulled on some latex gloves and eased the front door open. Directly across from the entrance, a carpeted staircase led up to a second level. There was a closed door to the right, and the rest of the house opened up to the left. I scowled when the scene of the crime came into view.

I saw the young man first. He had short hair with a reddish-colored beard that looked like moss hanging from his chin. His eyes were wide and unseeing and there was blood trailing from his mouth down the side of his face. His torso was riddled with bullet holes—a lot of them. I didn’t see any holes in his arms or legs, and I wasn’t surprised. The distance from the doorway to his body couldn’t have been more than a dozen feet, and that would’ve been easy pickings for just about anyone halfway decent with a firearm.

Nearly every drop of blood in his body had oozed from the bullet holes and spread across the floor, covering a large portion of the wooden surface. A shotgun was next to the boy’s body, and it was covered in blood. That wasn’t unexpected, since the despondent woman who had been armed with the shotgun had been found wrapping her arms around her son. It was obvious she had slipped around the scene as she’d clung to her boy, because there were smears throughout the pool of wet blood that surrounded him, and a number of partial bare footprints could be seen in the scattered mess.

Everything was consistent with what Andrew had reported. On one hand, I was a little disappointed that she might have destroyed potential shoeprints of the killer, but on the other hand, I couldn’t blame the woman. I didn’t have any kids, but I could imagine how frantic and angry I’d be if something like that would’ve happened to one of my own.

Farther into the room, I saw an older man, no doubt the young man’s father, slouched into a recliner. His hair was slicked back in the style of 90s action star Steven Seagal, but he had a moustache and a day’s growth of beard that was more salt than pepper. Similar to the boy’s condition, his body was riddled with bullet holes, and his eyes and mouth were wide open, as though he had been murdered mid-scream.

Remaining in the doorway, I did a visual scan of the floor between our location and that of the bodies, and I saw at least a dozen spent shell casings scattered about. I had recovered my share of casings from crime scenes over the years, but I’d never recovered any of that type of caliber. I pointed them out to Abraham.

“Do you know what those are?” I asked.

He pulled his flashlight from his back pocket and aimed the beam at one of them. I saw him squint. “They look like .357 caliber but thinner, and they look bigger than the .22 magnums.”

I nodded. “Those are .30 carbine rounds. I’ve never seen any at a crime scene before.”

“Oh, yeah,” Abraham said with a nod of his head. “They use those in the M1 carbine, don’t they?”

“Yep.”

Abraham was thoughtful. “My great grandpa fought in World War II and he brought one back from the war. He said he would be leaving it to me when he died. He hasn’t fired it since he got back stateside in 1945.”

“An original one is hard to come by, so you need to hold on to that thing when you get it.” I backed away so he could take an overall shot of the scene, and continued. “Most of the WWII-era carbines in circulation are Frankenstein models pieced together from the ones that were damaged during the conflict. We’re probably looking for one of those patch-up jobs or one of the modern remakes. Either way, this murder weapon should be a lot easier to find than some random 9 mm pistol. I can count on one hand the number of people I know who have them, and I’m including your great grandpa.”

Abraham flashed his boyish grin. “Want me to find out where my pépère was tonight?”

I laughed at the mental image of a ninety-something-year-old man slinking through the mosquito-infested night stalking his victims. “You’d better bring a TASER in case he resists,” I said before picking my way toward the staircase so I could turn and inspect the insides of the door. I had to step over a small rug to preserve a bloodstain that was there, and then I mounted the first step, which was carpeted and appeared clean.

Once I was facing Abraham, who had remained in the doorway, I studied the damage to the inside of the doorframe. The trim had been split and a few slivers of wood lay on the floor nearby. I held out my hand and asked for Abraham’s camera. I took a few pictures and then stood there going over the tasks ahead.

The scene appeared to be a simple one, considering everything seemed confined to the driveway, porch, and living room, but we would have to don Tyvek coveralls and booties before stepping deep into the scene. It would be impossible to process the room without stepping in blood, and we didn’t need to add our boot prints to the evidence.

I had just finished making a mental list of what we’d need to grab from our vehicles when I happened to glance up along the interior wall above the doorway. Unremarkably, it was wrapped in unfinished sheetrock and rose more than a dozen feet to the second level, but something halfway up the wall caught my eye. I aimed my light in that direction and climbed a few steps up the staircase.

“What is it?” Abraham asked from the doorway. “What do you see?”

I twisted around and aimed my light at the only door at the top of the staircase. It was open wide. From where I stood, I could see the corner posts of a bed. I turned back to the wall and illuminated the bullet holes in the sheetrock.

“The woman returned fire with the shotgun,” I said, “but she missed high by a couple of yards.”

Still holding Abraham’s camera, I photographed the wall, where there were three distinct shot patterns, each of them a little lower than the last. There were nine holes in each pattern, and that was consistent with double-aught buckshot. After getting mid-range and close-ups, I turned and carefully made my way up the stairs. I didn’t find anything of evidentiary value on my ascent, but I located three spent shotgun hulls just inside the doorway to the room.

I sadly shook my head, as I tried to imagine how scared and confused the woman must’ve been to awaken to ear-splitting gunshots exploding inside her house. To have had the wherewithal to grab the shotgun, work the action, and return fire was admirable.

“At least the mom tried to fight back,” I called down to Abraham. “I’m just sorry she missed.”

CHAPTER 4

It was a little after midnight on Monday when Dawn, Abraham, Warren, Melvin, and I had finished processing the scene and were preparing to move the bodies so we could examine them more closely. Sheriff Corey Chiasson had sent Detective Doug Cheramie to canvass the neighborhood, while Detectives Rachael Bowler and Karla Boudreaux had been sent to the hospital to interview the wife. After much trying, they had finally managed to obtain a coherent statement from Deborah Snipes, and she had identified her husband as Austin Snipes, a fifty-six-year-old carpenter, and her son as Logan, twenty-eight, who worked for his dad.

“Deborah recalls having gone to bed around nine o’clock in the evening with a backache from working in her garden,” Rachael had said when she’d called me earlier. “She took some Aleve for the pain and put on her eye mask and earplugs, which she said was customary, thanks to having a husband who played the horn in his sleep, and then she was awakened with a start when she heard a loud crashing sound. She says she felt it more than heard it, and she immediately ripped off her mask and pulled out her earplugs. She called out and asked her husband what was going on, but her words were drowned out by explosions from downstairs. She said she thought her husband had accidentally discharged his shotgun at first, but then the shots kept going off and she realized they were in deep trouble.”

“Did she say what her husband was doing when she last saw him?” I’d asked when Rachael had paused for a breath. “Did he tell her anything or give her any idea that there might be trouble?”

“No, she said she was drawing sketches for her garden and he was telling her he’d till it for her during the week to keep her from hurting her back anymore,” she had said. “She said she was tired and went to bed at her usual time, and her husband stayed up like he normally did to watch the weather.”

“What about her son?”

“Oh, she didn’t even know he was there until she saw him lying dead on the ground.” Rachael took a breath. “She didn’t even realize her husband was gone. She was so freaked out when she saw her son that everything else faded away. She said she almost picked up her shotgun and challenged the deputies when they arrived, because she thought it was the killer coming back to finish her off.”

“Did she remember shooting at the suspects?”

“Yeah, she said she grabbed her husband’s shotgun and was about to go downstairs when she saw a masked man run past the staircase and out the door. She said she fired three shots and was sure she hit the man in the back.”

I’d grunted and said, “I wish.”

“What, she didn’t?” Rachael had asked. “She was sure she hit him with the last shot.”

I had explained to her what we’d found and how all three blasts had impacted high on the wall, and then I’d thanked her for the information.

After photographing, measuring, and rough-sketching the scene, we had recovered forty-three spent shell casings downstairs, all of them 7.62x33 mm, which was the size of the cartridge used in the M1 carbine. Since the fifteen-round box magazine was the most common type of magazine associated with the rifle, I had surmised that our suspect had reloaded twice during the slaughter, and had dumped nearly three magazines into our victims, with not a single shot having missed a live target.

“Want me to dust the door?” Melvin asked.

I nodded and pointed out the smudge. “I’m guessing the shoe impression will be in that area if at all.”

He nodded and went to work while I approached Logan’s body with Abraham and Dawn. Dawn had her camera ready, and she began photographing as we removed his shirt so she could document his actual wounds, and also to prepare the body for transport. When a victim with open wounds was placed in a body bag clothed, the remaining blood spilled out and saturated the garments. Not only did this alter the appearance of the clothing, but there was the potential to contaminate other evidence that might be present.

Warren was waiting nearby to package the shirt, and then we all took in the damage to Logan’s chest.

“That grouping is the size of my fist,” Abraham said, holding his closed hand in front of our victim’s chest. “It looks like they were aiming for the heart.”

I nodded my agreement and leaned close in an attempt to ascertain how many bullets had struck the young man. “I’ve got nineteen,” I finally said, looking up at Dawn and Abraham. “What about y’all?”

“I’ve got the same,” Dawn said.

“Me, too,” Abraham chimed in.

Since our gloved hands were covered in blood, Warren had taken to keeping notes, and he logged down what we’d learned.

Right about then, Melvin called from the doorway. “Hey, I’ve got a good boot print.”

We all turned to look. Sure enough, the volcanic dust from his fingerprint kit had revealed a large boot print with a distinct sole pattern.

“As soon as the sun comes up,” I began, “take that pattern to every boot store you can find and see if you can identify the brand.”

Melvin nodded and commenced to photographing the print with a one-to-one camera before beginning the lifting process. The rest of us turned our attention back to Logan and then gently flipped him over to count the bullet holes in his back. As I had expected, every single one of them had exited.

I straightened and studied the wall behind the young man. In order for the shooter, the victim, and the holes in the wall to have lined up, either the shooter had to have gone deep into the room, or the victim had to have been moved by his mother when she was grieving over him. I suspected the latter, and my suspicions were later confirmed when we stuck dowel rods in the holes to determine the angle.

As for Daddy Snipes, we counted twenty-four bullet holes to his chest, all of which exited out his back, and the shot pattern was as tight as the grouping in his son’s body.

“That’s some good shooting,” Warren muttered. “I don’t shoot that tight of a group during requalification.”

“The M1 carbine is accurate out to a few hundred yards,” I said idly, as I tried to recreate the scene in my mind. “This is nearly pointblank range with a rifle. It would be very difficult to miss.”

Once we’d stripped off the top layer of Austin’s clothes and handed each article to Warren, we turned our attention to the cushion on the recliner, which had a blood stain and twenty-four small holes in it. We had already measured the entire scene, so it was okay to move the furniture. When we did, we discovered that the bullets had zipped right through the chair and into the wall. I wasn’t surprised. I’d seen the .30 carbine penetrate level 3A body armor.

I stood back for a minute and studied the room carefully, still trying to visualize one man shooting our two victims. Logan had been out of his chair when he had been shot. Had he jumped up when he heard the door being kicked in? If so, then the shooter would’ve been forced to shoot Logan first, or risk having Logan tackle him and fight for the weapon. The living room was too neat for a fight to have taken place. And I couldn’t imagine Austin sitting still while someone pumped nineteen rounds into his son.

I felt Dawn’s eyes on me and glanced at her.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

“That there were two shooters?”

She nodded. “It would take a few seconds to fire nineteen rounds into someone’s chest, and there’s no way Austin stayed in his chair while that happened. Granted, the door being kicked in might’ve surprised him, but I don’t believe he sat on his ass for three or four seconds while his son was being murdered.”

“The door being kicked in would’ve surprised Logan, too, unless…” I turned toward Melvin. “Hey, Mel, can you run across the front porch?”

He stopped what he was doing to shoot me a curious glance, shrugged, and then ran away, his boots pounding thunderously on the wooden boards.

“That’s a big boot print on that door,” I said as Melvin stopped running and walked back to the entrance, “so a big man was wearing it. There’s no way a big man ran across that porch without Logan and Austin hearing it. We know it happened fast, because the neighbor said the gunshots came soon after the truck sped past his house. It was a quick in and out job. Even if they walked, Logan and his dad would’ve heard them coming just like we heard Melvin walking back.”

Melvin leaned over on his knees and feigned being out of breath. “Whew! That was my work out for the week!”

I chuckled while Dawn chewed on her lower lip and surveyed the scene around us. Finally, she said, “That means we’re looking for two men, each armed with M1 carbines, right?”

“Ballistics will confirm or refute it,” I began, “but I think so. If we’re right and there were two of them, they should be easier to find, thanks to each of them having a rare rifle.”

“Do you know any local collectors?” she asked the room.

“My dad knows somebody,” Abraham said, lifting a hand. “He used to work with a guy named Bubba Wisinger. The man’s an expert in WWII firearms. I went to his house with my dad when I was a kid. He’s got hundreds of guns that he keeps on display inside his house. I can ask my dad how to find him. Mr. Wisinger might know someone who owns two carbines or who bought two of them recently.”

“How about it, London?” Dawn asked, deferring to me since I was lead on the case.

I nodded, not caring who was heading up the investigation. Truth be told, I would’ve preferred to ride shotgun on the case, but to anyone other than Dawn. We both needed to be ready for our wedding. Although most of our homicides were resolved within days or a couple of weeks, it took a lot longer to complete all of the paperwork and present the file to the district attorney’s office. Come hell or high water, we were walking down that aisle as scheduled.

I was about to remind Dawn about the wedding when I was interrupted by an engine roaring, deputies hollering, and tires screeching from the street out front.

CHAPTER 5

Melvin was in the doorway, so he was the first off the porch, but Abraham easily overtook and passed him. I did the same, but I couldn’t catch Abraham. At thirty-six, I was faster and in better condition than anyone else in the department, with the exception of Abraham. The kid made me feel old and slow, and I didn’t like it one bit.

When we reached the street, Andrew and two other deputies had the car stopped and they were ordering the driver out at gunpoint. I could see by the position of the stopped car that it had run right through the crime scene tape and almost rammed the back of the nearest patrol cruiser.

Instead of heeding the commands of the deputies to exit with his or her hands up, the driver lunged from the vehicle and rushed headlong toward the deputies. It became immediately apparent that the driver was a young woman. It was also clear that she was blinded by emotion and couldn’t comprehend anything the officers were shouting at her.

“Hold your fire!” Andrew hollered, waving his hands frantically in the air to make sure no one jumped the gun. No one did.

“Logan!” the young woman was shouting hysterically. “Logan, where are you?”

Abraham and I had slowed to a quick walk, but Dawn had continued to run and she caught the girl before she reached the front yard. The girl tried to swing free, but she learned a fast lesson about my wife-to-be: Dawn might be 5’3” and weighed 125 pounds, but she was as fiery as a badger. While she didn’t hurt the girl, she quickly subdued her arms, spun her around, and held her tightly while talking into her ear.

“It’s okay,” she was saying when we approached her and the distraught girl, “let it all out.”

“Oh, God, so it’s true?” the girl wailed.

“I’m afraid so,” Dawn said. “I’m very sorry.”

The girl let out a guttural scream and went limp. Dawn lowered her to the ground and held on to her while she sobbed uncontrollably. Another vehicle was approaching and I shielded my eyes against the blinding light to make it out. It was a transport van from the coroner’s office.

I touched Dawn’s shoulder softly. “We’ve got to move her. MPCO is here and we can’t have her seeing that.”

Dawn nodded and continued speaking softly to the girl. Finally, she managed to coax her to her feet and toward her unmarked Charger.

“I’ll bring her to the bureau,” Dawn called over her shoulder.

I nodded and told her we’d wrap up the scene and meet her there. I got Andrew to park the girl’s car in the Snipes’ driveway, and then I waved the coroner’s van through. I recognized Starla Landry in the driver’s seat, and her helper was Lily Pierce. I never did like Starla, considering she had cheated on one of my former captains who had been more like a father to me than a supervisor, but I had begun to let go of my hatred for her in recent months.

As for Lily, I loved the kid as though she were my own flesh and blood. The daughter of one of my former snipers, tragedy had struck their family when her brother had murdered her dad, and Dawn and I had kept an eye out for her ever since.

I greeted Starla with a somewhat friendly nod, but I gave Lily a hug and told her how good it was to see her.

“Dispatch told us you’ve got two of them,” Starla said when Lily and I had finished our greeting.

“Yeah,” I acknowledged. “We’re almost done with the scene. We’ll help you load them up in a few minutes.”

Starla nodded her thanks and said, “Dr. Fitch can do the autopsies at one o’clock this afternoon. She’s got stuff in the morning, but her afternoon is wide open.”

Dr. Ally Fitch was the coroner for Magnolia Parish, and she performed nearly all of our autopsies. After jotting down the information, I returned to the house. We would have to recover as many shotgun pellets and .30 carbine slugs as we could, and that would take some time. It was time I didn’t have, so I asked Warren and Melvin if they could finish the scene investigation while I headed to the bureau to sit in on the interview with the girl. We still didn’t know who she was, but I imagined she was Logan’s wife or girlfriend, and an important source of information. If anyone knew who hated Logan, it would be her.

Melvin told me they would take care of it, so I rushed out to my truck. Sheriff Chiasson called out to me before I could get inside. I stopped and waited for him to approach.

“Do you think this is drug-related?” he asked, indicating the front of the house with a nod of his head. “Melvin told me they were each shot over a dozen times through the chest. That’s a bit of overkill. It sounds like some of the retaliatory drug murders I keep hearing about along the border.”

“We haven’t really discussed motive yet,” I admitted, “but I do agree that it seems someone’s pissed at them. At this point, all we know about the family is that the dad owns his own carpentry business and the son works with him.”

“Who was the woman that Dawn took out of here?” he asked. “Was it the boy’s girlfriend or something?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’m heading to the bureau to sit in on the interview. If she dated him for any length of time, she might be able to tell us who his friends and enemies are, as well as those of his dad.”

As with any murder investigation, the identity of the victim was of utmost importance, because it would open all kinds of doors. Without an identity, and absent any witnesses or direct evidence pointing to a suspect, it would be next to impossible to solve a murder, which was the reason so many Doe cases went unsolved every year. Thankfully, we knew who our victims were. The next order of business would be to delve into their pasts and find out who might want them dead.

The sheriff hesitated a moment, shifting his feet and studying the ground. “London, without looking, you see that blue house cater-corner to this one?”

Moving my eyes only, I took in the house he had indicated. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Roger Bankston met with me two days ago to see if I would authorize a raid on that place,” he said in a low voice. “It seems the husband’s been dealing meth from out of there for over a year now. I gave Roger the okay to get the ball rolling—”

“Hold up,” I interrupted. “Do you think someone meant to hit them but went to the wrong house?”

“I don’t know, but it seems like a possibility.” He sighed. “How many times have we heard about SWAT teams hitting the wrong house during drug raids?”

“Yeah, and they’re supposed to be well-trained professionals,” I said with a grunt. I’d never had patience for law enforcement officers who made mistakes that were avoidable. It was one thing to err during a blinding life-and-death struggle where lives hung in the balance and split-second decisions were necessary. However, there was never an excuse to execute a warrant on the wrong house. If there was even the slightest doubt, it was too easy to back out, regroup, and hit the house another day. No amount of drugs or evidence was worth traumatizing and possibly killing innocent citizens by busting through the wrong door, and every time it happened, activists and politicians would call for a ban on that very valuable law enforcement tool.

“If a trained SWAT team can screw up that bad,” the sheriff continued, maintaining his low tone, “imagine what kind of damage an idiot drug dealer could do.”

I was thoughtful. If the killers had, indeed, hit the wrong place, then the answers to our questions might lie in the blue house across the street.

“How long will it be until Roger has the search warrant in hand?” I asked. “If our killers meant to target them, we need to get inside of that house and find out who their enemies are.”

“I’ll call him right now,” the sheriff said. “Put your team on stand-by and have them ready to go at a moment’s notice.”

“We’re always ready to go.” I got in my truck and raced to the detective bureau, my mind working through the possibilities. If we couldn’t find anyone who wanted the Snipes family killed, the drug angle would be a big break in our case.

CHAPTER 6

It was past two in the morning before I was finally sitting in an interview room with Dawn and the girl who had gone plowing through the police tape in her car. She had identified herself as Nora St. Pierre, and she’d said she was Logan’s girlfriend.

After getting her address and phone number, Dawn asked her how she’d found out about Logan.

“A friend of my mom lives at the front of the lane,” she said in a still-trembling voice. “My mom called me to see if I’d heard from Logan. She said her friend told her it looked like a bunch of cops were at his house, and that two ambulances had flown down the lane with their sirens on, but they left right after with no lights or nothing. I…I tried calling his phone, but he didn’t answer.”

We’d recovered two cell phones from the living room, but we hadn’t had time to look them over yet.

Dawn leaned forward and placed a hand on Nora’s arm. In a soft voice, she said, “Earlier, you were saying you felt horrible about the way you left things with Logan. You said it was your fault he was dead. While we don’t believe it for a second, can you tell us what you meant by what you said?”

“I…it was a big misunderstanding, really.” She scrubbed at her eyes with both fists before continuing. “I got a text message from one of my friends saying Logan was cheating on me. Instead of calling him to ask about it, I waited until he came to my house to pick me up to confront him. We…we argued and I said some mean things to him.”

Nora stopped talking and took a haggard breath.

“What kinds of things did you say?” Dawn asked.

“I told him I hated him and I cursed the day we ever met,” Nora admitted with a deep frown. “I didn’t mean it one bit, don’t you understand? I was just mad. I said it in the heat of the moment.”

Dawn nodded and squeezed her arm reassuringly. “What did you mean when you said it was your fault?”

“Well, we were supposed to go to the bowling alley, but I ruined our plans by confronting him with a picture my friend had sent me of him and his ex-girlfriend having lunch together.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “If I would’ve just kept my mouth shut, we would’ve been at the bowling alley when his dad died, and he would still be alive. I would’ve still felt bad for Mr. Austin, but…”

She let her voice trail off and cast her eyes downward.

“Nora, what do you know about Logan’s death?” Dawn asked, a curious expression on her face.

“I just heard that he and his dad died.”

“Did anyone take a guess about what had happened?”

“Um, I mean, my mom mentioned something about carbon monoxide,” she said hesitantly. “She said she knew of a whole family who died that way, but we didn’t know for sure. We just heard they were dead. Is that what happened?”

Nora looked up to search Dawn’s eyes first, and then mine. When we didn’t answer, she gasped. “What…what happened? Did somebody do this to them?”

Dawn frowned. “I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but someone murdered them.”

Nora recoiled in horror and grabbed at her neck. “Murder?” she echoed. “Someone killed them?”

“I’m afraid so.” Dawn let the information sink in a little, and then asked, “Do you know anyone who was mad at Austin or Logan? Someone who might’ve wanted them dead?”

“Other than you,” I wanted to add, but didn’t. Even if she was mad enough to want Logan dead, I didn’t see how she could summon up a buddy and get her hands on a pair of WWII-era rifles within hours of confronting her boyfriend. Of course, she’d had most of the day to plan the attack, but still, I didn’t have her very high up on my list of suspects. In fact, at the moment, my list was a short one that consisted only of the potential enemies of the drug-dealing neighbors. If that angle didn’t pan out, we’d have to dig deeper into the lives of the Snipes.

Nora stammered for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head. “Everyone loved Logan. He was funny and caring and…and such a good boyfriend.”

I saw the expression on her face change. Suddenly, anger flashed across it. “Calvin! I bet it was Calvin Robichaux!”

I leaned closer.

“Who’s Calvin?” Dawn asked.

“Tina, that’s Logan’s ex-girlfriend, she married Calvin Robichaux,” Nora explained. “If one of my friends saw them sitting together at the diner, it’s possible Calvin saw them, too, and he’s very jealous. He knows Tina still loves Logan—everyone does—and he almost started a fight with Logan a few weeks ago.”

I was suddenly alert. I jotted down Calvin Robichaux’s name. If the drug neighbors were a dead end, we would have another lead to follow. As I listened to Dawn’s further questioning, I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Julie from communications, asking her to run Calvin’s name. I would’ve asked one of the other detectives to do it, but I knew they were all busy.

She replied immediately with a smiley face emoji, and I looked back up to see Nora sobbing again. Dawn asked if she knew anything about Austin Snipes and his business dealings, but the girl didn’t.

“Tell me about this fight that almost happened between Calvin and Logan,” Dawn said. “When and where did it happen?”

“It was at the bowling alley on the back road,” she said. “Me and Logan were there first, and we had bowled two or three games when Calvin and Tina showed up. As soon as Calvin saw Logan, he started talking loudly and boasting about how good he could bowl. They were over by the restaurant part and we were on the last alley against the wall, but we could hear him clearly.”

“And you said this was a few weeks ago?”

“Three weeks ago, I believe,” she said. “Maybe a month?”

“What did Logan do?” Dawn asked.

“Nothing. He just kept bowling. I…I knew he didn’t want anything to do with Tina anymore. I don’t know why I got so mad at him. I…I guess the sight of him and her together just turned my stomach.” She lowered her head and wept softly.

Dawn consoled her briefly, and then asked her to go on with her story.

“That was about it,” she said. “We kept bowling and Logan ignored Calvin. After a while, I guess Calvin realized Logan wasn’t gonna pay him any attention, and they just left. We never saw them again.”

I scowled. The incident didn’t sound like one that rose to the level of “almost starting a fight,” but I filed it away for later, when I might get to interview Calvin.

After answering a few more questions from Dawn, Nora had a question of her own. “How’s Miss Deborah? She loved Logan so much. He was her only child and she loved him a lot. She was very protective of him, and it took her a long time to warm up to me. She was worried I would hurt him. She was so protective. I…I can’t imagine what she’s going through right now.”

I glanced at Dawn, and we both frowned. I hadn’t heard from Rachael in a while. The last we knew, the doctors had given Deborah a heavy dose of medicine to keep her calm and help her sleep. They had admitted her overnight for observation. She had already been on a number of different medications for her heart and diabetes, so they wanted to make sure she was stable before they released her.

“Nora, can you think of anything else?” Dawn asked. “I don’t care how small it might be. I need to know anything you can tell me about Logan and his family and any trouble they might’ve had.”

“That’s it, ma’am,” Nora said with a shake of her head. “I don’t know of any other trouble except with Calvin.”

CHAPTER 7

When Dawn left to bring Nora back to her car, I headed for the bathroom and saw Detective Doug Cheramie in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table munching on a bag of chips. He smiled up around a mouthful and offered me some. I waved him off.

“Did you go to 222 Wright Drive when you canvassed the neighborhood earlier?” I asked.

He chased the chips down with a drink from his Dr. Pepper and then consulted the notebook beside him. “222 you said?”

“Yeah, it’s the house cater-corner to the crime scene.”

“Ah, I did, but I didn’t make contact with anyone,” he said, nodding. “I was sure someone was inside because I heard footsteps, but no one came to the door. They have surveillance cameras, so I made a note to go back later today and ask them if I could see them.”

“Don’t,” I said. “It’s a drug house and we’re about to raid it. That’s most likely why they didn’t answer when you knocked.”

He frowned. “Damn, you never know who’s behind the door you’re knocking on.”

I nodded and continued on to the bathroom. When I was done, I headed for the conference room, where the sheriff was meeting with Roger and several members of the SWAT team. Two of the large television monitors on the wall displayed satellite and street-view photos of the target house, and I recognized them to be of the same house that the sheriff had pointed out to me while we were at the murder scene earlier.

“How sure are you that this is the right house?” I asked Roger. It was definitely the same house that was cater-corner to where the Snipes lived, but the images on the screen had been taken off of Google Maps. I wanted to see something from the agents on the ground.

“We’re positive.” Roger was sitting at the table behind the controls, and he made the satellite view disappear and replaced it with a video of the undercover going in to buy some drugs. There was a lot of movement and rustling about in a vehicle at first, but then the undercover asset shoved the gearshift in park, turned off the engine, and stepped out. When she did, there was a brief glimpse of the Snipes residence, and then the camera focused on the house in question as she approached it on foot.

I nodded my approval. It was definitely the right house. The UC had done a good job of panning her surroundings, making sure to get a shot of the entire front yard, the mailbox, the neighboring homes for orientation, and the house number on the front door. Upon entering, she had also asked to use the bathroom, and this afforded us a view of the interior floor plan, which was always helpful when planning a raid. Not only was it good for learning the layout, but it also provided us with valuable information about the suspect and his firepower. In the present case, the suspect was a burly man with long hair who was covered in tattoos, and he kept a pistol on his hip.

“She’s good,” I commented about the undercover asset.

“We’ve made over a hundred cases with her in the last six months,” Roger bragged. “We could’ve made a hundred more, but she wanted out. Now, all we’ve got to do is pick up the pieces.”

“Do you have arrest warrants for the occupants of the house?” I asked, indicating the street view of the target home.

“We’ve got arrest warrants for Beaver Ledet, who lives there with his pregnant wife,” he said. “The wife knows what’s going on, but she doesn’t seem to be actively involved, so we left her alone. We’re just waiting for the judge to approve the search warrant.”

The video continued to play, and when the UC left the bathroom, she turned left instead of right. Her steps were quick. She twisted around as she passed each open door and provided footage of each of the bedrooms. While the footage was fleeting when played in normal speed, there was no mistaking the AK-47 leaning against a wall in the master bedroom.

I snapped my fingers and pointed to it. “What do we know about that AK with the banana magazine?”

“Our sources say it’s full-auto and that it came across the border from Mexico,” Roger explained. “The undercover was able to verify this when she visited the house earlier in the year. They took a walk to the woods behind the neighborhood and shot it. That’s why we’re applying for a no-knock warrant. We need to get to Beaver before he can get to one of his guns.”

I scanned the faces of the SWAT officers gathered around the table. I’d worked with most of them for years. They were good men, and they all had families. I spotted Andrew Hacker sitting at the end of the table listening intently to everything that was going on. In addition to working as a patrol deputy, he also served as one of my snipers. I had pulled him aside earlier after speaking with the sheriff and told him to gear up and be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Our eyes met and I gave him a nod.

“Andrew, I’ll drop you off in the neighborhood so we can have eyes on the house at all times,” I said, to which he nodded back and hurried out of the room to get his rifle and gear. I turned back to Roger and the sheriff. “Can we speak privately?”

“Sure,” the sheriff said, and waved for Roger to follow.

I led the way into a small office that was located at the nearest end of the conference room. The sheriff usually occupied it when he was in the building, and his phone and keys were sitting on the desktop.

“What’s up?” Roger asked when I closed the door behind us.

“There’s no need to make a dynamic entry,” I said. “We can set up an invisible perimeter and wait for him to leave his house. We can make a traffic stop at the front of the street where they have those two empty lots on either side. It’ll reduce the chances of someone getting hurt.”

“London, if we do that we’ll lose the element of surprise,” Roger said, his voice terse. “You know yourself that the key to an effective raid is speed, shock, and surprise. If we make a traffic stop, we lose all of those elements. You’ll be putting my men in harm’s way.”

“There’s nothing more dangerous for a SWAT officer than a dynamic entry,” I said. “It should be used as a last resort and only when lives are in danger—not to recover drugs. As for the traffic stop, it’ll be safer than your drive to work this morning.”

He grunted. “How so? Beaver’s a dangerous man, and there’s no such thing as a safe traffic stop.”

“Jerry’s even more dangerous.” I dug out my cell phone and pulled up an online map of Wright Drive. I navigated to the front of the street and showed Roger the two large oak trees that were directly across Highway Eighty from the entrance. “I’ll set Jerry up in one of these trees. You can have an unmarked car catch him from behind and initiate the stop as he reaches the front, and we can have patrol units pull up at the right moment and block the highway. At that point, Beaver won’t have a chance to do anything but shit on himself or die.”

“I don’t like it,” Roger insisted. “It sounds too dangerous.”

“It’s only dangerous for Beaver,” I said. “If he tries to ram one of the cars, Jerry takes him out. If he comes up with a gun, it’s lights out. His only option will be to come out with his hands up. Another approach would be to converge on him as soon as he leaves his house, but he’s got surveillance cameras and he’ll probably see your men setting up around his house. Even if they can get in place without being seen, there’s a chance he could turn and run back inside, and we can’t justifiably shoot him for doing that.”

Roger turned to the sheriff, who had been listening quietly. “Sheriff, I don’t like it. It’ll be dangerous for my men. We need to bust down his door and get to him before he can wake up and get his gun.”

“What if he’s not sleeping?” the sheriff asked.

Roger blinked. “Huh?”

“What if he’s awake and hears y’all bust the door down?” the sheriff asked. “Wouldn’t that be enough time for him to draw that pistol he carries on his hip? And what if he has one of those cameras with the motion sensor? It would alert him before y’all even get to the top of the steps. That, in and of itself, would destroy every element of a dynamic entry.”

“I doubt he has sensors on those cameras,” Roger said, his voice losing its steam slightly.

The sheriff pointed toward the conference room. “Are you willing to bet the lives of those men that you’re right?”

Roger opened his mouth to speak, but then clamped it shut. I knew he realized that the only way we could defeat the cameras was to shoot them out with pellet rifles, but even that might cause the system to alert.

When he didn’t say anything, the sheriff said, “It’s my call to make, and we’re doing it London’s way. Get an unmarked car to the back of the street and get ready to make the traffic stop. London, put Jerry in place. Let’s hope we’re not waiting all day for this piece of shit drug dealer to wake up.”

CHAPTER 8

Dawn and I had been sitting in my truck for over two hours waiting for something to happen. As a sniper, one of my greatest attributes was patience, but I would’ve preferred to be in a sniper hide with my rifle rather than sitting in my truck. However, as lead detective on the murder case, I needed to be available to respond to breaks that could happen at any moment, and one of those breaks might come from Beaver.

If I were sitting in the oak tree across from Wright Drive, I might not be able to unwrap myself from my position and make it to the interview in time to elicit the information we needed. While Beaver was not a suspect in the shooting, he would be arrested on drug warrants, and it was usually best to start talking to criminals as quickly as possible after they were taken into custody. The longer they sat there brooding over their plight, the better the chances they might start thinking about a lawyer. Once that happened, there was no talking to them.

Suddenly, at five forty-eight in the morning, the silence was broken by a police radio scratching to life. It was quickly followed by Andrew’s voice. I had instructed him to get into a position where he could see the drug house, and the last time he had checked in was an hour earlier, when he’d reported seeing a light come on in one of the windows.

“Sierra Five to Command, I’ve got movement,” Andrew said in a quiet and calm voice. “The target has just left the house. He’s armed with an AK and a pistol. He just put the AK behind the seat of his truck. The pistol is in a holster on his right hip.”

There was a pause in his traffic and I quickly started my truck, ready for action.

“Command, the target is leaving the house in a low-rider truck. The bed of the truck is white, everything else is primer gray.”

There was another pause in Andrew’s traffic, and then Jerry came on to say he saw headlights approaching the front of the street. That was our cue.

Leaving my headlights off, I raced up the street and quickly gained on the taillights in front of us. Since I had grill lights and a siren, I had volunteered to make the stop. Roger hadn’t been too keen on the idea, considering it was his warrant for Beaver’s arrest and he wanted to take the man into custody, but he agreed when I told him I would get Beaver out at gunpoint and order him to the ground, where Roger could put the cuffs on him.

Just as Beaver’s truck approached the front of the street, four patrol cars materialized from out of the darkness with bright lights flashing and blocked off his exit. I had caught up to his truck at that point, and turned on my grill lights. I blew my siren briefly for good measure, and then dropped from my truck, pistol in hand. Dawn had already exited and taken cover on the front passenger side.

“Beaver Ledet, you’re under arrest!” I hollered quickly, before he had time to think about what he wanted to do. “You’re completely surrounded and we’ve got a sniper rifle trained on you! If you so much as sneeze, our sniper will put a bullet through your skull. Do you understand me?”

I heard a noncommittal grunt come from the car. I could see his head darting from left to right as he tried to figure a way out of his predicament. I needed him alive, and I needed him talking.

“Don’t even think about running,” I hollered, knowing I had to bluff him into custody. “We know you’re armed. If you don’t exit the truck with your hands high in the air, we’ll take that as a sign of aggression and we’ll act accordingly. Do you understand?”

Nothing.

“Please don’t do anything stupid,” I implored. “Think about your wife and unborn child. Do you hear me?”

After a long and tense moment, his head bobbed up and down.

“Now, raise your hands high in the air,” I commanded, keeping my pistol at the ready.

He complied without hesitation.

“Next, I want you to remove the key from the ignition with your left hand and toss it on the ground.”

Again, he did as was ordered. He kept following my commands until he was flat on his face with his legs crossed and his arms straight out at his sides. I could see that Beaver’s pistol was still in the holster, so I made sure Jerry had him in the crosshairs before clearing Roger to make the approach.

Within seconds, he was disarmed, his wrists were in bracelets, and he was belted into the front seat of my truck. Dawn sat behind me so she could keep an eye on him, and we all headed back to the bureau.

I read him his Miranda rights while I drove and explained the charges against him. He looked me up and down.

“You’re not narcotics.” His voice was bitter and filled with hate for the police. “I’ve seen you on the news. You’re some kind of mercenary or something.”

“I’m a police sniper, but I’m also a detective,” I explained in a friendly tone, “along with Sergeant Luke back there. We’re investigating the murder that happened across the street from your house late last night. Did you hear about it?”

He hesitated, but then nodded. “I heard sirens and saw the commotion, but I didn’t know what it was all about.”

“You must’ve heard the gunshots,” I offered. “A neighbor up the road heard them and he lives much farther from the victims’ home than you do.”

His face was twisted in suspicion. “Are you accusing me of doing this? Are you trying to say I murdered those people?”

“Not at all,” I said with a shake of my head, “but I’m wondering if you might know something about it.”

“Why would I know something about that?” he asked. “I don’t even know those people. Never talked to them in my life.”

“We’re operating off the theory that someone hit the wrong house,” I said, studying him carefully. He didn’t seem to understand at first, but when I was silent for a long moment, his eyes widened.

“What’re you saying?” he asked, twisting around in his seat to look directly at me.

I glanced at him. “I’m saying we think someone wants you dead, but they hit the wrong house and killed an innocent father and son.”

CHAPTER 9

It was a little after eight in the morning when Dawn stepped out of the interview room where London had spent hours trying to get information from Beaver Ledet. While the drug dealer had definitely been scared sober by the murders across the street from his house and he had been cooperating, none of the information he provided had panned out. He had given a dozen names of potential suspects, and the detectives and narcotics agents had been able to track down every one of them. None of them were in possession of M1 carbines and they all had been able to provide proof that they were elsewhere during the commission of the murders.

“Looks like a dead end,” Dawn said to the sheriff, who had exited the observatory room when she stepped out into the hallway. Having been a detective before becoming sheriff, Corey Chiasson was accustomed to running and gunning during murder investigations, but he was looking haggard at that moment. “Why don’t you go home, Sheriff? We can call you if something breaks.”

He sighed. “I might take you up on that offer. My oldest is graduating next month, and she threw a pre-graduation party at the house yesterday—” He stopped talking, scrunched up his face, and asked, “Is it Monday morning?”

Dawn laughed. “Yeah, Sheriff, it’s Monday morning.”

“Oh, well, she had a pre-graduation party on Saturday, so I was up all day and evening on Sunday cleaning up. Have you ever seen what a gang of teenagers can do to a house?”

“No, but I hope to someday find out.”

He nodded longingly. “When y’all do have kids, make sure to live in the moment, because those moments pass by so fast. It seems like just yesterday she was stumbling around the house, bumping into walls like a drunk sailor with sea legs. I tell you what, it brings a tear to my eyes to look at her now and—”

“Hey, Dawn,” interrupted Cindy Folse, their evidence custodian, “the phone in the bureau was ringing when I walked in and no one was around, so I picked it up. There’s a lady wanting to talk to somebody about a missing person.”

Sheriff Chiasson blinked, apologized for rambling, and stepped back into the observatory. Dawn stared after the door for a long moment, thinking ahead to when she and London would have kids, and looking back to her own childhood. Her dad had been an abusive drunk when she was growing up and she had grown to hate him into her teenage years. She had sworn off having kids for most of her adulthood, but that had been before she’d met London and fallen in love with him. Now, she couldn’t wait to see what a child of theirs might look like.

“Dawn,” called Cindy, “I can just take a message.”

“Nah, I’m coming.” Dawn shook her head to clear it and joined Cindy as they walked down the hall that led from the interview rooms to the bureau. Before picking up the handset that rested on their secretary’s desk, she told Cindy about the spent shell casings they’d recovered. “We need them sent to the crime lab ASAP. We need to find out if they were fired from the same weapon or if we’re looking for two rifles.”

Cindy nodded. “I’ll deliver them first thing this morning.”

Dawn thanked her and picked up the phone. “This is Dawn Luke. How may I help you?”

“Are you a detective?” asked an uncertain voice.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. What can I do for you?”

“Um, do you handle the Beacher, Louisiana area?”

“Beacher has its own police department, but our agency handles the more complicated investigations down there.”

“Would you guys handle missing person cases?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Dawn pulled a pen from her pocket and walked around to have a seat at the desk. She found a notepad and turned to a fresh page. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Hannah Schofield.”

“And you want to file a missing person report?”

“No, we already filed one. I’m just trying to find out if you guys ever found out anything. It’s been twenty-one years.”

Dawn blinked. “Ma’am? Did you say twenty-one years?”

“Yes, my daughter went missing in Beacher, Louisiana twenty-one years ago today. I used to call every year to find out if there’s been any progress on the case, but it’s been a while since I contacted your office.”

“Who would you talk to before when you’d call?” Dawn asked, flabbergasted. She had never heard of a missing person case from out of Beacher that extended that far back.

“Well, I haven’t called in a few years,” the woman said. “The last time I called, they told me the detective who handled the case had just died, so I…I didn’t know who to ask for and I know you guys are busy, so I didn’t want to be a bother. And then my husband got sick. He’s fine now, but he was sick for a long time and I was so busy caring for him that I lost track of the years. I…I’m sorry for taking up your time. I just needed to know if you guys found out anything. Since the original detective is dead, I called the Beacher Police Department, but they sent me to this number. I don’t mean to be a bother.”

“Oh, ma’am, it’s never a bother,” Dawn said reassuringly, her heart breaking for the woman. “And we’re never too busy to help. Now, what’s your daughter’s name?”

“Sarah…Sarah Schofield. We’re from Oklahoma. She would’ve turned thirty-nine this year.”

Dawn frowned deeply as she wrote down the information. “And she went missing in Beacher?”

“That’s right.”

“What can you tell me about what happened?”

“All we know is she went there for Spring Break and we never saw her again.” The woman paused to take a trembling breath, and Dawn could tell she was reliving the horror all over again. “I got a call from her on the morning of April eighteenth saying she was going for a boat ride with friends. That was the last time I ever heard from her. I tried calling her hotel room a bunch of times that day but no one answered. I talked to one of her friends the next morning, and she said that Sarah had gone on the boat ride with them the day before, and they’d all made it back to the beach, but then they lost track of her at some point. She was never seen or heard from again.”

“Who was the detective working the case?”

“Um, it was Detective Michael Theriot, but the last time I talked to him he was something different. I have his position written down, just give me a minute.” There was some shuffling of papers in the background. “Here it is. Yeah, he was a captain, but he said he was still working in the same division, and he told me he would never give up on Sarah. As long as he was handling her case, I felt like there was hope of finding her someday. When he died, well, I got really scared it would be the end of the case.”

Dawn settled deep into her chair. It had been a long time since she’d heard the name of Captain Michael Theriot. London had shot and killed Theriot in the line of duty five years earlier.

“Ma’am, he’s been dead for over five years. Has it been that long since you’ve spoken with anyone about your daughter?”

“I haven’t called since they told me he was dead,” she said, her voice mixed with some doubt and maybe a little guilt. “Did I wait too long? Is the case over with now?”

“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been, and the case will never be closed until we find your daughter,” Dawn quickly said. “I’ll look into it right away, and I’ll give you my personal cell number. You can call at any time—day or night.”

When the woman was ready, Dawn provided the number, got a little more information from her, and then headed straight for her desk. She was still searching for the case number when London’s shadow fell over her. She looked up and asked, “Any luck?”

He sighed. “Other than taking down a bunch of lower-level drug dealers in the parish, we’ve got nothing. Roger’s tickled stupid with all the cases he’s been able to make tonight, so there’s that.”

“These murders sure put the fear of God into Beaver,” Dawn said with a chuckle. “If no one wanted to kill him last night, they’ll definitely be coming after him now. There’ll be no shortage of suspects if he turns up dead.”

London nodded his agreement, indicated her computer. “What about you? Did you solve the case for me?”

“Oh, no, this is something else.” Dawn went on to explain the phone call she’d received. “I feel terrible for the woman. She sounded so lost and lifeless.”

“I can’t imagine.” London straightened from where he had been leaning against her cubicle. “I’ve got lots of help on my case, so if you need to pull away to take care of Mrs. Schofield, it won’t hurt my feelings.”

“Are you sure?” Dawn asked, cocking her head to the side. “I can put this on hold if you need me.”

“No!” London said forcefully. “Remember when I ignored Starla’s sister about that welfare check? She’s lucky to be alive, no thanks to me.”

Dawn nodded. How could anyone forget that case? “Thanks,” she said. “I feel like I need to do this for Mrs. Schofield.”

London smiled and her heart melted when she saw the familiar dimples appear on his weathered face.

“If we didn’t live together,” he said playfully, “I might insist on your help so I could spend time with you, but since I’ll see you at home later, I think I can survive the hours apart.”

He bent, kissed her briefly on the neck, and then walked off. She felt a tingle where his lips had been a split second earlier, and smiled as she went back to work. As she continued entering different search terms to try and find the report, she reflected on London’s change since she’d first met him. He had seemed so fiercely independent and against having a family back then. She had heard him say more than once that cops were more effective at doing their jobs when they were alone.

“Think about it,” he had once told her when they were out late working a case, “cops with families are in a constant state of distraction. Everywhere they go, every decision they make, they do it with their families in mind. Sure, they might risk their lives without question, but there’ll always be some worries in the back of their minds, and that could distract them and actually get them killed. Who’s gonna raise my kids? Will my wife or husband remarry when I’m gone? Who will walk my daughter down the aisle? How will my kids afford college? All of those thoughts are constantly going through their minds.” He had paused and shook his head. “And let’s not forget being compromised. If you kidnap someone’s kid, you can make them do almost anything to try and get their kids back. That’s why I’ll never have any. I’ll never be weak and vulnerable. It’s the only way to do this job.”

Dawn had realized right away that London liked being with women—maybe too much—so casual relationships hadn’t been the problem. No, it was just the commitment part that he hadn’t liked. Yet, he had shed all of those doubts and deeply-held beliefs to drop down on one knee and ask her to marry him. She beamed every time she thought about how far he had come, and it wasn’t lost on her that he had done it for her. He had even sung the lyrics to a country song once that he said described their relationship perfectly.

“It’s called Brand New Man by Brooks and Dunn,” he had said when he’d finished singing it. “Five years ago, I would’ve bet everything that no woman could tie me down, but, like the song goes, then I met you.”

London was rough around the edges and would never be heard quoting Shakespeare, but that didn’t matter to Dawn. Belting out Brand New Man in his shower-only voice had been the most romantic thing she had ever experienced.

CHAPTER 10

After talking with Dawn, I headed back to the interview room and found Roger standing outside the door talking eagerly on his cell phone, and I had an idea what it was about. When the two agents who had been tasked with searching Beaver’s house had returned empty-handed, Roger had sent them back with a canine team. I figured they must’ve found something, and I was right.

“My guys just recovered five pounds of fentanyl pills at Beaver’s house,” Roger said when I walked up. “That shit definitely came from Mexico—just like that AK. He’s not telling us something.”

“Where’d they find it?” I asked.

“In the core of some diapers,” he explained. “Apparently, they used steam to remove the tape, stuffed the drugs in the diapers, and then sealed them back as good as new. Had it not been for the canine team, they would’ve never found it.”

I shook my head in disgust. “Let me know if you learn anything that might help my murder case along.”

After interviewing Beaver for as long as I had, I was pretty sure no one had been looking to kill him, and I needed to refocus my energy on the Snipes family. I needed to know who might have wanted them dead. It was possible Austin and Logan had both been marked for death, but it was also possible the killers had only wanted one of them dead, and the other had just happened to be there. My money was on Austin, since he was the head of the family and the owner of the business. The pool of suspects could include competitors and former clients, so we would need to interview Mrs. Snipes and delve into her husband’s records.

I called Detective Rachael Bowler, who had been tasked with making sure Mrs. Snipes got home safely once she was discharged. She answered on the first ring.

“What’s up, London?”

“Are you still at the hospital?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re about to leave. They’re discharging Mrs. Snipes right now. We should be out of here within the hour.”

“Can she talk?”

“She’s heavily medicated, but responsive,” Rachael said. “Karla and I have been talking to her all morning, trying to get any information we can about who might want her husband and son dead. So far, she can think of no enemies, and she said they haven’t had problems with anyone recently.”

“Is the medicine helping?”

“Not much. She was able to laugh once while she was telling a story about Logan hiding his army men in Austin’s gloves when he was a kid, but she still breaks down every few minutes. She’s a wreck.”

I was thoughtful, wondering what kind of cool things my future kids might do. I had never wanted to have kids before—was afraid to, actually—but I found myself longing for the day when Dawn and I would be parents. I shook my head to clear it.

“Where are y’all taking her?” I finally asked. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring her to her house. The killers might come back to finish the job.”

“We’ve thought about that,” Rachael agreed. “She’s got a friend who lives in Gracetown, and we’ve made arrangements for Mrs. Snipes to stay with her. Karla and I plan on riding it out with her—just in case.”

“Does she have other family?”

“Her parents are dead, but she’s got a brother in Oregon, a sister in California, and another brother in Alabama,” she said. “Her siblings are upset. Her brother in Oregon is really pissed and wants revenge. We overheard her trying to talk him out of coming to Louisiana, but I don’t know if it worked. She said Logan was his favorite nephew, and he wants blood.”

“I don’t blame him.” I took a breath. There was so much to do, but I had to do one thing at a time, and at that moment the most pressing thing was Austin’s business records. We had obtained a search warrant for the house, but we hadn’t found anything at all pertaining to the company. “Rachael, can you ask Mrs. Snipes where Austin kept his business records? We didn’t find anything in the house. We checked every room, the shed, and the barn, but there was nothing pertaining to it.”

“Sure, give me a second.”

Rachael was gone for a few minutes. When she got back on the phone, she told me the records were kept in his shop. “It’s at the front of the street,” she said. “It’s the gray barn on the bayou side. Mrs. Snipes said he keeps the keys in the gas flap on his tractor. Oh, and I got Karla to record a verbal consent from her for the search.”

I thanked her and ended the call. Next, I walked around the building until I found Abraham. He was in the parking lot on his cell phone. When he got off, he told me his dad would try to find the number for his friend, Bubba Wisinger, who was an expert on WWII memorabilia.

“My dad got a new cell phone for his birthday last year,” Abraham explained, “and he lost most of his contacts. He’ll ask around. The last he’d heard, Mr. Bubba took a job in the city, so he might not be home during the day anymore.”

I acknowledged the information and asked if he wanted to join me on the search of Austin Snipes’ barn. “We need to look through his company records to see if he’s had problems with anyone,” I explained. “Rachael said Mrs. Snipes can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt her family, so we’ll have to delve deep into other aspects of his life.”

“Do you think Austin might’ve been having an affair?” Abraham asked. “Or maybe Logan was messing with a married woman?”

I told him about the spat with Logan’s girlfriend, and it was then that I remembered the ex-girlfriend and her husband. I immediately called Julie in communication and asked if she’d found anything on Calvin Robichaux.

“I thought I texted you,” she said, sounding puzzled. “All I was able to find was a driver’s license. He doesn’t have a criminal history and he’s not wanted.”

I flipped my cell phone around and checked my messages. I cursed. I had gotten four of them when my phone had been switched to silent earlier. I checked them quickly, but none were urgent. Afterward, I got the address for Calvin and Tina, and then told Abraham we would check them out before heading to the company barn.

CHAPTER 11

Dawn frowned as she dug through the old computer program that the sheriff’s office used to operate. She had been able to access Captain Theriot’s old files from when he had been a detective, but she could find none that mentioned Sarah Schofield.

She leaned back in her chair and drummed her fingers on the desk, thinking back to the way things might have been back then. She had been fifteen at the time of Sarah’s disappearance, so she had been far removed from law enforcement or the swamps of Louisiana at that time, but she did remember a simpler life. Teenagers weren’t running around with cell phones, no one was addicted to social media, and most Internet connections were dial-up.

Not knowing where else to turn, she called the sheriff. He sounded groggy when he first answered the phone, but he came wide awake at the mention of the deceased captain’s name.

“Wow, I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he said, and then paused for a moment. “Let’s see, if the disappearance happened in Beacher, the call would’ve come in to the Seasville Substation. Back then, the dispatchers kept the complaint information in handwritten log books. That’s where you’d find the case number.”

“Where’re the log books stored?”

“Upstairs at the substation,” he said. “There’re old filing cabinets up in the attic, and there should be labels on them that say Logbooks, along with a range of years.”

Dawn thanked him quickly and hurried to her car. She had been in the attic of the substation before, and she knew the filing cabinets to which he referred. The files and weapons stored up there went back more than sixty years. In fact, she had once found the file from a case that was thirty years old, so she was sure she could find something from Sarah’s disappearance.

She reached the substation a little more than thirty minutes later. She rushed through the back door and made her way to the hallway where the abandoned cleaning closet stood forgotten. It was a locked door that was rarely ever opened, and Dawn knew what she would find inside. Sure enough, the narrow stairway that led up to the attic was covered in cobwebs. They hung from the ceiling like Spanish moss, and she had to knock them down with the old mop that rested in the corner of the closet.

She fought her way through the moss to the top of the stairs and unlocked the door to the attic. When she stepped inside, she stood for a moment to take in the familiar musky odor that greeted her. The room was dark and spooky. Positioned along the wall to the left, was a long row of filing cabinets filled with records, while a homemade gun rack ran the length of the wall to the right. There were individual slots in the gun rack, and a long gun occupied each one. Handguns hung from pegs on the wall above the rack, and there were at least twice as many of those as there were rifles and shotguns. Evidence tags were attached to the trigger guards of each of the weapons, and everything up there was covered in dust.

Shuddering a little, Dawn stepped across the hollow floor and moved to the left. She began reading the labels on the cabinets with the aid of her flashlight. Dust particles danced in the beam of light and she couldn’t help but wonder how much black mold and other unhealthy particles she might be breathing in.

Finally, she located one that included the date she was looking for, and she grabbed the handle to open it. She wasn’t surprised when the drawer stuck. Pressing the latch with her thumb, she gave another tug, but harder this time. The drawer squealed in protest as it came open under the strain of Dawn’s pull, and more dust shot up into the air, causing her to sneeze violently.

Holding the flashlight in the crook of her neck, she began sifting through the hanging folders, searching for the right date range. She found it without trouble, and anxiously flipped through the months until she reached April.

“Come on,” she said, “please be here.”

Although Beacher P.D. had their own dispatchers and recording system, any calls that were referred to the sheriff’s office would have to go through Magnolia’s communications division, so Dawn knew the complaint had to be there somewhere.

When she reached the sheet for April eighteenth, she quickly slid her finger down the page as she read off the type of complaints. She moved to the next page, and then the next, losing hope with each page she flipped.

“Shit!” she said when she’d reached the end of the complaints for that date. She scrunched up her face in thought, but then groaned. The eighteenth had been the last time Mrs. Schofield had spoken with her daughter. She hadn’t mentioned when the complaint had been called in. Her hope renewed, Dawn continued searching, this time going over the files from the next day.

Finally, when she reached the second to last page for the complaints filed on the nineteenth, her finger froze in place.

“This is it!” she said triumphantly. The call had come in at ten o’clock in the evening, and the complainant had been Mrs. Schofield. Trying to keep her flashlight in place while she fumbled for her cell phone, Dawn took a picture of the page. Armed with the complaint number, she slammed that filing cabinet drawer shut and moved to the one that held the detective files. Each drawer had a faded label denoting the year of the complaints inside, and when she found the right one, she wrestled it open.

Thankfully, the file was easy to find, because the names of each victim was written in black permanent marker on the lip of the folder. She frowned when she pulled out the file for Sarah Schofield. The name was faded and the folder was dusty.

“This thing hasn’t been touched in twenty years,” she muttered. “Michael, you’re a lying piece of shit.”

Dawn hadn’t been on the job back when the detectives were using the attic to store their old cases, but she knew it was the place where open cases went to die. If the case was closed, one copy went to the district attorney’s office and one copy was filed upstairs. If the case was open and active, a detective would keep it in a filing cabinet in his or her office. If he or she didn’t want to see it again, it was locked away in the attic.

Dusting off the folder and shoving it under her arm, Dawn headed for the door to the attic, glancing at the row of firearms on the opposite side of the room as she walked.

She had almost reached the door when one rifle caught her attention. She wasn’t an expert on firearms, but she recognized that the rifle had to be from the WWII era, so she approached it to read the large index card that was taped to the stock. The writing was faded, but the words were large and had been written with a red permanent marker, so she was able to make out that the weapon was an M1 carbine, the signal was a “62”, and the victim was a man named Voltaire Bergeron.

Dawn recognized the name. Mr. Voltaire was well known—and well liked—in Magnolia Parish. Not only had he been a barber and a bus driver for decades, but he also ran a successful pawn shop in Seasville. The “62” was code for burglary, so she surmised that Mr. Voltaire’s shop had been burglarized and the rifle stolen.

Shuffling her flashlight and the file folder around to enable her to pull out her cell phone, Dawn called London. His cell phone rang for so long that it almost went to voicemail, but he finally picked up.

“Hey, sorry about that,” he mumbled. “We’re going through Austin’s company barn and I couldn’t get to my phone. What’s up?”

“I’m in the attic at the substation and I found a stolen M1 carbine on the rack,” she said. “It’s from Mr. Voltaire’s pawn shop, so that must mean he sells them. It might be a good lead. Someone might’ve gone in recently and bought two of them.”

London was quiet on the other end. “Damn, Dawn, how long has that rifle been up there? If someone was arrested for it, there’s no way the case is still pending, and if no one was arrested for it yet, they never will be. We need to give him back his gun.”

“Yeah, I agree,” Dawn said, leaning forward to read the information on the evidence tag. It was dusty, so she rubbed it clean with her thumb, but then gave a start.

“Dawn?” London asked, hearing her outburst. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“The evidence tag is so brittle that I just rubbed the case number right off of it.” She regripped the tag by the edges and gently blew on it. Dust particles sprang up into the air and she was forced to stifle a sneeze. Finally, when she was able to look back at it under the beam of her flashlight, she let out a grunt and shook her head. “This thing’s been up here for over twenty years. Even if you do find out who stole it, the statute of limitation has expired, so there’s nothing you could do about it.”

CHAPTER 12

Earlier

Abraham and I found Tina Robichaux sitting on the front porch of her trailer smoking a cigarette. She had started to stand when I pulled into the yard, but then settled down when she saw us step out with badges on our hips.

“I didn’t know who that was pulling up in my yard,” she said in a flat Cajun accent when we walked up. “I was about to run.”

I stifled a chuckle and introduced us. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the murders by now,” I went on. “It’s all over the news.”

She rocked back and forth nervously in her folding chair and nodded. “I had just talked to Logan on Saturday,” she said. “It’s crazy. You start thinking about what you could’ve said to change things, you know?”

“What time did you see him?”

“Oh, it was around lunch time.” She flicked out the ash from the tip of her cigarette. “I was at the Goal Post. I was in my car waiting for my food when I saw him sitting at the picnic table playing on his phone. I hadn’t seen him in a while, so I went over to say hello.”

“How long did you talk to him?” I asked.

“Oh, it was only a couple of minutes.” She smashed out the cigarette and left it in the ashtray. “I sat on the opposite side of the table, but it wasn’t long before my order was ready.”

“What did y’all talk about?”

“Nothing much. He didn’t waste any time telling me about his girlfriend. Nora, I think he said her name was.” Her face twisted in disgust. “What a weird name, don’t y’all think? I would change it if I was her.”

I didn’t acknowledge her comment. “How long has it been since y’all dated?”

“Oh, it’s been about three or four years,” she said with a flip of her hand. “I met Calvin the same night Logan broke up with me. You know what they say down here, the best way to get over one man is to get under another one.”

Abraham and I traded glances.

“Um, I didn’t know they said that,” I mumbled. “Anyway, during the time y’all dated, did you know of any problems Logan might’ve had with anyone? Enemies? People he might’ve fought with? Shady characters he might’ve dealt with?”

“Nah, Logan was always a goody-two-shoes. He never wanted to go out and have fun. That’s why we broke up. He would rather work and then go home and relax. Me, I wanted to enjoy life. I didn’t want to stay home and do nothing. I wanted to party and travel and see the world.” Tina lit another cigarette and stared wistfully at the smoke that trailed up from it. “And look at me now. I can’t remember the last time I left Seasville. I’m stuck here with the kids while Calvin gets to go to work and be around people. When he gets home, all he wants to do is hunt and fish.”

I glanced around the yard. There were no toys that I could see, and I hadn’t heard any noises coming from inside the house.

Tina must’ve seen the look on my face, because she offered, “It’s nap time. They’re really good kids. They eat, sleep, and shit like clockwork—and they don’t complain in between. My mom says they’re good like I was when I was a baby.”

“How old are they?”

“Cal is three years old and Kim is eighteen months.”

“Where’re their toys?” I asked, waving a hand to indicate the yard and porch.

Tina’s eyes smarted. “The little they have is inside, and when I say little, I mean, hardly nothing. Calvin would rather spend money on rods and reels and guns than his own kids. When I tell him I need stuff for them, he tells me he doesn’t work his ass off just to buy diapers and formula. He wants me to get a job to buy those things, but he won’t pay for daycare. It’s a no-win situation.”

I scowled. I didn’t like the sound of Calvin. I started to ask her why she was with him, but it wasn’t my business and it wasn’t why we were there. I shifted my feet.

“You said Logan didn’t have any enemies,” I began, “but what about Austin Snipes? Did you know anything about him?”

Tina’s eyes narrowed. “You know what? I do remember Logan saying something about his dad getting into a fight with somebody, but I don’t remember who it was or what it was about. You might want to ask Logan—” She clamped her mouth shut suddenly, cutting off her own words. “Damn, I forgot what happened to him for a second. It doesn’t seem real that he could be gone.”

I nodded my understanding. “When did this fight happen?”

“Oh, I guess it was about five years ago, maybe longer.”

“Do you remember anything else about the fight? Did Logan say if the cops were called or where it happened?”

“If he did, I didn’t pay attention,” she said. “I never really cared for fighting and stuff. If a fight started while I was partying, I’d run to the other side of the bar. I don’t like seeing stuff like that. The thought of fights and…and what happened to Logan—that scares me.”

Remembering what Nora had said about Calvin being the one who’d possibly killed Logan, I asked, “Did Calvin know you ran into Logan on Saturday? Nora found out, so I’m just wondering if Calvin also found out somehow.”

She frowned. “Nora knew about that? I thought Logan was by himself.”

“He was alone, but someone saw y’all sitting together and sent a picture to Nora.” I shrugged. “Maybe someone did the same for Calvin?”

Tina suddenly stood to her feet and began pacing back and forth on the shaky porch, sucking furiously on the cigarette like it was life-saving oxygen. “Oh, my God, if he knows I was sitting there with Logan, he’ll kill me.”

I stiffened. “Does he hit you?”

She stopped pacing and glanced at me, her face twisted in confusion. “Who, Calvin?”

“Who in the hell else would I be talking about?” I wanted to ask, but refrained and simply nodded.

“Hell no, he would never lay a hand on me.” She started pacing again as she continued. “If he did, I’d cut his pecker off in his sleep, and he knows it.”

“Then why’d you say he would kill you?”

“It’s a figure of speech.” She waved her cigarette hand dismissively. “If he knew about me and Logan, he would kick me to the curb. And you know what that means, right? I would be left to raise my kids alone. I would never be able to get married again. Sure, men might want to sleep with me, but they’d never stay—not with that kind of baggage.”

I didn’t like that she referred to her kids as baggage, but I decided to ignore the comment.

“Do you still love Logan?” I asked gently. I believed in a woman’s intuition, but I didn’t know if Nora possessed an accurate one or not. If Nora was right and Tina was still in love with Logan, then Calvin might definitely be a viable suspect. He certainly seemed insecure about his wife’s former relationship with Logan, considering how immature he acted at the bowling alley, so maybe he had his own kind of intuition.

My question had caused Tina to stop pacing. She hesitated for a brief moment, turned to put out her cigarette, and then hung her head. “Yeah, I do.”

“Does Calvin know?”

She sank to her chair again. “I think he suspects it, but I don’t think he knows for sure. If someone sent him a picture of us sitting at that picnic table, then it would all be over with.”

“He would be mad?”

She bobbed her head up and down. “Oh, yeah, he would throw a fit! The last time we ran into Logan and I smiled at him, Calvin broke every dish in the house when we got home. He told me he’d…”

Tina’s voice trailed off.

“What did he tell you?” I prodded.

“It’s nothing, really.”

“It’s important that we know everything,” I said, taking a step closer to the edge of the porch. “Please, Logan was a good man. He didn’t deserve to be shot to pieces like he was.”

Tina recoiled in horror. “He was shot to pieces?”

“Something like that,” I said. “We need to find the person who did that to him. Now, please, tell me what Calvin said.”

“You think Calvin did this?”

“We don’t know who did it,” I admitted, “but we’re looking at every possibility. I need to know what he told you.”

“He…he said he’d kill Logan if I ever smiled at him again,” she said, “but I don’t think he would ever do that. He…he’s not a killer. And there’s no way he could know I saw Logan on Saturday.”

“When you smiled at Logan that last time, was it at the bowling alley about three weeks ago?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” Tina shook her head violently from side to side. “I didn’t dare look at Logan that night! Calvin had been drinking since before we got there, and he spotted Logan right away. He started talking really loud and saying he could bowl strikes better than Logan. I don’t know if Logan heard him or not, but nothing happened. After a while, a manager came up and told us we’d have to leave. Calvin was about to smart off to the manager, but a cop walked up and stared at him, so he grabbed my arm and we left.”

The more I heard about Calvin, the more I thought he was a likely suspect.

“You said Calvin spends his money on guns,” I began slowly. “Do you think we can get a look at them?”

She licked her lips and looked up and down the street. “I…I don’t think that would be a good idea. He’s got friends everywhere, and if someone sees two men going in my trailer, well, that would really piss him off.”

I was thoughtful. Suddenly, an idea came to me. I pulled out my cell phone and extended it toward her. “Do you think you can go inside and take a picture of his guns with my phone? That way, we’ll know if he has the same kind of gun that was used in the murder, and we won’t have to enter your house.”

“I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “He would be so mad if he knew I did that.”

“Would you tell him?” I asked.

She shook her head violently.

“Then neither would we.” I hoisted the phone. “Please? For Logan’s sake?”

Tina thought about it for a few seconds longer, and then let her breath out in a huff. She snatched up my cell phone and stomped into the trailer as though she didn’t have a choice in the matter. We could hear her footsteps pounding against the hollow floor, and then a door slammed. There were banging noises, and it sounded like something was being knocked up against the wall. A baby started crying.

“Damn,” Abraham muttered, “she must really hate those guns.”

Finally, after a few minutes, she reappeared on the porch carrying my phone. She thrust it toward me as though she’d committed some horrible act of betrayal.

I thanked her and glanced down at the pictures she’d taken. The first one depicted a cluttered closet with long guns leaning against the walls. From what I could see in the dimly lit space, there were two shotguns, a lever-action .22 rifle, and a bolt-action rifle with a cheap scope mounted on top. I slid to the next photo and saw the contents of a dresser drawer. Among the scattered items, there were two pistols—one a revolver and the other a semi-automatic—and two boxes of ammunition.

I handed my phone to Abraham, who studied the photos and nodded.

“What is it?” Tina asked, her voice rising to a higher pitch. “Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am,” I said with a shake of my head. “Are these the only guns he owns?”

“Yeah, unless he’s got some hidden somewhere.” She clamped her mouth shut. “I mean, I’m sure that’s all of them. He tells me when he buys a new one. He can’t help but brag about it.”

“Ma’am, where does your husband work?” I asked.

“The Port of New Orleans,” she said. “He’s a crane operator.”

“Is he there now?”

She nodded.

“What time does he leave for work?”

“He’s gone before I wake up,” she said, “so I’m never sure what time he leaves each day, but I know he has to be there for five-thirty in the morning.”

“When does he get home?”

“It depends,” she said.

“On what?” I asked.

“On if he stops at the bar on the way home.” Her tone was bitter, and I didn’t blame her one bit.

“Was he working Sunday night?”

She paused for a brief moment as she lit another cigarette. Her hand trembled just a little. Finally, she shook her head. “No, he was home all night.”

I studied her carefully. Her continence had changed ever so slightly. She seemed to be a bit more defensive than earlier. Did she know something? Or was she just afraid of what Calvin might do if he found out we had been there? Could that be what I was detecting?

“How do you know Calvin was home all night?” I asked after letting the silence mount.

“Because I was here with him,” she said without hesitation. “He never left the house. If he would have, I would’ve heard him. Our floors creak and moan when you walk on them, so there’s no way to sneak around. Trust me—I know. Before we had kids, I tried to sneak out to go to a party, but he caught me.”

“Tina, did Calvin murder Logan and his dad?” The question was so unexpected that Tina began choking on her cigarette smoke. She wretched and heaved as her cheeks puffed out and her eyes watered. It took a few long seconds for her to control the coughing fit. When she finally had, she fixed me with an accusing stare, as though I had intentionally made her choke.

“No!” she said.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I already told you,” she began, “he was here with me all night. If he would’ve left, I would’ve heard him.”

I glanced casually at my notes. “And you said he got home at about eleven o’clock that night?”

Tina’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t say nothing like that. I just said he was home all night.”

I stifled a grin and asked a few more questions, but she was becoming hostile and would only give short answers. I turned to Abraham to see if he had anything, but he shook his head.

“Well, I appreciate your time,” I said, and fished out a business card. “If you think of anything else, can you please give us a call?”

She grunted, but took the card.

CHAPTER 13

Once Abraham and I were in my truck, I called Rachael and told her about the fight that Austin Snipes had gotten into five years earlier. “It might be nothing, but it might be something,” I said after I admitted that Tina knew next to nothing about the altercation. “Can you ask Mrs. Snipes about it?”

She said she would, and we ended the call.

When Abraham and I reached Austin’s barn, we found the key in the diesel flap of the tractor just like Mrs. Snipes had described, and we let ourselves into the building.

“Damn,” Abraham said, “they do some good work.”

I nodded as I took in the row of custom cabinets situated at the center of the room. The smell of recently cut oak wood hung in the air and I smiled to myself. I remembered cutting oak as a kid and thinking how good it smelled—especially when I was hungry.

Various types of large saws were neatly arranged around the room, and it brought me back to a fateful day in the workshop at the Central Magnolia High School a few months earlier. It was an unpleasant thought, and I quickly shook it away.

I saw a door at the far end of the barn. I moved in that direction with Abraham on my heels, and we soon found ourselves standing in a tiny room that served as an office and kitchen. A small card table occupied one corner, and there was a coffee pot sitting on top of it. A filing cabinet and desk were on the opposite side of the room, and I nodded in that direction.

“I’ll take the desk,” I said. “You’re younger and more energetic than I am, so I’ll let you have the filing cabinet.”

He laughed as I sat at the desk and began rummaging through the paperwork. Without complaining, he went for the filing cabinet and forced open the first drawer. I turned in his direction when I heard him exclaim. Papers had been stuffed so tightly inside that some of it spilled to the floor upon being opened.

“What a filing system,” Abraham muttered as he scrambled to stop more of the documents from falling to the ground, but it was no use. An avalanche of invoices, quotes, and unopened mail spilled from the drawer and onto the floor, scattering everywhere.

I dropped to my knees and began gathering up some of the paperwork. I was reaching deep under the desk for a runaway invoice when my cell phone rang. I cursed under my breath as I wriggled out from under the small desk. The phone must’ve rung a dozen times before I could wrestle it out of my pocket.

It was Dawn. After I apologized for taking so long to get to the phone, she told me she was up in the attic at the substation and had found an M1 carbine that had been stolen from Voltaire Bergeron’s pawn shop. After we talked briefly about it, she let out a gasp. When I asked what was wrong, she muttered, “The evidence tag is so brittle that I just rubbed the case number right off of it.” After a moment, she continued. “This thing’s been up here for more than twenty years. Even if you do find out who stole it, the statute of limitation is expired, so there’s nothing you could do about it.”

I scowled. “Do you think it might be connected somehow to our murder?”

“I don’t know. I’ll try to find the report.” Chiding herself, Dawn continued. “Some idiot wiped the case number clean off the evidence tag, but I should be able to locate it by the date and violation code.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my future wife like that.”

Dawn only grunted. “I need to get out of here. My allergies are starting to act up.”

I asked her to bring the rifle down from the attic, and then said, “Abraham and I will probably head that way as soon as we finish up here. Your idea’s a good one, and I’ll talk to Mr. Voltaire about any other M1 carbine sales he might’ve made. I’m also giving him back his rifle, and I don’t care what anybody says.”

I had first met Mr. Voltaire when I was a small boy, and my mom and dad had taken me to his barbershop for a haircut. I would see him every month or so afterward, and I’d even see him on the way to school, because he drove my bus. He had always been friendly, but firm, to the kids on the bus.

I remembered Mr. Voltaire years later when, as a patrol cop, I had responded to a burglary at his pawn shop. He had mentioned being burglarized before and having guns stolen, but he had never said anything about the type of weapons that had been taken. I had come into contact with him again as a detective investigating a few theft cases where the suspects had tried to pawn the items with him. He always cooperated with law enforcement, and he would report every suspicious person who came into his shop. Like most God-fearing people I knew, he didn’t like thieves, and he seemed to be able to sniff them out better than any cop I knew. If he had recently sold a pair of M1 carbines, he would remember it.

“I agree,” Dawn said, breaking through my thoughts. “It’s borderline criminal for the sheriff’s office to have kept it for so long. I wish I could see the name of the officer who recovered it. I’d charge him or her with theft.”

I chuckled, dropped my cell phone back in my pocket when we ended the call, and told Abraham what was going on while I rummaged through the paperwork on the desk. He was busy perusing each document as he picked it up from the floor and tucked it back into the filing cabinet. After reading over everything I could find on—and inside—the desk, I helped Abraham tackle the filing cabinet.

We searched for more than an hour, but found nothing that could even remotely be construed as trouble for the businessman. Abraham had even accessed Austin’s computer and checked his online reviews, but they were all positive except for one, where a lady complained about the time it took to do the job. Yet, even she had acknowledged that Austin and Logan were masters of their craft. She reiterated that her only complaint was the time it took for them to complete the work.

Finally, we gave up and put everything back as we had found it. We were about to leave the office when I saw something I hadn’t noticed earlier. A worn business card was tucked under an alligator magnet on the small refrigerator that rested on the counter. I removed the card and showed it to Abraham. It had obviously been there for some time, but I wanted to document it for the sake of thoroughness.

“It’s a realtor’s card,” I said, holding it up while he photographed it and documented the information in his notes. “I wonder if he thought about selling his business at some point?”

“You think someone might want to kill him for it?”

“Who knows?” I shook my head and shoved it back where I’d found it. “It’s still possible this was a drug-related execution-gone-bad, and if the Mexican cartel is involved, it’ll be a bitch of a case to solve. The killers could be back across the border by now.”

CHAPTER 14

After Abraham and I had locked up Austin Snipes’ barn and gotten back in my truck, I cranked up the engine and sat there a minute before taking off. I wasn’t sure where I wanted to go next, so I called Roger to see if he’d been able to get more information out of Beaver. I had him on speakerphone so Abraham could be kept in the loop.

“He won’t give up his Mexican contact.” Roger sounded tired. “It seems like he’s more afraid of them than he is of spending the rest of his life in prison. I told him we could protect him, but he said we can’t be everywhere. I’ve got his wife in the next room. She’s telling us everything she knows, but she claims not to know anything about the higher-ups.”

I mulled that over. “Does he seem worried that the Mexican cartel sent someone to hit him?”

“He insists that he’s in good standing and they’re happy with him, but I told him they’ll definitely be pissed at him for losing all the fentanyl in the diapers. He hadn’t considered that part. I offered to get the feds involved and place him and his wife in witness protection. I told him the cartel will already have people in prison waiting to shiv him and his wife, but he said he’d take his chances.”

“Shit!”

“Yeah, he’s scared to death of them. He claims they have people everywhere, even inside the government.” Roger sighed. “I’m about to call a presser to tell the world he’s been naming names, and then just cut him loose. If we keep a tail on him, we’ll be able to catch the killers when they strike again.”

I knew he was only speaking out of frustration, so I didn’t acknowledge it. Even if Beaver did believe the cartel had come after him, it wouldn’t do us much good. He wouldn’t know the names or identity of the hitmen who would’ve been sent after him. And if it was true that it was the work of the Mexican cartel, then God help them if I ever learned their identity. I didn’t take kindly to illegals sneaking across the border and murdering our citizens, and I was not above sneaking over there to take them out.

I sighed and asked Roger to let me know if there were any other developments, and punched off. After a moment, I turned to Abraham.

“What do you think about Calvin?” I asked. “If he found out about Tina’s little encounter with Logan, he might’ve been just as mad as Nora was, and he might’ve gone after Logan. It would’ve been nothing for him to know where Logan lives. Him and his dad are well known for their work, so I’m sure everyone around here knows how to find them.”

Abraham nodded. “And Calvin did threaten to kill Logan if Tina so much as smiled at him. Sitting down at a table with him is a bit more personal and intentional than just a passing smile. I imagine a picture of them two together would’ve ignited a firestorm inside of him.”

I agreed with that assessment, mumbled, “If we’re right about two rifles, he would’ve had help, but where does someone like Calvin get his hands on two M1 carbines? They’re rare enough that even people with money to blow would have problems getting just one, yet this kid—who has a small collection of cheap guns—might have two in his possession?”

“What if he has a grandpa or friend who has two of them?” Abraham offered. “I could go to my grandpa’s house at any time and ask to borrow his carbine. He wouldn’t think twice about it.”

I didn’t know much about the Robichaux family, but I liked Abraham’s idea. We were about twenty minutes from the substation and an hour from the Port of New Orleans. If Calvin had, indeed, murdered Logan and Austin, then going to New Orleans would be a no-brainer. However, it would be better if we knew more about him and his family before confronting him. And if Calvin hadn’t murdered our victims, then traveling all the way to New Orleans would be a waste of two crucial hours.

I figured it might be better to do more research on his family and then start following up on other leads while waiting for him to get home from work, but I wanted to know what Abraham thought, so I posed the question to him. Although he was our newest detective, the kid was bright, and I always valued his opinion.

He didn’t reply right away, electing, instead, to think it over carefully. Finally, he said, “If Calvin targeted Logan, he did it for a very specific reason. As long as Tina doesn’t sit at a picnic table with other ex-lovers, Calvin shouldn’t be killing any more people. So, if it was my call, I’d wait until he got home to question him. If it’s not him, then we don’t know why they were killed, and we need to run down every lead as quickly as possible before the killers strike again.”

“That’s true,” I acknowledged. “Without knowing the motive, we don’t know if it’s over.”

My mind made up, I worked the gearshift and sped out of the driveway, heading south toward the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office Substation in Seasville. Not only did we need to research Calvin’s family to see if any of them might have access to a pair of M1 carbines, but we also needed to meet with Dawn to retrieve Voltaire Bergeron’s rifle. I knew I would be angry if my guns were stolen, recovered, and then not returned for nearly two decades, and I was sure he’d be happy to be reunited with his treasure of a firearm.

As we made our way south, I asked Abraham if he’d heard back from his dad’s friend.

He instinctively pulled out his cell phone and checked it. “Nothing yet.”

I nodded, and was about to change the subject when my cell phone rang. I answered and immediately recognized the voice of our evidence custodian, Cindy Folse.

“Hey, London,” she said, “I’m at the lab in New Orleans. I met with Daniel Verdin, and he put about a dozen of the casings through the microscope so far. He said you’re definitely dealing with two rifles.”

Daniel was a friend of mine who supervised the ballistics lab in New Orleans. He was the best firearms expert I’d ever seen, and he had helped me a lot throughout the years.

“Thank you, Cindy,” I said. “I appreciate you jumping on this so fast, and tell Daniel I owe him big time.”

“Funny, he told me the same about you,” Cindy said. “According to him, you helped out on a big case back in the day, as he called it, and he’s forever in your debt.”

I only nodded, and when we’d said our goodbyes, I turned to Abraham. “Now that we know we’re dealing with two gunmen, it should be a little easier to figure out who they are. A lone gunman with a rare rifle might come and go as he pleases, not attracting too much attention…but two of them?”

Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was only wishful thinking. There would be nothing easy about finding these killers. If only we could find someone who hated Austin and Logan bad enough to want them dead, we might be able to move the case forward.

CHAPTER 15

Dawn sat motionless in her office at the substation, staring from her case folder to the M1 carbine leaning against the wall. After a bit of digging—and a lot of sneezing—she had located the burglary report, and found that Voltaire Bergeron had called the sheriff’s office about a burglar alarm that was going off in his business on the fifth of June, nearly twenty-one years earlier. While she was very enthralled with the case involving Sarah Schofield’s disappearance, she couldn’t help but wonder if the burglary of the carbine might somehow be connected to the murders of Austin and Logan Snipes. What if that was why she had found it? Sure, it wasn’t the same rifle used, but maybe there were more where that one came from.

When the rifle refused to provide any answers, Dawn glanced down at the burglary report in front of her. When the first deputy had arrived at Mr. Voltaire’s pawn shop, he had found the security system alarming and the back door busted open. He had searched the business and found it empty. None of the gun safes had been compromised, and none of the glass counters had been busted or otherwise accessed. The deputy initially thought the burglar had gotten away with nothing, but that was before Mr. Voltaire showed up and pointed out two empty hooks hanging on the wall. It had been where he’d displayed the M1 carbine that he had purchased from a man named Mark Blanchard.

“I’ve only had it for a week,” Mr. Voltaire had told the deputy. “It was too fine a piece to lock away in my safe, so that’s why I hung it over the door. I haven’t had many customers in here since I bought it, so barely anybody knew it was here.”

The deputy had obtained the names of all the customers who had visited the store in the week since the acquisition, and he’d done a good job of tracking everyone down and interviewing them. As thorough as he had been, the deputy had not been able to develop any suspects to the burglary, and that’s where the report had ended. Dawn had been unable to find a subsequent report to explain how the rifle ended up in the attic at the substation.

If only she had the date the rifle had been recovered, she knew she would be able to find something in the radio logs. However, that date was gone forever, thanks to her rubbing too hard on the brittle evidence tag.

Finally, with nowhere else to turn, and feeling increasingly sorry for Mrs. Schofield, Dawn put aside Mr. Voltaire’s case and grabbed the folder that pertained to Sarah’s disappearance.

Unlike the burglary report from Mr. Voltaire’s case, the initial report from the Beacher Police Department lacked much detail. The officer had mentioned receiving a call from a distraught woman who said her daughter was on spring break in Beacher. He reported that she hadn’t heard from her daughter since the previous morning. He had included the mother’s contact information, told her to call back in twenty-four hours if she hadn’t heard from her daughter, and then forwarded the complaint to the sheriff’s office for follow-up. He hadn’t even bothered to obtain information regarding where she had been staying or with whom she had vacationed, and he hadn’t made any attempts to locate her.

Dawn turned the initial complaint over, snarled when she saw that there was nothing more to it, and set it aside. She then delved into Detective Michael Theriot’s report. Thankfully, Theriot had made more of an effort. He had contacted Mrs. Schofield first thing the next morning—without making her wait twenty-four hours—and obtained the name of the resort where Sarah had been staying and a list of her friends. Afterward, he had gone by the Beacher Bay Resort and spoken with management there. Although Sarah’s room had already been cleaned by hotel staff, they let him search it. He also obtained a VHS tape containing surveillance footage from the resort’s security system, and there was a note that the tape would be included in the file.

Dawn searched the folder, but couldn’t find a VHS tape. She continued reading and learned that Detective Theriot had viewed the recording and witnessed Sarah leaving the resort at a quarter to seven in the morning. Later that night, a group of young people were seen returning to the resort, but Sarah hadn’t been among them.

Theriot had traveled to Oklahoma and conducted interviews with each of the students who had accompanied Sarah on her spring break trip. The report referred the reader to seven cassette tapes that contained the interviews that Theriot had obtained. Dawn put down the report and dug in the folder. Sure enough, she found all seven cassettes in a yellow envelope.

Getting up and retrieving her antiquated Marantz cassette player/recorder from a corner filing cabinet, Dawn plugged it in and settled in to begin listening to the interviews. The first statement was from a girl who claimed to be Sarah’s best friend since middle school, and it had been taken two weeks after Sarah’s disappearance.

“We all spent that Tuesday on this fishing yacht,” the girl told Detective Theriot. “We left early in the morning and we stayed all day. We had been planning it since before the trip, and we were supposed to go on Monday, but a storm blew through the area, so the company postponed it. We ended up going on Tuesday instead. It was all seven of us. Sarah hung out with me for most of the day. We went far out into the ocean—”

“Do you mean the Gulf of Mexico?” Detective Theriot had cut in to ask.

“Um, yeah, that’s what I meant,” the girl had said. “We went far out in the Gulf of Mexico and we started fishing. It was an all-inclusive excursion, and they gave us all the food and alcohol we could eat and drink, so we were pretty lit by the time we got back to the resort.”

“And what resort was that?” Captain Theriot had asked.

“We were staying at the Beacher Bay Resort. Me and Sarah shared a room, so we kind of stayed together the whole week. Well, we were supposed to be there the whole week. When…when Sarah went missing, our parents made us head home early.”

“Take me back to the moment y’all returned to the resort,” Theriot said. “You were saying y’all were pretty lit by the time y’all got back.”

“Um, yes sir, when we got back to the resort, we were kind of drunk, and we all went hang out on the beach. There was a campfire going and people were roasting weenies. More alcohol was served, and I think we all drank a little more. I know I had another beer or two. I think Sarah had a couple. She was feeling good, that’s for sure, and she was being very friendly with some of the guys who were out there, hanging on to them, and all.”

“Were those guys part of your group?”

“No, I didn’t recognize them. I think they were locals.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know, they just seemed comfortable and familiar with the area,” she said. “Well, it started getting late and I was tired, so I tried to get Sarah to come back to the room with me. She told me she wasn’t ready to go in, and that she was having fun. I told her we had promised our parents that we would stay together, and I told her we needed to go to bed because we had a lot planned for the next day. She refused to come inside with me. I…I know we were supposed to stay together, but I got a bad vibe about the boys she was hanging out with.”

“What do you mean?” Captain Theriot had asked.

“I don’t know, they just seemed to have an ulterior motive. They were making comments that weren’t appropriate, but Sarah didn’t seem to care. I told her she was drunk and she needed to come inside with me, but she started to get mad at me for pestering her. Finally, I told her I was going in and that I would call her mom and tell her that she was being bad. I thought it would scare her into following me, but it got her mad and she left with one of the boys.”

“What were their names? Any of them?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t hear anyone say their names. Anyway, she walked off down the beach with that boy, and that…that was the last time I ever saw her. I did remember one of them saying something about a boat earlier in the night, so I thought they might’ve gone into the bay for a boat ride.”

“How many boys were with her?”

“There were three or four boys trying to get her attention, I think. It could’ve been less or more. It was dark and there were a lot of shadows from the campfire. It was a little disorienting. But I’m pretty sure she only walked away with one of them.”

“Were you intoxicated?”

“Um…yeah…yes, sir. We all were.”

“Were there any girls with them?” Theriot asked. “With the group of boys?”

“I mean, there could’ve been some other girls with them, or some of what I thought were boys could’ve been girls. I’m just not sure. Like I said, there was the campfire and all.”

“I need you to think very hard on this one,” Theriot had said. “Did you hear any of them call a name? Even a nickname?”

“No, sir.”

“Did any of your friends see the boy that Sarah left with?” Theriot’s voice had betrayed the frustration he felt.

“No, sir, it was only me and Sarah at that point.”

Theriot had asked the girl to describe the boys or girls in the group. She had described all of them as having brown hair and brown eyes, and they were of varying heights. She had been unable to describe any tattoos or scars, and she couldn’t remember what any of them was wearing, except for Sarah.

“Sarah had on a yellow bikini,” she had said. “It was brand new. It…it was the first time she’d ever worn it. She also wears a friendship bracelet made of leather. It’s got some beads that look like tiny marbles. Four of them. It, um, fits tight around her wrist and she never takes it off. I know I’ll have some pictures of her in my rolls of film. I don’t know if you’ll be able to see the bracelet in the pictures, but you’ll definitely be able to see the bikini. It was bright. I can give them to you once I get them developed.”

“Actually, I’ll need those now,” Theriot had said. “I’ll have them developed through our normal channels, and I can have a copy made for you, but I’ll need them as evidence.”

“But those are my spring break pictures,” the girl had protested, sounding like she was crying. “They were the last pictures I have of me and Sarah.”

“I promise to keep them safe,” Theriot had said, sounding sincere. “After all, I’ll need you to view them to see if you recognize the boy she left with.”

“But how will I get them back?”

“I’ll mail them to you.”

“What if they get lost in the mail?” the girl had continued. “Those are the last pictures I have of her. I want to keep them.”

There had been a heavy sigh from Theriot. “What if I hand-deliver them to you?”

“You would do that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The girl had agreed, and the interview had ended.

Dawn sifted through the folder again and located a Kodak film envelope loaded with photographs. When she reached into the envelope and removed the pictures, she cursed out loud. The heat and humidity in the attic had caused the pictures to stiffen and stick to each other. She tried to carefully peel the first photo from the stack, but it was no use.

“Shit!” she said, as her mind raced for a solution. There had to be a way to salvage the pictures. She thought about using steam or soaking them, but she would have to do it later.

Presently, she needed to finish listening to the interviews to see if she could unearth any clues that Michael Theriot might’ve missed. The best friend hadn’t been much help, but that might not have been her fault. Dawn couldn’t find an entry in the investigative report detailing where Theriot had met with her and allowed her to view the photographs in the hopes of identifying the local with whom Sarah had left. She was about to reach for the next cassette tape when London and Abraham darkened her doorway.

CHAPTER 16

When Abraham and I stepped through the door of Dawn’s office at the Seasville Substation, we found her buried in file folders, cassette tapes, and melted photographs. She spent the first minute of our arrival cursing a Beacher police officer for writing a sloppy report, a then-Detective Michael Theriot for dropping the ball, and her luck for failing her.

“It’s been twenty-one years,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “How in the hell am I supposed to find three or four faceless kids from back then when the only eye witness was too drunk to tell if they were boys or girls?”

I frowned and sat across the desk from Dawn. Abraham had ambled to the corner of the room where the M1 carbine was resting against the wall.

“This is an all-original,” he said excitedly, pointing out the different parts of the rifle as he spoke. “It’s got the original flip sight with the 150- and 300-yard settings, the original sling with the horseshoe tabs, the flattop bolt, the original push safety, the type-one stock and barrel band. This is the real deal, y’all!”

“Is it valuable?” I asked, looking over my shoulder.

“Absolutely!” His voice was filled with awe as he studied the rifle. “It was made by IBM Corporation and it’s in good condition. I saw one like this go for $3,000 at a gun show a few years ago.”

“Wait, the IBM made that rifle?” Dawn asked, looking up from her file.

“Oh, yeah, you had car manufacturers, typewriter companies, and juke box makers teaming up with the government to help the country win the war,” Abraham explained. “IBM made almost 400,000 carbines, so they’re pretty rare. This is a hell of a find.”

I chuckled seeing how excited Abraham was at the sight of the rifle, and turned toward Dawn. There was an old photo pack on the desk atop some of the files. “Who took these pictures?” I asked, pointing to the packet.

“They came from Sarah’s best friend, who might’ve captured the locals Sarah was talking to,” Dawn explained. “Michael was supposed to show them to the girl and see if she could recognize anyone, but it doesn’t look like he followed through with it.”

“Can you salvage them?” I asked, removing a stack of melted photos and trying to bend them. I stopped before I could do any damage.

“Maybe,” she said. “I can soak them in water and separate them when they soften, or I can use steam to break them loose, but I don’t know how much good they’ll be.”

“Why not?” I asked. “If you can find the girl who took them, I think it’ll be a good lead.”

She frowned. “Remember the days of 35mm cameras?”

I’d never wasted much time with photographs when I was younger, so I shook my head.

“One year when I was a little girl, I got a new camera for Christmas, along with three rolls of twenty-four exposure film,” she explained. “I took all seventy-two of those pictures within a week, and I was proud to go with Mom and Dad to the Walmart in Bent Fork to drop off the film. Guess what I found when I picked them up two weeks later?”

“Big Foot in the background,” I deadpanned.

She laughed so unexpectedly that she snorted. “No, Ass,” she said, shaking her head. “Half of them were either blurry, too dark, or parts of the images were cut off—and I was sober when I took my pictures. This girl was drunk off her ass. I mean, look at the top one.”

Dawn leaned forward and stabbed the top photo with her index finger. The image was dark against the bright sky in the background, but I recognized the building as the Beacher Bay Resort. True, it was crooked in the frame and a little blurry, so I had to nod my resignation.

“This was in broad daylight,” Dawn said. “It was probably before this girl got really sauced. Can you imagine what the rest look like? And I’m sure she lost interest in the camera when she was drunk and trying to stop her best friend from chasing boys. I doubt she was snapping away, thinking she would need the photos as evidence later.”

I couldn’t argue, so I didn’t. Instead, I shot a thumb over my shoulder toward Abraham and the rifle. “What did you find out about that thing?”

Dawn cursed again. “Other than what I’ve already told you?” she asked, sliding a report in my direction. “Nothing.”

I took the official document and glanced over it. She was right. Although the report was thorough, there wasn’t much to it. I didn’t bother asking if she’d found the report detailing the recovery, because I knew she would’ve told me if she had.

“We’re about to pay Mr. Voltaire a visit,” I said, “but we’re thinking about grabbing lunch first. Want to come?”

Dawn sighed and took in the reports scattered around her desk. “I need to listen to all of these tapes and I need to head down to Beacher. I know they won’t remember anything, but I have to try.”

“A truck doesn’t run without gas,” I said. “Let’s put some fuel in that tank before you leave.”

“Oh, I’m a truck, am I?” Dawn cocked her head to the side. “Why couldn’t I be a sleek Corvette with nice, smooth curves and—”

“Ugh!” Abraham hollered, throwing his hands to his ears. “There are children in the room!”

Dawn and I burst out laughing.

“You know I love my truck,” I said with a wink. “We’ll finish this conversation later, when we’re alone.”

She smiled and we stood to go. Abraham had picked up the rifle again and was turning it over in his hands, staring at it from different angles. There was a curious expression on his face, and I moved closer to see what had grabbed his attention.

Without saying a word, he took the rifle to the window, where he dropped the empty magazine, checked the chamber, and then tilted it so he could see down the barrel.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Scowling, he handed me the rifle and said, “Look down the muzzle.”

I took the carbine from him and turned it until the light from outside shined brightly on the muzzle and inside the barrel.

“Holy shit,” I mumbled, adjusting the rifle so I could see further down the bore. It wasn’t bright enough, so I gave Abraham a nod. “Put your thumbnail over the bolt face.”

When he did, light reflected off of his nail and lit up the entire bore. I waved for Dawn to come closer and look down the barrel. Her reaction was the same as mine. When she lifted her head, we all stared at one another.

“That’s blow-back, ain’t it?” Abraham asked.

Dawn and I both nodded and stared down at the rifle. In complete unison, we said, “Someone committed suicide with this gun!”

CHAPTER 17

Gracetown

Detective Rachael Bowler had been making regular patrols outside the home of Deborah Snipes’ friend all morning, but everything had been quiet.

In the event that there were two masked killers out there hunting the woman, Sheriff Chiasson had ordered four SWAT operators to stand twenty-four-hour guard outside the home, and on her rounds, Rachael would offer to bring each of them food or something to drink. They had all declined, citing an adequate supply of beef jerky in their pockets and water in their CamelBaks.

When Rachael returned to the house after her latest round, Detective Karla Boudreaux rushed to meet her in the doorway.

“Mrs. Snipes is awake,” she said. “We can interview her now.”

Rachael sighed, and hurried to the bedroom where Mrs. Snipes had been resting. They had been waiting all morning to question her about a possible fight involving her husband that might lead to a suspect in his slaying, but Mrs. Snipes had drifted off to sleep during the car ride to her friend’s house. Once there, she was groggy and limp and had to be helped into the house, where she dropped into a deep sleep and hadn’t stirred for hours. Rachael knew it was a result of the medication she had been given for her grief, and there was no way to reverse it. Even if she could, she realized it would’ve been cruel to pull her from that peaceful and blissful slumber.

After walking through the small living room and kitchen and down a short hallway, Rachael and Karla reached the small bedroom where Deborah Snipes lay stretched out on her back. Her eyes were swollen and wet. She turned when the two detectives entered and began to weep immediately.

After a long moment of sobbing and clutching at her heart, she shook her head and said, “It hurts so much!”

Rachael dropped to her knees beside the bed and took one of Mrs. Snipes’ hands in both of hers.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” she said. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

The woman wailed in response and leaned her face into Rachael’s shoulder. Rachael didn’t know how long they remained in that position, but she knew it had to be at least five long minutes. When Mrs. Snipes had turned over and somewhat regained her composure, Rachael squeezed her hand softly and asked if she would answer more questions that might help them find the men responsible for her pain.

“Men?” Mrs. Snipes blinked through the fog. “There was more than one man?”

Rachael frowned. “Yes, ma’am, there were two of them.”

“Two men?” She frowned. “I only saw one man running out the house. I think I got him. I remember having Austin’s shotgun. I think I shot the man.”

“Um, they got away,” Rachael said slowly, deciding it wouldn’t do anyone any good to tell Mrs. Snipes that she had missed horribly when she’d shot at the retreating men. “I need to ask you about some information we received from Tina Robichaux.”

“Ah, Tina,” Mrs. Snipes said weakly. “I used to like Tina. She was the only one of Logan’s girlfriends that I really liked.” She paused and her face contorted in pain. “When I was sleeping, I was dreaming he was still alive, that it had all been a terrible nightmare. I woke up and looked around. I was confused. I wasn’t in my bedroom and Austin wasn’t next to me. That’s when I knew something was wrong. I knew it was real. I…I had to relive their murders all over again. All the relief I’d felt in my sleep…it all vanished just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“and the pain came rushing back even worse than before. We’re not supposed to bury our children!”

Mrs. Snipes began sobbing again. Rachael could feel the warm tears falling to her forearm. She looked across at Karla, who was frowning deeply. Although Rachael didn’t have any children, she had wanted some very badly. Now, though, she was starting to wonder. The pain Mrs. Snipes was experiencing was clearly unbearable. Rachael didn’t think she could endure something so gut-wrenching and cruel.

Blinking away the moisture that came to her own eyes, Rachael continued futilely to try and soothe Mrs. Snipes. Finally, after some time, the older woman calmed down ever so slightly. She reached for the blanket that covered her, but Karla was faster, and leaned forward with a box of tissue.

Mrs. Snipes nodded her thanks and wiped her face with a handful of tissues. She then blew her nose and took a haggard breath. When she turned to Rachael, her eyes were clouded and bloodshot.

“I’m so sorry, young lady,” Mrs. Snipes said. “I wish I could be stronger.”

“Oh, God, no,” Rachael said, trying to bite back the burning in her jaw. “Don’t apologize for anything. Let it all out.”

Mrs. Snipes nodded, and then took another breath. “You said you had some questions?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Rachael cleared her throat. “Um, we got word from Tina that your husband was involved in some kind of fight a few years ago. I think she said it was five years back? She couldn’t remember any details of the fight and she didn’t know the man’s name. It might be nothing, but we just want to track down anyone that might’ve had something against your husband and son.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that,” said Mrs. Snipes, genuinely surprised. Her grief had momentarily been forgotten as she thought back to the incident in question. “Do you really think Francis had something to do with this?”

“Francis?” asked Rachael, pulling her notepad from where it had been tucked into her waistband. “Francis who?”

“Francis Boyd,” she muttered. “He has a house at the very front of our lane, on the same side as us.”

“And he got in a fight with your husband?”

“Yeah, it was over the land on the bayou side,” she explained. “We used to own everything on the bayou side between Wright Drive and Duvall Lane. When we bought the piece of land about ten years ago, it was separated into two lots. We merged them as one, and Austin built his work barn on the northern half and he left the southern half vacant in case we wanted to build a camp there. We never did, and he put it up for sale five years ago.”

Mrs. Snipes paused for a much needed breath, and then continued. “While the realtor was putting the sign up, Francis walked across the road and told her that she could put the sign away, because he was buying it. She told him that he would have to make an official offer and we would have to accept it. Well, Francis told her that we would accept the offer, because he would give us everything we were asking for, and that she needed to put the sign away. When she refused to do what he said, he said some ugly things to her and stormed back across the road.”

When Mrs. Snipes paused again, Rachael asked for the name of the realtor.

“Kristine Foret,” she said, “and she was awesome. She didn’t put up with any foolishness from Francis, and she called Austin right away to let him know what had happened. Well, when Austin got to the barn that evening, he had already gotten four offers on the property. Francis, he marched across the road and demanded that Austin take down the sign, because he would give us whatever we were asking for the property, and he would give it in cash.”

“Did he tell your husband or the realtor why he wanted the property so much?” Rachael asked.

Mrs. Snipes nodded. “He said he bought his daughter a trailer and he wanted to put it on the bayou side for her to live in. He said he was gonna talk to us about renting the property, but Austin said he didn’t want a trailer next to his barn. He told Francis he wanted to sell the land to another small business to bring up the value of the property, and Francis, he went berserk and started yelling and cursing at Austin. Austin, he doesn’t get riled up about too much, and he told Francis to leave, but Francis punched Austin right in the mouth and then hit him again before he could even put his hands up.”

“No way!”

“Oh, yeah, he was fit to be tied.” Mrs. Snipes chuckled. “But Austin, he used to fight when he was a younger man, and he put a whooping on Francis. When the cops got called, they said Francis had no business on our property, and they wrote Francis a paper to go to court for striking the first blow. Austin ended up selling the lot to a man who wanted to open a metal shop.”

“How did Francis take that news?”

“He never talked to us again.” Mrs. Snipes paused for a long moment, and then slowly turned to look Rachael right in the eyes, her face filled with horror. “Is…do you think he’s the one who killed my husband and son?”

“At this point, we don’t know who did it,” Rachael admitted, “but we’re looking into everything. Does Francis have a son?”

“Yeah, he does,” Mrs. Snipes’ said. “The boy’s a Junior and he’s around Logan’s age. Junior’s been in and out of trouble with the law. I think he even went to prison for a year or two, but that was before the trouble with Francis.”

“Did Junior and Logan ever have any problems with each other?” Rachael asked. “Like, after their dads fought?”

“No, the boys never got involved in that mess.” She shook her head for emphasis. “I think Junior was there when Francis attacked Austin, because he moved in with his mom and dad when he got out of jail, but he never crossed the road. Francis is a bit of a hothead, and that wasn’t the first time he attacked somebody. I think it was just the first time he ever got beat up. He’s a bit of a bully.”

Rachael stared down at her notes. “What about Francis’ daughter? Do you know what happened to her trailer?”

“Yeah, Francis let her put it in his yard.” She shook her head. “The whole neighborhood was up in arms and signed a petition to make them move the trailer, but Francis didn’t care. He said if they didn’t watch it, he would turn the whole front of his property into a trailer park. Personally, I don’t care what he does with his property. We offered to let Logan put a trailer in our yard, but he didn’t want one. He was worried about the hurricanes, so he built himself a strong house on the other side of the bayou, not far from where I grew up.”

Rachael was thoughtful. From what she had heard, a truck with a loud exhaust had driven to the back of Wright Drive moments before the shooting had taken place. “Mrs. Snipes,” she began, “does Francis have a truck?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know if it has a loud exhaust?”

“It does.” Mrs. Snipes scowled. “Why do you ask that?”

“A witness heard the suspect vehicle drive down the street,” Rachael explained, “and he said it had a loud exhaust.”

“So…it really was Francis?” Although Mrs. Snipes had sported a pale complexion from the moment Rachael had first observed the woman, she seemed even whiter at that moment. She looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

“We don’t know for sure.” Rachael placed a hand on Mrs. Snipes’ arm. “We’re exploring every option and we’re not ruling out anyone until we know for certain who did this horrible thing to your family.”

“That man used to be my dad’s friend.” Mrs. Snipes’ jaw hardened. “They would come to our house for crawfish boils. My mom cooked meals for their family. He even worked with my dad in the fields sometimes. How…how could he do something like this?”

The more Mrs. Snipes talked, the angrier she became, and Rachael tried desperately to calm her down. Her grief was turning to sheer anger, and Rachael was afraid she would try to rise up out of bed and go after Francis Boyd.

“Ma’am, please understand that we don’t know anything at this point,” Rachael said in a firm voice. “Like I said, we have to explore every option. At this point, we’re still gathering evidence, and we don’t know for sure who’s responsible.”

Mrs. Snipes tried to push herself out of bed, but Rachael, afraid she might hurt the woman, gently pushed back and encouraged her to take it easy. Apparently, grief had taken a toll on her body, because she faded fast and sank back to the mattress, breathing heavily and trembling. Helpless and heartbroken, she began to sob once more.

CHAPTER 18

Dawn, Abraham, and I were racing up the narrow stairway toward the attic of the substation when I got the call from Detective Rachael Bowler to tell me about our newest suspect and his interactions with the realtor and our victim.

“That explains that,” I said to Rachael as I waited for Dawn to unlock the door to the attic. “We found a business card for a realtor tucked behind a magnet on the refrigerator, and her name was Kristine Foret. I’ll give her a call right now.”

“Oh, and I had dispatch run Francis Boyd’s name,” Rachael quickly interjected before I could end the call. “He’s been arrested a number of times for fighting and resisting arrest—which is no surprise considering his hotheaded temper—but that ain’t the worst of it.”

“No?”

“Nope,” she said. “A complaint was filed against him for aggravated assault with a firearm.”

That got my attention. “Do you have the victim’s name?”

“Yep,” she said, taking her sweet time. “I got dispatch to pull the complaint. It was none other than Austin Snipes.”

“Hold up…what?” I stopped dead in my tracks at the top of the stairway. “Was he arrested?”

“Nope. Austin declined to file charges. He told the deputies who responded that he just wanted Francis to stay off of his property. He was afraid if he had Francis arrested again it would only escalate the conflict.”

“When did this happen?”

“Six months after they fought,” Rachael explained. “Apparently, Francis was facing his court date and he had walked over to the barn to ask Austin to drop the charges. When Austin refused, Francis left and got his rifle. He came back and pointed it right at Austin, said if he went to jail he was coming back and finishing Austin off.”

I leaned against the doorjamb. “Please tell me they put the type of rifle he used in the report, and please say it was an M1 carbine.”

“Yes and no,” she said. “They did put the type of gun, but it wasn’t an M1 carbine. It was a Remington 700 bolt-action hunting rifle. At least, that’s what Austin described. When the deputies went to question Francis and to tell him to stay off of Austin’s property, he refused to answer any of their questions. He said if they didn’t have a warrant, they could get the hell off of his property.”

I looked into the dark attic, where Dawn and Abraham had already started searching for a suicide that would’ve happened sometime after the burglary of Mr. Voltaire’s pawn shop. There was no way the rifle was connected to the present case. We just needed to learn the disposition of it so we could return the rifle to its rightful owner. If it had been used to facilitate an unsolved murder, then we would have to hold on to it. If not, it was going back to Mr. Voltaire. In either case, it was not a pressing issue. What I needed more than anything was to get my hands on Francis Boyd.

“Rachael, can you ask Mrs. Snipes if we can still have permission to use her barn?” I asked, thinking quickly. “I’d like to put a sniper in the upstairs window facing Francis Boyd’s house. I want to have eyes on him before we approach him. Also, send me everything you’ve got on Boyd, including his latest mug shot or DL photo.”

Rachael said she would and then was gone for a few long seconds. When she came back on the phone, she said, “Mrs. Snipes told me we could use her barn and house and any other property they have however we see fit, just as long as we capture and punish the men responsible for killing her precious son and loving husband.”

I frowned. Having lost members of my own family, I had an idea what she was going through, but I felt the pain of losing a child was much worse than anything I’d ever experienced. I thanked Rachael and was about to swipe my thumb across the screen when I heard her call out.

“Yeah?”

“What about the autopsies?” she asked. “We’ve got SWAT covering the house here and Mrs. Snipes took more medicine, so she’ll be out for a few hours. Karla and I can swing by the coroner’s office and attend them if you want.”

I had been so busy trying to track down the few leads we had that I’d forgotten about the autopsies. I pulled my cell phone away from my face and glanced at the time. It was a quarter after eleven, and the autopsies were supposed to be at one o’clock.

“That would be great,” I told Rachael. “They’re at one. Let me know if there are any surprises.”

She signed off and I quickly called Jerry. My phoned dinged to let me know I’d received a text message. While waiting for Jerry to answer, I checked the screen and saw that it was the information from Rachael. I grunted when I saw the photo of Francis Boyd. He definitely had the face of an asshole.

When Jerry answered, I told him what was going on with Boyd, and I asked if he was available to set up in our victim’s barn to watch the Boyd property.

“I want eyes on his house until we can get there,” I explained. “I’ll send you everything Rachael sent me. He seems to be an asshole, so I doubt he’ll cooperate with us when we show up. Maybe a visit will shake his tree a little and he’ll do something stupid after we leave.”

“Like try to toss the murder weapons?”

“Something like that.” I took a breath. “That’s if he’s our guy. At this point, there’s no telling who killed those men. One thing’s certain—they’re brazen and evil. It takes a special kind of piece of shit to burst into someone’s home and gun them down while they’re sitting there watching TV.”

“That’s something to think about,” Jerry muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Do you have a pistol next to you when you’re watching TV, or while you’re taking a shit?”

“I mean, I always have a gun around.”

“Yeah, but if someone burst through your door while you were watching TV, could you get to that gun before they got you?”

“I see your point,” I said, thinking I might have to reevaluate my habits at home. I wasn’t paranoid and I didn’t live in fear, so I never really felt the need to have a pistol at my immediate disposal at all times while home. However, I’d be really angry to be taken out like Austin and Logan without having afforded myself a fighting chance. I shook my head and turned my attention back to Jerry. “Thanks, man. I’ll call you when we’re heading your way.”

I ended the call and joined Abraham and Dawn at the dusty filing cabinets. They had begun with the date of the burglary and were working forward, searching for any suicide complaints that would’ve been called in to the substation. There had been a little more than a hundred complaints per day back then, so they had to sift through a lot of entries. Finally, about five minutes into their search, Dawn hit pay dirt.

“Here’s one.” In the glow from Abraham’s flashlight, I saw her brow furrow.

“What is it?” I asked.

“That’s weird.” She took a picture of the complaint log information and then moved to a separate filing cabinet to start searching through the detective files. As she searched, she said, “The rifle was stolen on the fifth of June. This suicide happened two days later.”

“Someone stole the gun just to commit suicide?” I asked, thinking that didn’t make sense. “Why would they do that?”

Instead of answering, Dawn dug through the folders until she found one that matched up to the complaint number. She removed the clasps and dug out the thick stack of papers. Setting them down on the open drawer, she began perusing the files until she found the investigative report. Once she had it in front of her and Abraham’s light was aimed at the cover sheet, she began reading off the details. When she reached the victim’s name she gasped out loud.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “Do you know him?”

With a bewildered look on her face, she nodded slowly, but didn’t say anything right away. It was obvious she was trying to work through her thoughts. I waited patiently, but I was also in a hurry. While I was thoroughly intrigued by her discovery, my own murder case was pulling me away from there, and I didn’t have a lot of time to spend on cold cases.

“According to the burglary report,” Dawn finally began, her words coming slowly and thoughtfully, “a man named Mark Blanchard sold Voltaire Bergeron the M1 carbine. Voltaire only had the rifle for a week before it was stolen from his pawn shop. Two days later it was recovered from the dead hands of Mark Blanchard’s son in an apparent suicide.”

I blinked. It took a moment for her words to sink in. “Blanchard’s own son stole his gun back and then killed himself with it?”

Dawn nodded, still trying to process what it could mean. I looked at Abraham, and he was equally baffled.

“Why on earth would the kid do something like that?”

Dawn was reading through the report. “I don’t know, and I don’t think we ever will, because according to this, he didn’t leave behind a note.”

I moved closer and read over her shoulder. It appeared his younger sister had found him in the bathtub fully clothed with a rifle in his hands and a single gunshot wound under his chin.

“God, what a sad thing for that little girl to endure,” Dawn muttered. “I couldn’t imagine finding my brother dead by his own hand. I…I would have so many questions.”

“How old was the little girl when it happened?” Abraham asked, a deep frown playing across his face.

“She was eleven at the time,” Dawn said. “She’s either thirty-one or thirty-two now, depending on what month she was born.”

“I was born the year this happened,” Abraham said, more to himself.

“Yeah, don’t remind us we’re getting old,” Dawn said with a grunt. “I can already see a few gray hairs starting to pop up, and I haven’t even had kids yet.”

“It won’t be long,” I said, giving her a knowing wink.

That caused Abraham to flinch. “Language!” he joked.

I laughed, and then took a breath. The suicide had nothing to do with our case, but I did want the rifle to go back to Mr. Voltaire. “Look, Dawn, we have to go interview this Francis Boyd fellow, so we won’t be able to return the rifle to Mr. Voltaire. Do you mind getting it to him?”

“Sure,” she said. “I want to go to Beacher anyway, so I’ll stop by on my way. I’ll also ask if he knows anyone who owns two M1 carbines.”

I nodded my thanks, hesitated. “Should we grab lunch first? Once we roll on this fellow, we might be running and gunning for a while, and there’s no telling when we’ll get the chance again.”

“I could eat,” Dawn said.

That being settled, we locked up the attic, and I helped Dawn load the files and rifle into her car. She then got in her Charger and followed Abraham and me to Mommy Jo’s Restaurant, which was about half a mile down the road.

CHAPTER 19

When we got to Mommy Jo’s, we picked a table by the window, where we could watch the waters of Bayou Magnolia as well as the door. We made our order as soon as a waitress walked up to our table. Abraham and I each ordered fried chicken, red beans and rice, and cornbread, while Dawn ordered a salad.

“Wedding dress,” she said as an explanation when I looked over curiously. I knew better than to question her, so I didn’t.

“Do you think it’s possible this Francis Boyd killed Mr. Snipes and his son?” Abraham asked when the waitress had walked off to put in our order. “Or do you think Calvin Robichaux’s our guy?”

“That’s a tough one,” I acknowledged. “So far, we’ve developed one possible suspect who hated Austin and one who hated Logan, but we haven’t found anyone who might want them both dead.”

“There’s still a chance it’s a hit gone bad,” Dawn offered. “I say we release Beaver and put a surveillance team on him. When the killers show up to snuff him out, we hesitate just long enough for the hit men to take out the trash, and then we pounce. The two birds with one bullet thing,” she said, echoing Roger’s sentiment on the subject.

I chuckled, but it did make sense. There had been two shooters, so if it was either Francis or Calvin, they would’ve involved someone else. In Francis’ case, that could’ve been his son, but we didn’t know enough about Calvin to know who might’ve been his accomplice. We’d already had a look at Calvin’s gun collection and it didn’t look like he owned even one M1 carbine. I pointed that out to Dawn and Abraham.

“If he did it, the guns could belong to the person who helped him,” Dawn suggested, “and it could be that they killed Austin for the simple reason that he was there.”

I nodded slowly, a thought occurring to me. “But why two rifles? Wouldn’t one be enough if they wanted to kill only one person? And why would they shoot each of them over a dozen times? It seems a bit excessive, not to mention a waste of ammo. One well-placed shot to the head of each of them would’ve closed out the night with little fanfare.”

Dawn and Abraham both nodded.

“I like your point about the two rifles,” Dawn said. “That could mean they were definitely planning on killing both of them, and the overkill could indicate intense anger. But…”

Dawn’s voice trailed off. She was thoughtful for a long moment. She stirred the ice in her glass with a straw and chewed on her lower lip. I was about to ask what she was thinking when the waitress walked up with our food.

My stomach was grumbling something fierce and I almost snatched a piece of chicken from my plate before it was on the table in front of me. Once we’d all been served, I dove right in, forgetting all about the case for a moment. Dawn, for her part, didn’t touch her salad right away. She still had that curious expression on her face.

“What is it?” I asked around a mouthful of chicken and red beans and rice. “What’re you thinking?”

“Remember when Nora said she and Logan were supposed to be at the bowling alley Sunday night?”

I nodded and was swallowing my food when it suddenly hit me. Dawn saw the look on my face and nodded.

“The killers were after two people alright, but it wasn’t Austin and Logan,” she said triumphantly. “They wanted to kill Austin and Deborah. The husband and wife were the targets, not the son.”

After gulping down my food, I took a long swallow of water. “Shit, you’re right! I’ve been looking at this all wrong. We need to find out who wanted Deborah dead!”

Abraham was equally impressed with Dawn, and we began brainstorming our next steps in the investigation.

“Rachael said Mrs. Snipes took some medicine and she’ll be out for a few hours,” I said, “but once she wakes up we’ll need to find out if she’s got any enemies.”

“Are we still going after Francis Boyd?” Abraham asked.

“For sure,” I said with a nod. “In fact, what if he did it along with his wife?”

“A husband and wife murder squad?” Dawn asked. “A modern day Bonnie and Clyde?”

“I’ve heard of crazier things.” I took another bite and then another, wasting no more time. I wanted to make contact with Francis as soon as possible now. The mention of the man had also reminded me that I needed to contact the realtor, Kristine Foret.

“Do you need me to come up there with you?” Dawn asked. “Or am I clear to keep following up on this missing person case?”

“We’ve got it on this end,” I said, scraping up the last of my food. “I’ll probably need your advice every now and then, but you should definitely try to find out what happened to Sarah Schofield. I can’t imagine what her mom’s been going through.”

Abraham was about to shovel a fork full of food in his mouth, but paused for a second. He looked up with a frown, and said, “My mom still has nightmares about the time I was missing. She said she’s proud of me for writing my book, but she refuses to read it. She doesn’t want to relive the trauma.”

I couldn’t blame her, and said so.

We were all quiet for a few long seconds as we finished up our food, and it was Abraham who broke the silence.

“What’re the chances of you finding Sarah alive?” he asked Dawn. “I mean, I know from my own experiences that it’s possible she’s still alive, but isn’t it a long shot?”

“Well, no unidentified bodies have been found in this area in the past twenty years,” Dawn began, “so I guess it’s a possibility that she’s still alive, but it’s also highly unlikely. If she did make it out of the area alive, it was probably as the victim of human trafficking, and even then, her life expectancy would’ve been shit.”

After paying for our food, we hurried out into the parking area, which was across the highway in an abandoned grocery store lot, and Dawn and I paused for a moment facing each other.

“Good luck finding Sarah Schofield,” I said, refraining from kissing her in public. “I really hope she’s still alive.”

“Good luck to y’all, too.” Dawn placed a hand on my face. “Please be careful. The men who killed Austin and Logan are ruthless and dangerous.”

I smiled. “I’m always careful.”

CHAPTER 20

As soon as we were heading north on the highway, I called Jerry to ask what was happening at the Boyd residence.

“All’s quiet on my end,” he said. “When I got here an hour ago, the man was tilling a giant garden behind the trailer in his yard. He hasn’t stopped since—not even to drink a glass of water.”

“Does he have a lot left to till?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, he’s not even halfway done, and he’s got a half-acre garden. His tiller keeps giving him problems, so I’d say he’ll be at it all day and even into tomorrow.”

I mulled that over, and then asked, “Any other movement around the house?”

“A young man came out the back of the house a couple of times,” Jerry said. “He’s working on a lawnmower under the back patio. Each time he goes in the house, he comes back out with a fresh beer. He’s had three of them so far.”

“That’s probably his son, Francis, Jr.”

“So far, they’re the only two who seem to be home.”

I nodded thoughtfully. If we could get there while Senior was tilling the garden, we might be able to ask Junior some questions before the dad even knew we were there. We already knew the dad was an asshole and probably wouldn’t answer any questions, but the son might be a different story.

I asked Jerry to let me know if anything changed, and then quickly called Kristine Foret.

“This is Kristine,” called a pleasant voice when she answered. “How may I help you?”

“I’m London Carter,” I began, “and I’m a detective with the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office.”

“London Carter…hmm, I’ve heard that name before.” She was silent for a second, and then she said, “Oh, yeah, you’re the one who saved everyone at Central Magnolia High! My daughter goes there. Thank you for getting there so quickly! I remember that day like it was yesterday…”

I only nodded politely as she continued talking. I was glad no children had been harmed, but I would never feel good about that situation. When Kristine was done, I explained that I was calling about the fight between Austin Snipes and Francis Boyd.

“I know you didn’t witness the fight,” I explained, “but I wanted to know about the day Francis accosted you.”

“Which time?”

I blinked and quickly pulled my truck to the shoulder so I could switch the call to speakerphone. I wanted Abraham to hear everything that was being said.

“Did it happen more than once?” I asked once I was situated.

“Yeah, it happened when they were trying to sell the property on the bayou side several years ago, and then it happened again the other day.”

“The other day?” I asked, confused. “Wait, when was this most recent incident?”

“It was Friday afternoon, about four-thirty,” she said. “I was showing the property to a young couple and Mr. Boyd drove up and started trouble, just like he did the last time.”

“What property were you showing?” I asked, more confused than ever. Based on what Rachael had learned from Mrs. Snipes, they had sold their bayou side property to a man who had wanted to open a metal shop.

“I was showing their property off of Highway Three in Broadmoore,” she explained. “They’re selling one of their five-acre fields and a barn on the back side of the property. It’s been on the market for less than a week, but we’ve already had a dozen people ask about it. The upstairs of the barn is finished, and it would make a good starter home with lots of room for a permanent place later.”

Kristine took a breath before continuing.

“Like I said, I was showing the place to a young couple on Friday when Mr. Boyd drove up in a tizzy. He came storming up to me demanding that I delist the property and sell it to him outright. He said he would pay ten percent more than the highest offer, and that Mr. Snipes would be forced to sell to him since he was the highest bidder. He said he had already spoken with an attorney and that it would be discrimination if Mr. Snipes didn’t sell to him.” Kristine laughed. “That man sure has some wild ideas! I told him that no one—not even his lawyer—could force Mr. Snipes to sell to a particular person. I told him that Mr. Snipes could sell to whomever he wished.”

“How’d he take that news?” I asked when she paused again to take a breath.

“Oh, he exploded,” she said. “He didn’t want to hear any of it. He was so angry that he was spitting when he talked. I had already taken a shower that morning, so I backed away to keep from getting hosed down.”

I chuckled, shook my head, and then asked, “Did you feel threatened by his actions?”

“I didn’t,” she said with a grunt. “I’m not worried about that old geezer. I show a lot of houses by myself and often after dark, so I went and obtained my concealed carry license. I might not look like it, but I know how to use my pistol, and that man would’ve been making a big mistake if he had tried anything with me. I keep my gun in a fanny pack around my waist, and I practice getting it out every morning and every night. I wouldn’t want to go up against Wyatt Earp, but I’d take on Mr. Boyd anytime.”

Abraham and I glanced at each other and nodded our approval. I liked her confidence and no-nonsense attitude. I made a mental note to talk with Dawn about calling her to find a piece of land upon which to build our house.

“Did he say anything that could be construed as a threat?” I pressed, trying to find an actionable reason to approach Francis Boyd. “Either directed toward you or Mr. Snipes?”

“Not really,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t remember him making any threats of bodily harm. The only thing he threatened was to sue Mr. Snipes. Now, the young couple seemed disturbed by his actions. They hurried to their car and locked themselves inside. They told me later that they were about to call 9-1-1.”

I shifted in my seat and turned up the volume to hear her better. “How’d you resolve the incident?”

“I told Mr. Boyd that he had better get off the property and never return unless he received express permission from Mr. Snipes,” she explained. “I already knew about the problem from last time and I knew Mr. Snipes didn’t want Mr. Boyd on his property causing trouble, so I felt confident in telling him to leave.”

“Did he leave when you told him to?” I asked.

“Not at first,” she said. “He’s a stubborn man. When he refused to leave and he continued screaming at me, I pulled out my cell phone and began to call the sheriff’s office. That did the trick. He spun right on his heels and stormed off.”

“Did you tell Mr. Snipes about this?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, I called him right away just in case Mr. Boyd was heading in his direction,” she said. “When this happened the last time, Mr. Boyd attacked him after our confrontation. I felt horrible about it and thought it might’ve been my fault for not being agreeable and not giving in to Mr. Boyd. Looking back, I could’ve handled it differently. I could’ve taken the sign down in the moment and then spoken with Mr. Snipes later and let him decide what to do.”

“Did Mr. Snipes have a problem with the way you handled either situation?”

“Not at all. He told me he loved it. He told me back then that he didn’t care what Mr. Boyd said or thought and that he would never sell anything to him. He repeated that sentiment when I called him Friday.”

“Do you know why he wouldn’t sell to Francis Boyd?”

“At first, it was simply that he didn’t want a trailer next to his business,” she explained, “but after Mr. Boyd attacked him back then, he said he would never have any dealings with the man again. He said Mr. Boyd was too hotheaded and unpredictable.”

“Do you know if Mr. Boyd confronted Mr. Snipes after the incident or vice versa?” I asked.

“If he did, Mr. Snipes didn’t call me and tell me about it, and he didn’t mention anything when I spoke with him yesterday morning.”

I was quiet for a moment as I considered this new development. If Francis was such a hothead and he had gotten angry on Friday, it was quite possible his blood hadn’t cooled by Sunday.

“I didn’t know Mr. and Mrs. Snipes had property on Highway Three that was currently for sale,” I said idly, beginning to think we were really on to something with Francis Boyd. “And you said Francis Boyd came at you this past Friday, right?”

“Yes, sir, it was only three days ago.” She paused for a brief moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cautious, fearful even. “Um, may I ask what this is regarding? Did something else happen, or did Mr. Snipes file a complaint?”

“Did you hear about the murders that happened last night?”

“Oh, dear,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “Please tell me that wasn’t Mr. Snipes!”

“I’m afraid it was,” I said. “We’re trying to identify anyone who had an axe to grind with him, his wife, or his son.”

“Wait a minute,” she said in a shrill voice. “Are you saying his entire family was killed?”

“No, only him and his son.” I went on to repeat what little information had been released to the media. The news had come on the television earlier in Mommy Jo’s while we were eating, and I was only willing to share what had been broadcasted to the public so far.

“And y’all think Mr. Boyd did it?” She sounded flabbergasted.

“We’re exploring every angle,” I said. “The investigation is still in the early stages, and we don’t know anything for certain, which is why we’re exploring every incident involving Mr. and Mrs. Snipes and their son.”

“Wow, I can’t believe it,” Kristine said. “I just spoke with Mr. Snipes yesterday morning.”

“How’d that conversation go?” I asked.

“It went well,” she said. “We received an offer and I sent it over for him and his wife to review. He’s not real familiar with computers and electronic signatures, and neither is his wife, so he said he would have his son help him with it when they got back to work on Monday. The only computer he has is through his business and he doesn’t check his email often, so I have to call him anytime I send him something.”

I nodded. Since Austin and Logan hadn’t lived to see Monday morning, I could’ve assumed he had never accepted the offer, but I asked the question just to be certain. Kristine confirmed that her message had gone unanswered.

I glanced at Abraham to see if he had any questions, but he shook his head. I then thanked Kristine, but she had some questions of her own.

“Um, am I in danger?” she asked. “If it really is Mr. Boyd, then he’s probably as angry with me as he was with Mr. Snipes. I mean, if you could’ve seen how purple his face was when he was screaming at me. It looked like the devil himself had taken over his body.”

“We don’t know the motive behind Austin and Logan being killed,” I admitted, “so it’s hard to say if the killer is finished or not. I don’t want to alarm you, but I also don’t want to give you a false sense of security. Certainly, if you wanted, we could have officers make extra patrols around your house and business, and I could even arrange to have an officer assigned to follow you around for your protection. We do that in cases where our witnesses might be in jeopardy.”

“Do you think that could be my situation?”

I thought about her question carefully before answering. I didn’t really think anyone was gunning for her, but I just couldn’t be certain. If Francis Boyd was our guy, he might’ve blamed Kristine for blocking the sale just as much as he blamed Austin.

“What I can tell you is this,” I finally said. “We know that Francis Boyd is home tilling his garden at the moment, so he’s not a threat to you right now. We do plan on keeping him under surveillance until he’s no longer a suspect.”

“Will you let me know if he ever heads toward the Gracetown area?” she asked. “That’s where I live and where my office is located.”

“What’s the address for your business and home?” I asked, grabbing up the notepad I had been using for the Snipes’ murder investigation.

Once she had provided them to me, I told her I would let her know if we spotted Francis heading her way, and then I ended the call. I called dispatch next and requested extra patrols for her neighborhood and business.

“This Francis Boyd really sounds like an asshole,” Abraham commented when I ended the call and pulled onto the highway. “Maybe he’ll do something stupid when we get there and we’ll be able to arrest him.”

“I’m counting on it.” I said with a grunt. If I was a betting man, I would’ve put money on Francis Boyd having killed Austin Snipes, but I knew better than to state that claim out loud. Thus far, the only evidence we had told us that we were looking for two masked men with M1 carbines. Outside of that, it was anybody’s guess.

The front windows on my truck were down and cool air was flowing freely throughout the cab, blowing my hair around and making the pages on my notebook flap. I glanced down to make sure they weren’t tearing and I caught sight of something I’d scribbled in all caps: DEBORAH SNIPES IS NEXT!

As though reading my thoughts, Abraham asked, “Do you think he’ll go after Mrs. Snipes next?”

I pondered his question for a long moment. I liked Dawn’s theory that the killer had meant to target Austin and Deborah Snipes rather than Austin and Logan. Logan was an adult who had his own home, so a killer wouldn’t have expected to find him sitting in the elder Snipes’ living room on a random night—especially when he was supposed to be on a date at the bowling alley.

I started to nod in response to Abraham’s question when another thought occurred to me. I felt confident that Mrs. Snipes was safe at the moment, because we had a sniper with eyes on Francis Boyd. But what if we were wrong about the man? What if the real killer was out there right at that moment lying in wait to finish the job?

CHAPTER 21

Magnolia Parish Coroner’s Office

Detective Rachael Bowler snapped a few pictures of Logan’s wounds before Dr. Ally Fitch used her scalpel to begin making the Y incision in his chest. A few minutes earlier, Dr. Fitch had completed the autopsy on Austin Snipes, and her assistant, Starla Landry, was now sewing up the elder of the two.

“Whoever did this sure seemed desperate,” Dr. Fitch commented idly as her deft hands peeled back Logan’s flesh. “These wounds weren’t point blank, but they were close up, and they were fired in quick succession. Look how tight the shot patterns are, and notice how there’s blood in every wound. That means the victim was alive when the last shot was fired. Since most of them were heart shots, this young man would’ve died within seconds of the first shot having been fired.”

“So, every bullet that hit these men were fired within a few seconds of each other?” asked Rachael.

“That’s correct,” Dr. Fitch said. “This was a quick job.”

Rachael nodded thoughtfully as she studied the bullet holes. Some of them overlapped others, making it difficult to accurately count the number of small holes in Logan’s torso, and the same had been true of Austin’s wounds. According to London, every shot fired had found a human target, but he’d said that wasn’t surprising, considering the victims had been shot with rifles from a distance of several feet at the most.

In Rachael’s discussions with London, they had never described the crime as desperate. That word seemed to put a whole new perspective on the crime. In her most recent conversation with London, he had told her Dawn’s theory about the actual targets of the killing being Austin and Deborah, and that Logan might’ve simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Rachael walked to the opposite side of the autopsy room and called London. “Did you get to the Boyd residence yet?” she asked when he answered.

“I’m five minutes out,” he said. “How’re things there?”

“No surprises,” she said, “but Dr. Fitch did say something that got me thinking.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“She described the killings as desperate,” she explained. “When she said it, I imagined a scenario of two men busting down the door expecting to see Austin and Deborah sitting in the living room watching TV. Instead, they find Logan coming across the room to confront them. The first shooter starts blasting desperately away at Logan, while the other shooter goes around the first one and pumps Austin full of lead. Dr. Fitch says that these bullets were fired in such rapid succession that the victims were still alive when the last bullet was fired.”

“That makes sense,” London agreed. “It was hard to get an accurate count of the bullets, especially in Logan’s body, that’s how tight the shot pattern was. Usually, it would take some degree of deliberation to get that accurate of a group, but it wouldn’t be hard to fire nineteen rounds that accurately from that distance in a few seconds.”

“It happened so fast that they should’ve been long gone before Deborah woke up and realized what was happening,” Rachael said. “Don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” London said. “It would’ve taken a few seconds for her to realize something bad was happening, and then several more seconds for her to jump out of bed and arm herself with Austin’s shotgun. There’s no way she should’ve seen them running out the door.”

“I agree, and I think that’s where the desperation factors in,” she said. “It could be that the first shooter rushes in wearing a mask. In the confusion of the moment, and barely able to see because his mask is probably crooked on his face, he just starts desperately blasting away at the figure who unexpectedly pops up right in front of him, not clearly seeing who it is. The second shooter rushes around his partner in crime, not knowing who his partner is shooting at, and he starts pumping lead into the person on the recliner.”

She paused to take a breath before continuing. “It’s not until the bodies hit the floor that they realize they screwed up bad and didn’t kill Beaver Ledet and his pregnant wife, but two random family men. They would’ve stood around arguing about it, and that would’ve given Deborah Snipes the time she needed to wage war on the wall across from her room, scaring them into action. Had they been ordered to kill the entire Snipes family, they would’ve taken cover and easily ended Deborah’s life. No way would they have left without finishing the job. I mean, imagine what a mob boss would do if you screwed up? Realizing they killed the wrong people, they got the hell out of there before they could do more damage.”

London was quiet for a long moment. Rachael could hear wind blowing in the background, so she knew he was still there and driving. Finally, he let out a sigh, and said, “If you’re right, then this evidence suggests that we’re back to thinking this is a drug-related hit gone wrong.”

“I believe so,” she said. “If someone meant to kill Deborah and Austin, they would’ve known Logan, and they would’ve immediately realized Deborah wasn’t among the dead, and they would’ve rushed upstairs to find her.”

“And they would’ve gotten to her, too,” London said. “As quickly as they put Logan and Austin down, they would’ve had time to make it upstairs and shoot Deborah before she could even rub the sleep from her eyes.”

Although London couldn’t see her, she nodded. “Mrs. Snipes might not be in trouble anymore.”

The wind in the background seemed to fade for a while, and then stopped altogether. “Okay,” London said, “but let’s keep following up on this angle until we know for sure. I’ll check in with Roger to see if he’s made contact with his buddies at the DEA. Meanwhile, talk to Mrs. Snipes about their property on Highway Three as soon as you can. If we can eliminate this asshole as a suspect, it’ll free up some time to chase down more promising leads.”

“Okay,” Rachael said, and then ended the call. She turned to Karla, who had been standing nearby listening. “Let’s go see if we can wake up Mrs. Snipes. If we can prove this is a drug hit gone bad, we might be able to wrap up our babysitting duties.”

CHAPTER 22

Broadmoore, Louisiana

I shook my head as I parked my truck on the street just past Francis Boyd’s house and out of sight of the garden. On one hand, we had information pointing to someone having a beef with Austin and Deborah Snipes, and on the other, we had information that suggested our case was nothing more than a drug hit gone wrong.

I had called Jerry as soon as I’d gotten off the phone with Rachael a minute earlier, and he’d confirmed that Francis was still tilling his garden. As soon as we’d turned onto the street, Abraham and I had gotten our first look at the man. He was large—about six-two and 240—but a little stooped. Austin was much thinner and a little shorter than Francis, so I found myself admiring that he had whipped up on the larger man.

Unbeknownst to most people, size meant very little in a fight. There were advantages to being tall and heavy, but those advantages could turn into drawbacks when facing the right—or wrong—opponent.

Abraham and I kept a wary eye on our surroundings as we approached the house, which was constructed of white brick and had a simple design. The garage was to the right of the house and it was open, revealing a single vehicle inside. Farther to the right, and situated behind the house, was a gray shed that seemed to serve as a tiny house, thanks to the curtains in the windows and the grill and chair pitched out front. A truck was parked beside the shed, and it looked like it could generate some noise when cranked up.

I indicated the shed, and Abraham gave a nod to let me know he would keep an eye on it. I then approached the front door to the residence and gave a knock. As I always did, I stood to one side of the entrance, just in case someone inside decided to start sending lead through the door. Thankfully, nothing of the sort happened. Instead, I stood there for about five minutes, knocking several times but receiving no answer.

Finally, I joined Abraham at the corner.

“Let’s check out the tiny house,” I said. “Maybe Junior’s inside playing video games or doing whatever it is that grown men with no jobs do.”

Once Abraham and I were positioned on either side of the door, I knocked and we waited. I was about to knock a second time, louder, when I heard rustling from inside. I glanced at Abraham. He had noticed, too, and had moved his hand close to his pistol. If we were, in fact, dealing with the men who had murdered Austin and Logan, we had to take every precaution. They were cowards, for sure, for having gunned down two unarmed men in their home, but cowards could be more dangerous than killers who were proud and brave.

I let my right hand hang a little low, and bladed my body slightly to the doorway, waiting for it to open. When it did, I saw a young fellow in sweatpants squinting back at me, a look of confusion on his face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did my parole officer send y’all? I checked in with him last month.”

Not answering his question, I indicated the interior of his place. “Do you have any contraband or drugs inside?”

“No.” He shook his head from side-to-side, his thick hair bouncing as he did. “You can check if you like. I’m clean.”

“You don’t mind?” I asked.

He shrugged. “No, come on in. My P.O. drops in all the time, so I keep it clean.”

As we followed him inside, Junior flipped on a light switch, and a pale yellow glow fell across the place.

“I thought you said you keep your house clean?” I asked after taking one glance around the cluttered place. It seemed his favorite restaurant was Popeye’s Fried Chicken, as there were over a dozen of their cardboard packages littering the floor, many of which still had bones and pieces of biscuits inside. In addition to other garbage underfoot, there had to be several dozen smashed soda cans. I didn’t notice any beer cans, and I figured that must be a condition of his parole.

“Dad fired the maid.” He gave a toothless smile at his own joke and then pointed to the stained sofa to offer us a seat.

I waved him off and got right down to it. “Where were you last night?”

“I was here,” he said immediately, pointing to his television, “watching reruns of 24.”

I nodded my approval. I’d been a fan of the show back in the day, when I had time to watch TV. “Can anyone confirm you were here watching 24?”

“I mean, I guess my mom and dad could,” he said. “They weren’t here with me, but they would’ve heard me if I left the house.”

Just then, we heard the rumbling of a loud exhaust pulling right up to the front of the shed. I cast a curious glance at Junior.

“That’s my mom,” he said. “She took my dad’s truck to the farm market to buy some plants. They’re getting the garden ready to start putting stuff in the ground.”

The woman would see my truck on the street and wonder what was going on, so I knew I needed to speed up the interview.

“Do you have any guns in here?” I asked, taking another casual look around.

“Hell to the no,” came Junior’s response. “That would violate me.”

“What about your dad?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he gulped audibly. “Hey, now, my P.O. said my dad can keep his guns as long as I live in a separate house and they’re locked up when I visit.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re fine with that,” I assured him, raising my hands, palms toward him. “We’re not here about you, trust me.”

“What do you mean?” He scowled, glancing from me to Abraham, and then back to me. “Are you here about my dad?”

“What kinds of guns does he have?” I asked, ignoring his question. “I’m more interested in long guns.”

Junior took a breath and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I don’t really remember. I haven’t been around guns since I got out of prison, so I don’t really know what he does or doesn’t have.”

I realized immediately that he had gone into defensive mode. He didn’t know what his dad might or might not have gotten into, but he would definitely lie to protect him.

“Look, your dad’s not in trouble that we know about.” I shot an inquiring glance at Abraham, who shrugged to let Junior know that he didn’t think so, either. “We just had a couple of rifles come up in a recent investigation—some very nice rifles—and they might be stolen from this area. If they are, we’d like to reunite them with their owners, but we also need to make sure they go to the right people. If I have a Beretta that’s missing and I can’t figure out who it belongs to, wouldn’t it be easy for any random schmuck off to street to claim it’s his?”

Junior nodded slowly, seemingly not sure if he was following my logic.

“Why don’t you just tell me what kind of rifles your dad owns,” I continued. “If it’s the same kind as the ones that came up in our investigation, then I’ll know it might be his. If he doesn’t even own those types of rifles, then we’ll know it belongs to someone else.”

“But…but my dad didn’t have any guns stolen.”

“Did you talk to him today?” I asked pointedly.

“Um, no, he’s been tilling the garden all morning.”

“Right, and we don’t want to bother him while he’s working.” I pretended to take an impatient breath. “Now, what kind of rifles does he own?”

After a moment of hesitation, Junior rattled off descriptions of a number of long guns, all of which were bolt-action rifles, except for a Smith and Wesson M&P-15.

I was about to ask specifically if his dad ever owned an M1 carbine, when my cell phone rang. I knew without looking that it was Jerry Allemand. I pushed the cell phone hard against my head to make sure his words didn’t leak out.

“London, he’s heading your way.” Jerry spoke calmly, and I knew he was tracking the man’s movement. “A woman drove up and put an ear to the apartment door. Afterward, she ran to the field and got the old man. They just reached the front of the house…”

I ended the call and turned slightly so I was facing the entrance and Junior at the same time. Just then, the door to the apartment flew open and I saw Francis Boyd standing there, his chest heaving and his beady eyes darting all around the room. He wore faded jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. There was dirt on his knees, hands, and face, and his fists were clenched. Behind him, a lady of about similar age stood craning her neck to see over her husband’s shoulder. There was obvious concern in those eyes.

“What in the name of God is going on here?” Francis bellowed when he saw the badges on our belts and the guns on our hips.

I decided to take his knees right out from under him. “We’re investigating the murder of Austin and Logan Snipes, and the evidence has led us to your doorsteps.”

As instantly as the words left my mouth, his chest deflated like tires from a suspect’s vehicle after running over spike strips. His eyes turned to his son and his face twisted in pain.

“France, please tell me you didn’t!”

“No way!” Junior shook his head wildly. “I didn’t never kill nobody! I don’t even know what’s going on, Dad. They were asking about your rifles.”

“Wait a minute…” Francis’ expression then turned to one of confusion. He studied me shrewdly. “You think I killed them!”

“Did you?” I asked pointedly.

“No.” He took a breath and exhaled it forcefully. “Look, Austin and me had our differences, but I would never hurt him.”

“Do you mind coming down to the sheriff’s office to talk about it?” I asked.

He hesitated, but then finally nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

“Francis, what’s going on?” asked his wife. “Why are you leaving with them? Call your lawyer. Don’t…don’t leave me.”

He turned and spoke softly to her, saying that he would be back soon and for her not to worry about anything.

I glanced at Abraham, who gave a slight shrug, indicating he wasn’t sure what to make of Francis Boyd. I nodded. The man was either a good actor or he hadn’t killed Austin and Logan, and the latter scared me more than anything. That would mean the killer was still out there somewhere…maybe as far away as Mexico.

CHAPTER 23

Seasville, Louisiana

Dawn Luke checked the address in her notes, compared the number to the mailbox, and nodded. It was the right place. She recognized the brick house with the red shutters from the crime scene photos. The bricks had faded over time and the shutters were in desperate need of a paint job. The flower bed to the left side of the door had long ago been taken over by weeds, and there had been no recent attempt to beat them back.

Dawn frowned. The house gave off the appearance of a place that had lost its will to live, and she guessed it had matched the mood of the family who lived there. Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of her unmarked Charger and made her way to the front door, taking the evidence box containing the carbine with her. She hesitated for a moment, not liking what she was about to do, but then finally knocked.

She had researched Mark Blanchard’s family and found that the father had died three years after his son had committed suicide. No cause of death had been listed in the obituary, and she could find no entry in their computer system, so she presumed it had been of natural causes. The sister who had found Mark, Jr. had a social media account, but it hadn’t been updated in a few years. Her first name was Yvette and, as far as Dawn could find, at age thirty-two, she still used Blanchard as her surname.

Dawn knocked a second time, a little harder, and within a minute heard some rustling on the other side of the door. She shifted her feet, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Surely, the rifle belonged to Voltaire Bergeron because he had purchased it from the elder Mark Blanchard, but she felt like she owed it to the family to see if they wanted the rifle back.

After reading Mark’s detailed statement, she had learned that the rifle had been passed down to him from his father, who had received it from his grandfather, who had brought it back from the war. It had been Mark, Sr.’s only firearm, and he’d stated that he treasured the family heirloom, but he had been forced to get rid of it. When pressed by the detective who handled the case about why he had sold it to Voltaire Bergeron, Mark had stated, “I caught my son drunk and crying with the barrel in his mouth. Why else would I get rid of it?”

The dad had gone on to explain that his son refused to tell him why he wanted to commit suicide, and his only recourse had been to get rid of the rifle.

“I…I thought I saw a ghost when Yvette started screaming and telling me to get in the bathroom,” Mark, Sr. had stated. “We had just come back from the grocery store and she had gone to use the bathroom and found…and found my boy like that.”

The text of the transcript had indicated that sobs could be heard on the recording, but the statement continued, and Mark, Sr. repeated that he thought he’d seen a ghost when he looked in the bathtub.

“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing,” he had stated. “It was like Lassie returning home. I thought I was crazy. I knew I had sold that rifle to Voltaire, but there it was, in the bathtub with my boy. I was confused. I…I thought it was a bad dream. I thought I was losing my mind.” He then addressed the detective directly. “If you would’ve never told me the gun was stolen back from Voltaire, I would’ve checked myself into a mental hospital.”

When the door came open, Dawn put on her best smile. The woman standing before her looked much older than thirty-two, but she knew it was Yvette Blanchard. She wore tight jean shorts with the bottoms rolled up, and a blue and white T-shirt. There was a tattoo on her right forearm that appeared to be in memoriam of her brother.

“Mrs. Blanchard?” Dawn asked, extending a hand. “I’m Dawn Luke. I’m a detective with the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office.”

The woman hesitantly took her hand and shook it. Dawn noted it was clammy to the touch.

“What…what’s this about?” Yvette asked. “Is this about that parking ticket I got in Chateau? I was gonna pay it as soon as I got my check.”

“No, no,” Dawn said quickly, “this has nothing to do with a parking ticket or anything else official. I…I was looking into a cold case and I came across a rifle in the attic at the substation. It belonged to your great grandfather and was handed down through the years to your dad. I was wondering if—”

Yvette interrupted Dawn with a gasp and pointed toward the evidence box. “That’s the rifle Mark shot himself with!”

“Yes, it is.” Dawn frowned. “I’m so sorry about what happened to your brother. I can’t even imagine the pain your family has had to endure.”

Yvette lowered her eyes, leaned a shoulder against the door frame. She just remained there staring in horror at the rifle. “There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see his face,” she said in a ghostly voice after a long moment of silence. “It…it haunts me to this day.”

Dawn nodded her understanding. If outward appearance were any indication, the incident had ruined Yvette’s life. After a few long beats, Dawn said, “I’m sure you know your dad sold the rifle to Mr. Voltaire Bergeron, and then it was stolen back by your brother.”

Yvette only nodded.

“Given the history of the rifle, coming from the war with your great grandfather, I just wanted to see if the family wanted it back.” Dawn shifted her feet. “I haven’t spoken with Mr. Voltaire yet to see if he’s willing to let it go, but he’s a nice man and it’s been such a long time ago that I believe he would donate it back to the family. If not, I’m willing to buy it back for y’all.”

Yvette’s head snapped up at Dawn’s last comment. “You would do that for us?”

“Yes, I would.” Dawn had been saving up for the wedding. If she cut a few corners here and there, she figured she would be able to afford up to $3,000 for the rifle. She hadn’t spoken to London about it, but he was a giving man, and she knew he wouldn’t care.

“Well, that’s really nice of you,” Yvette said slowly, “but…but I don’t want it, and I know my mom wouldn’t either.”

“What about any other family members?”

“My dad was the only grandson, so it went to him. He…he died a few years after Mark. It was unexpected because of his age, but we weren’t surprised. Mom said he died of a broken heart, and I tend to believe her.”

“I’m so very sorry,” Dawn said softly.

“Thank you. Um, Mark left us before he had any kids, but even if he did, none of them would want it. Me, I’ve never been married, and I doubt I ever will. If I do, I don’t want any kids. I saw what my mom and dad went through when we lost Mark, and I could never survive something like that.” Yvette shook her head. “That’s really nice of you, but there’s no one left who would want it.”

Dawn frowned. The whole situation saddened her to the core. One kid’s mistake had been the ruination of his whole family, and, if Yvette didn’t change her mind about having children, that mistake would bring to an end an entire bloodline.

“Well, I’m very sorry to have bothered you,” Dawn said, pulling a card from her pocket. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call me.”

Yvette took the card and stared down at it for a long moment. When she looked up, her eyes were glassy. “You’re very nice. I wish it would’ve been you that handled Mark’s case. The detective who came to the house was not mean, but he was not nice either. He was all business and it felt like he was in a hurry to go home. I know things would’ve been different if you would’ve been here.”

Confused, Dawn cocked her head to the side. “How would it have been different?”

“It just would have,” Yvette said. “I was eleven, you understand? That man detective scared me. He was big and his questions were rough. And I had just seen my brother in the bathtub, dead. I loved Mark more than my own life. He was my hero. He would punch anyone who said something mean to me, and he didn’t care how big they were. I felt safe when he was around. He was the best big brother ever. He had a good heart. He would’ve made a great dad someday.”

Dawn nodded as Yvette spoke. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked when the woman stopped talking.

Yvette shook her head slowly. She hesitated for a brief moment, and then pushed off from the doorframe. “I have to get ready for work,” she said. “Thank you for stopping by.”

CHAPTER 24

On the short drive to the pawn shop, Dawn replayed the conversation with Yvette over and over in her mind. The loss of her brother had altered her entire outlook on life and the prospect of having children, just as the loss of London’s family had done so with him.

The interaction with Yvette had put a damper on Dawn’s mood and she wondered how long it would take to shake it. She loved her job, but it sometimes took an emotional toll on her. She was human, after all, and she cared about people.

When she arrived at the pawn shop, she parked near the front door and took a deep breath in an attempt to clear her thoughts and push the sadness from her chest. She exited her vehicle, walked around to the passenger’s side, and retrieved the evidence box into which she had placed the M1 carbine. She did feel a little better when she considered how happy Mr. Voltaire would be when he saw his stolen rifle. She wondered briefly if they should’ve cleaned it, but quickly dismissed that thought. She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for damaging a piece of great American history, so it was best to leave it to Mr. Voltaire to decide how to handle the blowback in the bore.

“Hey, there, young lady,” Mr. Voltaire called when Dawn stepped inside the shop. He pushed his thick glasses higher on his nose to get a better look at her. “It’s been a long time!”

“Yes, sir, it has.” Dawn sauntered toward the counter and carefully placed the evidence box on the glass top. “How you been?”

“Oh, I bend at the knees and the waist,” he said dryly. “That’s about it these days. Things are starting to seize up on me. I can’t remember the last time I touched my toes. I have to wear these loose-fitting shoes so I can put them on standing up…”

Dawn smiled as he continued to complain good-naturedly about growing older. She liked talking to older folks. They were a wealth of information, especially when they had been involved in so many endeavors. As a former barber and bus driver, and current shop owner, Mr. Voltaire knew a lot of people. He also liked to talk, so he learned a lot about the people whose paths he crossed.

When he paused, he shuffled over to stand opposite Dawn and tapped the evidence box.

“What’s this?” he asked, his curiosity clearly getting the best of him. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the box since she entered the store, and she guessed he was wondering what kind of transaction might be in store for him. She knew from past experience with him that he loved to barter over goods, and she figured his mind was already thinking what he might be able to trade for whatever was in the box—provided it interested him.

Dawn smiled. “It’s a present.”

“A present?” He leaned forward and studied the plain box for a minute. “Well, I don’t see any writing. What’s inside?”

“An M1 carbine,” Dawn said, “and it’s in excellent condition. It’s a war-era all-original, brought back by a survivor of WWII. In fact, it was made by IBM, so you know it’s rare.”

“Oh, wow,” Mr. Voltaire said, almost salivating at the thought of the rifle. “I haven’t seen one of those in, let’s see, maybe twenty years?”

“Yeah, well, you’ve seen this one before.” Dawn unfolded the edges of the top flap and lifted it to reveal the rifle inside. “It was stolen from your shop almost twenty-one years ago.”

“What?” Mr. Voltaire’s mouth fell open in amazement. “This is the rifle that was stolen from me in that burglary?” He turned and pointed to a spot over one of the doors in the shop. “The one that I hung over that door?”

“Yes, sir,” Dawn said, pleased at his excitement.

“Where’d you find it?” Mr. Voltaire gently lifted the rifle from the box and started examining it. “It’s dirtier than I remembered and there’s some surface rust in places, but it’s still in pretty good condition. I can’t believe you found it after so many years.”

“I found it in the evidence room at the substation,” Dawn explained. “It was actually recovered two days after you reported it stolen.”

Dawn watched Mr. Voltaire’s face twist into a scowl. “Two days later?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But no one called me.” He hoisted the weapon. “I never knew they found it. I filed a claim with the insurance and they paid me off. If I would’ve known they found it, I wouldn’t have filed. It made my insurance go up the next year.”

“So, I ran the serial number and it seems the officer who took the initial complaint failed to enter it into the NCIC computer as stolen,” Dawn said. “This might explain why they never connected it to you. Usually, when they recover a firearm in a suicide, they run the serial number to see if it’s stolen. If it comes back clear, they’ll just enter it into evidence and wait for the family to claim it.”

Mr. Voltaire carefully, but quickly, placed the rifle back in the box. His continence had changed. “Did you say suicide?”

“Yes, sir.” Dawn frowned. “Apparently, the whole reason Mr. Blanchard sold you the rifle was because he caught his son trying to kill himself with it. It was his son who burglarized your store. He stole the gun and finished the job.”

Mr. Voltaire was shaking his head from side to side. “No, I can’t take this back. I don’t want it back. It’s bad luck to have a gun that someone committed suicide with. Please, take this out of my shop. I don’t care what you do with it…just get it out of here.”

Dawn nodded her understanding and closed the flap on the box. “Before I go, I need to ask if you know of anyone who might own two of these?”

“Two M1 carbines?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, you’re lucky if you can get your hands on one of them,” he said. “No, I don’t know of anyone who owns more than one. I’ve been in business for many years, and that’s the first one I ever got in my shop. Usually if you own one, you don’t let it go. People have to be desperate for money to get rid of an original M1 carbine. That’s what I thought when the owner brought this rifle in. I didn’t know the man or the family, and I just thought he needed the money. I was happy to help him and I was happy to have a piece of American history, but I don’t want a cursed gun.”

Dawn hesitated before leaving. “Mr. Voltaire, do you remember a girl from out of town going missing twenty-one years ago? She would’ve disappeared in the Beacher area while on spring break. She was from Oklahoma.”

“Ah, you know what? I think I do remember that case.” Mr. Voltaire was nodding his head thoughtfully. “My daughter used to talk about it a lot. She was the same age as the girl who went missing. Wasn’t there some talk about a boat ride?”

“Yeah!” Dawn grew suddenly excited. “She supposedly left with some locals to go on a boat ride, and she was never seen or heard from again.”

Mr. Voltaire was nodding as he began moving around behind the counter, muttering to himself as he did so. He was searching through piles of paperwork on the glass top, digging in drawers, and rifling through items that were tucked under the counter. Finally, he let out a triumphant grunt.

“Here it is,” he said, pulling a dusty frame from a broken box at the far corner of his space behind the counter. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the glass of the frame. “It’s kind of old, but you’ll get the idea.”

Dawn reached for the frame with eager hands. Centered beneath the glass was a yellowed newspaper clipping depicting several young girls standing on a sandy beach facing the camera. Someone—probably her proud father—had traced a circle around one of the girls. The caption read: AREA YOUTH HELP WITH SEARCH OF MISSING OK WOMAN.

“Your daughter helped with the search?” Dawn’s excitement was mounting. If she could only find at least one person from back then who remembered something—anything—she might be able to generate a lead. She wasn’t asking for much…just a chance to help Mrs. Schofield find answers.

“Yeah,” Mr. Voltaire said. “Regina spent two weeks on the beach looking for a body to wash up on the shore. Her momma didn’t want her to be involved, but I encouraged her to let Regina help out. It’s good to help your community. One person can make a big difference, you know?”

“Absolutely!” Dawn held up the framed newspaper article. “Can I take a picture of this?”

Mr. Voltaire shrugged. “Sure. If you want my daughter’s number, I can give it to you. She’s a teacher at Seasville Upper.”

“I’d appreciate that very much!”

CHAPTER 25

The Seasville Upper Elementary School was just down the road from Mr. Voltaire’s pawn shop, and Dawn drove straight to it. She had called Regina’s phone before leaving the pawn shop, but, unsurprisingly, hadn’t gotten an answer. She’d left a message to let Regina know she was en route, but she knew Regina was probably teaching and couldn’t access her phone.

After announcing herself through the intercom outside the locked front door of the school, Dawn was buzzed inside and she made her way to the office. Once there, she introduced herself to the secretary, and asked to speak with Regina Bergeron.

“If you plan on arresting her, can you wait until next week, and can you take me with her?” the secretary asked. “It’s LEAP week, and we’d both rather be in jail than here for that chaos.”

As a single woman who had attended school in Arkansas and had no kids yet, Dawn had no idea what the LEAP test was, but she promised to find a reason to lock both women up for at least the week. “I’ll even guarantee free potted meat sandwiches and warm water.”

“Okay, count me out,” said the secretary with a grimace. “Potted meat reminds me too much of hurricanes and no electricity. Besides, it’s gross!”

Dawn nodded her agreement and took a seat to wait for Regina. She mulled over her case in the meantime, and her mind wandered back to her conversation with Yvette. She was struck by how utterly despondent the woman seemed, even after so many years. London had lost his entire family at a tender age—a few years younger than what Yvette had been—yet he had grown up to be a highly functioning adult who excelled at everything he tried. She knew everyone was different, and that no two people would handle the same situation in the same way, but she couldn’t help but think that there was still something troubling Yvette. She was trying to figure out what that might be when a young and robust woman whisked into the office, her breath a little labored.

“Hey, I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” said the woman. “I got here as quickly as I could when they called. I probably should’ve been a little more careful, though. I almost took out a janitor.”

Dawn rose to her feet and smiled at Regina’s explanation. “Is there some place we can talk privately?”

“Sure, follow me.” Regina led the way out of the office and down the hall to the library, which was empty. She closed the door and both women took their seats at a small table.

Dawn set her file folder on the table and took out her cell phone. She opened the image she’d taken of the framed article and handed the phone to Regina. “Do you remember this?”

Regina took it and frowned when she saw the picture. Nodding, she said, “We never did find her. I kept checking for updates in the media all through my college years, but the story just died. It’s really sad and scary that a young woman could go missing and then just be forgotten.”

Dawn pursed her lips and waited until Regina handed back the phone. “I promise you this,” she told the teacher, “as long as I’m alive, this story will never die again. I’ve reopened the case and it’ll stay open until it’s solved. I’ll never quit working it.”

“Thank you so much,” Regina said. “After the search ended, I never went back to Beacher, and I won’t allow my daughters to go there. I don’t care how much they beg or how often their friends go, they’re not allowed—not until we find out what happened to Sarah.”

“Did you know Sarah?” Dawn asked.

Regina shook her head. “Whatever I knew about her came from the newspaper articles. They covered the story hotly and heavily for a couple of months, but then the daily reports turned into weekly mentions, and those were pushed to the bottom of the fold thanks to more pressing news that came out at the time. Eventually, they just stopped reporting on it and the story faded into nothingness. You know how it goes with attention spans. I see it every day in the classroom—especially in this new digital age—as soon as the next big and interesting story comes along, the last one is forgotten. But out there somewhere, a family is still hurting.”

“That’s how I found out about Sarah,” Dawn explained. “Her mom called to see if we’d ever gotten anywhere on the case.”

Regina’s eyes smarted over. “I can’t imagine what that poor lady’s going through. I have three daughters of my own now, and I couldn’t imagine…”

She let her voice trail off, and Dawn knew what she meant. There was no need to vocalize it.

“Do you remember anything from back then?” Dawn asked. “Any leads or rumors that might’ve hinted as to what had happened?”

“Is that the police report?” Regina asked, pointing to the file folder on the table.

“Yes, it is.”

“I would think most of the information is inside there, right? I mean, we only knew what we heard off the streets. Law enforcement at the time didn’t release much information at all. They were there in large numbers searching. They had helicopters and boats and officers on foot, but they weren’t sharing much information with anyone.” Regina sighed. “That was the most frustrating part. We all thought that if they just told us what they knew, the public might be able to help.”

“That’s just it,” Dawn said. “They didn’t know anything. Sarah’s best friend was their only real witness, and all she could say was that Sarah left with a local boy. She said Sarah had been hanging out with a few locals, but she wasn’t sure if they were boys or girls or how many of them there were. She was very drunk, so that didn’t help matters either.”

“Too bad it wasn’t today,” Regina said. “Everyone’s got a cell phone now, and they record everything from the food they eat to their painted toenails.”

“We have some pictures, but they’ve gotten stuck together over the years,” Dawn explained, removing the wad of photographs from the investigative file. “These were taken by the best friend. When I first read about the photos in the report, I hoped it might show one or more of the locals who were with her, but I found them in this condition. I’m planning on soaking them in water to see if I can separate them.”

“I’ve done that before,” Regina said, “and it worked for me.”

Dawn nodded her thanks and carefully placed the photos back in the pack. When she looked up at Regina, she again asked about any rumors she might’ve heard.

“I mean, we heard all kinds of rumors, like she had left on a boat with some drug smugglers and they got lost at sea, or that she was taken and eaten by feral people who live deep in the swamps.” Regina shook her head dismissively. “None of those rumors ever made sense, and some were even crazier, like she had gotten abducted by aliens and would probably be dropped off in the desert somewhere years from then. It was really hard to sift through the noise and find any viable scenarios, especially since the sheriff’s office and Beacher P.D. weren’t saying anything. None of us knew what to think.”

Dawn sighed and leaned back in her chair. She hadn’t known what to expect from Regina, but she’d certainly hoped for more. Remembering something Regina had said earlier, she asked idly, “What kinds of more pressing news had come out a month after the disappearance?”

“Oh, that was about the suicide pact among some high school students,” she said. “That was a horrible year for the graduating class at South Magnolia High. We lost six seniors.”

“All by suicide?” Dawn asked, horrified by the news.

“No, two were killed on prom night when this boy crashed his truck into a bulkhead, killing him and his girlfriend,” she explained. “He was drunk. The other four committed suicide.”

“When did they commit suicide?” Dawn asked, suddenly wondering if Mark Blanchard had been a part of the pact.

“Oh, let’s see, Sarah disappeared in April, so this would’ve been in June.” She thought about it longer, and then nodded. “Yeah, it would’ve been in June. There were four football players involved. The story went that they were all great football players, but no colleges would touch them because of their disciplinary record, so they all decided to go out while they were still on top. Apparently, they’d all had dreams of playing professional ball, and when reality set in that they would have to do manual labor for the rest of their lives, they couldn’t handle it.”

“What?” Dawn asked in exasperation. “How horrible!”

“Yeah, it was a shock to the entire community. I guess it’s easy to see how a missing girl from Oklahoma might get left behind in that type of news.”

“That’s just sad,” Dawn said, her thoughts immediately going to the families of each boy. She couldn’t imagine how devastated they must’ve been. After a moment, she asked, “Was Mark Blanchard one of the boys?”

“Mark Blanchard…” Regina was thoughtful. “That name doesn’t sound familiar, but I was a nerd and didn’t know any of the cool kids, so if any of them were football players, they weren’t familiar to me. If you called out their names I would probably remember them, but I couldn’t tell you who they were.”

Dawn asked a few more questions before thanking Regina for her time and leaving the school. She was at a loss regarding what to do with the rifle. It rightfully belonged to Mr. Voltaire, but since he didn’t want it, it should be returned to the Blanchard family. She wondered if she could convince Yvette Blanchard to take the carbine in case she ended up having children at some point. Such a family heirloom was priceless.

Dawn was still trying to figure out how to convince Yvette to keep the rifle when her cell phone rang. She hadn’t made it to her unmarked Charger yet, so she quickened her pace to get out of the wind. Once she was inside the vehicle—and after four rings had passed—she quickly pressed the accept button. She hadn’t recognized the number, but she knew the voice right away.

“Detective Luke?” asked Yvette Blanchard in an uncertain voice. “Is this Detective Dawn Luke?”

“It’s me,” Dawn said. “I was actually just thinking about you. Your ears must’ve been—”

“My dad lied to the police,” Yvette blurted.

CHAPTER 26

Detective Bureau

I led Francis Boyd to the interview room and Abraham followed behind the man in case he would try anything. Normally, I would’ve insisted Boyd walk ahead of me as I pointed the way, but I knew if he so much as thought about making a move against me, Abraham would drop him before that thought had a chance to leave his brain.

“Here you go, sir,” I said, pointing to the chair that was facing the observatory window. “You can have a seat there.”

Francis nodded and took his seat without saying a word. He hadn’t asked for an attorney on the entire drive to the office, and I found that surprising. It was more affirmation that we might be barking up the wrong tree. He loved to drop his attorney’s name during all of his confrontations, and if he were responsible for murdering Austin and Logan, there was no doubt in my mind that he would’ve lawyered up and refused to answer any of our questions.

Of course, I had been wrong before, and it was also possible that he was responsible for the murders, but he thought he was smarter than us and that he could talk his way out of it. He might very well have been smarter than us, but it was nearly impossible to answer every question without screwing something up. The devil was in the details, and no one could think of everything.

“I appreciate you agreeing to speak with us,” I began, resting my notepad and file folder on the desk between us.

“Look, right off, I just want you to know that I’m well aware of my rights,” Francis said. “I could ask for a lawyer and you wouldn’t be able to ask me a single question.”

“That’s correct,” I said, waiting to see where he was heading with his comment.

“If I’d had anything to do with it, I would definitely ask for a lawyer,” he said, “but I didn’t. Austin and me had our differences, but I loved Deborah and her family like they were my own, and I would never do anything to hurt any of them. Logan, he was Whitney’s pride and joy, and I would never do anything to hurt Whitney, even though he’s gone now.”

“Who’s Whitney?” I asked.

“That’s Deborah’s dad,” he explained. “Whitney Hebert. Our entire neighborhood used to be open fields for grazing cattle, and Whitney owned all of it. He sold the land to a developer who came in and turned it into a subdivision. We had been friends since we were young, and he told me ahead of time that he was turning it into a neighborhood. He said I could have the first two lots at the top of the street, and he made good on that promise once the parcels of land started going up for sale.”

“So, at one time, Whitney Hebert owned all the land the neighborhood is sitting on?” I asked. “Even the spot where Austin and Deborah live?”

“Yeah. He sold everything except for four double lots at the back of the street, one set for each of his kids. His kids are scattered across the country, and three of the lots are still vacant.”

Abraham was taking notes while Francis talked, so I was able to focus on what the man was saying.

“What about the bayou side property?” I asked.

“Whitney owned that, too,” he said. “He also owned the entire tract of land on the other side of the bayou, off of Highway Three. When my kids were young, he promised to someday sell me the extra lot on the bayou side for my daughter, and he also said he’d sell me one of his fields across the bayou for Junior to build himself a house. He used to take Junior riding on his tractor and he treated him like his own grandson, but that was before Logan started staying with them during the summer months. All of a sudden, it seemed like Junior didn’t exist anymore.”

As Francis spoke, his voice seemed to grow increasingly bitter, and I found myself wondering if he should be put back at the top of the suspect list.

“When did Whitney die?” I asked.

“Last year.”

“I thought the land on the bayou side was sold to the business owner five years ago?” I challenged. “If Whitney Hebert owned it and promised it to you, then how did Austin sell it?”

Francis shifted in his chair. “You see, back about thirty years ago, when businesses started cropping up along the bayou in our area and developers started subdividing the cane fields, our property values began to skyrocket. And when the property value goes up, guess what follows?”

“Increased property taxes.”

“Yep!” Francis nodded for emphasis. “Whitney was land rich and cash strapped. He had lived a long time off of the money he got from selling the neighborhood property, but he couldn’t keep up with the land taxes and he had to mortgage off some of his property. Well, from what I heard, he got behind on the note and the tax payments after a while, and the bank was demanding payment. He was about to lose everything. Deborah, she had run off to Alaska after college, and that’s where she met Austin. Next thing I know, they move back here, build a house on the property that Whitney had saved for Deborah, and then Austin starts using the barn on the bayou side like it’s his own.”

“Had he bought it by then?”

“I wasn’t sure at first.” Francis sighed. “I knew Whitney was open to the idea of selling it, because he had once offered me the whole strip along the bayou side, barn and all. That was before Deborah and Austin even moved down here, back when my kids were little, but I…I didn’t have the funds at the time. The oilfield had tanked and I wasn’t making much at the shipyard. Whitney came back to me a little later and offered it again, but I still couldn’t buy it. That’s when he told me he’d have to put it up for sale before the bank could take it. When I reminded him of his promise, he told me he had no choice, that it was either sell it and settle with the bank, or lose it and still owe the bank a ton of money.”

I wanted to ask Francis if he’d exploded on Whitney like he had on Austin, but I decided to keep things cordial. He was talking, after all, and that was a lot more than I’d expected.

“When did Austin and Deborah move here?”

“Shit, they’ve been here for more than ten years, I think.”

“Is that when they came down and saved their family land?”

“I guess so.” He shrugged. “I mean, at first, I thought the only land the bank wanted was the piece on the bayou side, but then I heard later that Whitney was about to lose everything before Austin swooped in and saved the day with his fancy money.”

“Everything?” I asked, ignoring his snide comment about Austin and his money.

“Even the house Whitney had built with his own two hands.” Francis sneered. “How is it that a man can buy a piece of land, build a house, pay off the loans, and still never really own it? How is it fair that the government can demand you pay them a tax, and then keep raising that tax until no one can afford it and they have to go to the bank for a loan, and then the bank demands they pay it all back or they’ll be forced off of their property? It sounds like theft to me, and I think the parish and the banks are all in it together.”

“I don’t know about anyone being in collusion,” I said with a shake of my head, “but I never did understand having to pay a tax on your property forever. There should be an expiration date.”

He grunted his agreement, and then continued. “Well, like I said, I thought Austin had only bought the bayou side property, but this is what I found last week.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. After messing with it, he turned to show me a screenshot of a CRS property report. “Austin had bought every damned thing in Whitney’s name ten years ago when he bought the bayou side property. I guess they made an agreement to let Whitney and his wife live in the house and use the property until they died, because Whitney carried on like it still belonged to him. I can’t believe he let them buy up everything he owned, especially after working so hard for it.”

I tapped the screen on his cell phone. “You said you found out about this last week. What prompted you to look into it?”

“I saw that For Sale sign go up in front of Whitney’s house, so I called one of my friends who work in real estate,” Francis said smugly. “He sent me this.”

“Tell me about seeing the sign,” I said casually, as though I didn’t know he had accosted Kristine Foret.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you go onto the property when you saw it?”

Francis blinked. “Um, not at first.”

“Tell me about Friday, when you stopped and spoke with the realtor.” I turned toward Abraham and pretended to forget her name. “Who was she again?”

“Kristine,” Abraham said. “Kristine Foret.”

“Yep, that’s what it is,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Tell me about your conversation with her.”

Francis was really sweating at that point. “Look, I know I said some things I shouldn’t have said. I…I was just angry, you know?”

“Tell us about it,” I pressed.

“I was promised a piece of that land for my son’s house. Sure, it was before Austin bought it, but he knew about the promise. Whitney told him about our agreement, but Austin didn’t care. He was gonna do what he wanted to do, and he didn’t give a shit what anyone said about it. He was a know-it-all asshole who thought he was better than us because he was from Alaska.” Francis paused, and then sneered. “You know, he didn’t dare try to sell that piece of land while Whitney was alive. Oh, no, the prick waited for Whitney to die because he knew Whitney wouldn’t stand for his shenanigans.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table. “You sure harbor a lot of hatred for the man.”

Francis wilted under my gaze. “Look, it’s no secret that I didn’t like Austin, but that was only because he didn’t honor the agreement between me and Whitney. That would’ve been the right thing to do—the Christian thing.”

It wasn’t my job to argue that point, so I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “Do you own any M1 carbines?”

“No.”

“Have you ever owned one?”

He shook his head and leaned farther back in his chair. “I’ve never even held one in my hands.”

“Do you know anyone who’s got one or two of them?” I asked.

He shook his head again.

I leaned back myself and folded my arms across my chest, studying Francis for a long moment. The silence was heavy in the room, and I could see his carotid artery jumping like a frog on speed that was trapped inside.

“I didn’t do it,” Francis blurted, unable to take the suspense any longer. “You’ve got to believe me! I swear on my son’s eyes. I swear on my—”

“That’s enough swearing,” I said. “It doesn’t impress me. I’ve had murderers swear on their deceased relatives in an attempt to convince me they were telling the truth.”

“Well, what can I do?” he wailed. “I…um…I can take a lie detector test! Yeah, if you want, I can take a polygraph! I swear, I’ll pass with flying colors.”

“Flying colors is not a level of truthfulness,” I mumbled, reaching for my cell phone. I navigated to my contacts list and found Captain Chuck Wayne’s listing. He was in charge of internal affairs and he was certified in administering the polygraph and CVSA (computer voice stress analysis). I glanced up before tapping his number. “Are you sure you’re willing to do this?”

“I’m positive,” he said. “I didn’t kill Austin, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove my innocence.”

CHAPTER 27

There were a number of reasons why I didn’t like using lie detector tests in conjunction with criminal investigations. The biggest reason was that I didn’t trust them. I’d once seen an examiner claim a rape suspect had passed his test, only to be overruled later by DNA. When the suspect had taken a subsequent test by a different examiner, deception was noted in his answers.

I made the call to Captain Wayne and waited for him to answer. When he did, I gave him the rundown of our case. In closing, I said, “Francis is willing to take a polygraph, so I was wondering if you had time to come down here and light him up.”

“I’m actually leaving lunch right now and my afternoon is clear,” he said. “I can be there in…say, twenty-five minutes?”

“That’s great,” I said, and thanked him.

When Captain Wayne mentioned lunch, I remembered that Francis had been tilling his garden all morning, so I returned to the interview room and offered him something to eat or drink.

“I’m too nervous to eat,” he mumbled. “I want to get this over with so I can go back to the garden.”

Since he wasn’t in custody, I told him to follow us to the kitchen, and I pointed out the vending machines.

“If you get hungry, we’ve got those,” I explained. “You can hang out in here until Captain Wayne arrives. You’re not in custody, so you can leave at any time.”

“No, I want to do this,” he said. “I want to clear my name. I know you’re wasting time on me—time that could be spent trying to catch the real killer—so I want to prove to you that I had nothing to do with it. I know I gave y’all every reason to think I was involved by the way I’ve acted, and I’m sorry for that.”

I nodded, considering everything he’d just said. “Look, if you ever go anywhere near Kristine Foret again, I’m locking your ass up for stalking.”

“Stalking?” He lurched back. “I’m no stalker! I would never stalk a woman!”

“It’s the way they write these laws nowadays,” I said with a shrug. “All we need to prove is repeated following or harassing with the intent to place the victim in fear of death or bodily injury. You’ve accosted her twice so far, yelling, screaming, and cursing to the point that it scared the shit out of everyone around her. Don’t make it a third offense, because if that won’t fit the stalking statute, I don’t know what would.”

Francis gulped. “But…but, is that all it takes to get arrested for stalking?”

“Yep. If you see Kristine Foret, I want you to walk the other way. Don’t even look at her.”

Francis nodded slowly as he sank to a chair, and I knew we’d never have to worry about him accosting her again.

“What do you think?” I asked Abraham once he and I were sitting at my cubicle.

“About the murder, or the stalking bluff?”

I laughed. “The murder.”

“He sounds believable,” he said after giving it some thought.

“If he didn’t do it, then we’re stuck with either Calvin Robichaux or the drug hit gone bad scenario.” I shook my head. “I don’t like our options. Although I could be wrong, I’m not inclined to think Calvin did it. If he didn’t do it and it actually was some hired hit men, we’d be screwed—especially if they’re illegal aliens.”

Abraham nodded his agreement. “What do we do next?”

“Well,” I said, suddenly having an idea, “maybe someone else was mad about Austin and Deborah buying up all the land in the area. Thankfully, we still have one person left to ask.”

I picked up my desk phone and called Rachael. I told her what we had in mind, and she said she would interview Mrs. Snipes right away.

“She’s awake and alert,” she said softly, apparently not far from the woman. “She’s asking about funeral arrangements. I don’t really know what to tell her.”

“Get someone from police social services to go out there and handle that,” I suggested. “Whatever we can do to help her, we need to get it done.”

“Will do.”

Next, I called Jerry and told him to tear down his camp. “Francis is about to take a polygraph, and I’m pretty sure he’ll pass.”

“So, who did it?” Jerry asked.

“We still haven’t figured that one out yet.”

We talked back and forth for a minute or two, and then Abraham and I got up and searched the building for Roger. We found him in the patrol squad room, looking haggard.

“We’ve got nothing, London,” he said. “If it was the drug cartel who sent some hit men, I don’t know how we’ll ever figure out who ordered the hit or who the killers were. I’ve got my contacts in DEA working on it, but so far they’re turning up nothing.”

“Thanks, man.” Abraham and I started making our way back to my desk. I stopped before we reached it, remembering how Tina Robichaux had said that Calvin spent all of his money on guns. “While we’re waiting for Captain Wayne to get here and do his thing, let’s go for a ride.”

“Sure,” Abraham said with a shrug, and followed me out the door. “I’m down for anything. Where’re we going?”

“We’re going buy some baby formula and toys,” I said. “If Calvin won’t take care of his babies, we will. We’ll deliver it when we go back to his house this evening.”

Abraham was thoughtful as we piled into my truck. “Do you think he’ll be mad that a couple of men bought stuff for his kids—stuff that he should be buying?”

“I hope he is,” was all I said.

CHAPTER 28

Gracetown

Detective Rachael Bowler brought a tall glass of water into the room where Mrs. Snipes was resting and offered it to the woman. Mrs. Snipes smiled gratefully and took the glass.

Rachael waited for her to take a sip and look up before she spoke.

“Ma’am,” she said slowly, “we’ve got people out in the field running down leads, and I was wondering if you might be able to help point us in the right direction.”

Mrs. Snipes scowled. “They’re in my fields running after what?”

Stifling a grin, Rachael explained, “That’s slang for them being out on the streets working the case.”

“Oh, okay.” She chuckled for a split second, but then her brow furrowed. “I thought you said it was Francis who did it?”

“Well, we didn’t know for sure if he had done it or not,” Rachael explained, “so we had some detectives pull him in and question him. It seems he’s willing to take a lie detector test to prove his innocence.”

“Francis?” She scoffed. “I can’t believe Francis would be willing to prove anything. That is the most disagreeable man I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Well, they’re setting it up as we speak, so I guess he still has a chance to back out,” Rachael explained. “Meanwhile, I’d like to explore other possibilities.”

“I don’t know what else I can possibly tell you to help out. I’ve already told you everything I know. I can’t imagine who might want to do this to us. I’ve been racking my brains all day. I’ve even had dreams about it, and I just keep seeing Francis’ face. Nothing else comes up, and it would be really scary if it’s not him and y’all don’t catch the person. That would mean I could pass him in Hobby Lobby and not even know it.”

“We’ll figure this out together,” Rachael said, nodding her understanding. “Now, can you start by telling me about you and Austin acquiring your dad’s land, and who might’ve been mad about it?”

“What?” Mrs. Snipes seemed shocked at the question. “No one was mad about it. The property on both sides of the bayou has been in our family for 100 years. My dad farmed those fields and raised cattle just like his dad before him, and his dad before him. Everyone knew the land was ours. It’s not like we suddenly bought someone else’s land and their family and friends were mad about it. I just couldn’t imagine anyone being mad about it.”

Rachael had pulled out her notepad and was looking down at it. She had taken notes when London had updated her on what he and Abraham had found, and she suddenly had an idea. “Tell me about when you and Austin moved back from Alaska,” she began. “Was this because of your dad’s financial problems?”

Mrs. Snipes nodded. “My brother who lives in Alabama called one day to tell me that things weren’t going well at the farm, and that the bank was threatening to take the land.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Well, the phone call took place about eleven years ago,” she explained. “It took us about a year to wrap up everything and move back home.”

“What time of the year was it when you first learned about the financial problems?”

“Um, oh, I guess it was in the summertime.” Mrs. Snipes thought about it for a second and then nodded her head, seemingly more confident. “I remember because Logan and I were in Louisiana. We usually spend every summer with my mom and dad, and that was the summer after he graduated, because I went back to Alaska alone. Logan just stayed in Louisiana until we made it back. We had to live with my mom and dad for most of the year while we built our house.”

“The trouble with the bank,” Rachael began, “did it seem unreasonable?”

Mrs. Snipes frowned. “How do you mean?”

“Did the bank try to work with your parents, or did they seem eager to take the land?”

“Hmm, you know what? I do remember Austin saying once that he thought it was odd that the bank wouldn’t renew the loan.” Mrs. Snipes shifted in the bed until she was sitting a little higher. “It was one of those balloon notes that would expire every seven years. My dad took it out with the intention of having a high yield of cane and cattle and paying it back well within the seven years. The banker, Willie Davenport, told Dad that he would be able to renew the loan until it was paid off, and for Dad not to worry about the balloon payment. So, when his crops got damaged by storms three years in a row and a pack of coyotes took out most of his young calves, he decided he would have to renew the loan. But Willie, he denied the loan.”

“Do you know why?” Rachael asked.

“No, but my dad suspected it had something to do with windmills.”

“Windmills?”

“Yeah.” Mrs. Snipes reached for a glass of water that was resting on a small table beside the bed. After taking a sip, she resumed. “Dad said a representative with some windmill company paid him a visit and asked if he could see his property. He said his company was interested in leasing land from Louisiana farmers to put up windmills. He said he had spoken to the farmers who owned the property on the north and south sides of Dad’s place, and they had all agreed to sit down and negotiate terms. The representative said his company was also looking into the possibility of installing windmills out in the Gulf of Mexico.”

Rachael nodded slowly, digesting the information and wondering if it had anything to do with the murder. “What did your dad tell the representative?”

“He told the man to get lost,” Mrs. Snipes said. “Dad said it would be a cold day in hell before he desecrated his property by putting those giant turbines on it.”

“Did he say why he didn’t want them on his property?”

“Yeah, because they kill more eagles than poachers do,” she explained. “When my dad was young, it was a rare thing for them to see a bald eagle, but right around the time I started junior high, a pair of them showed up and made a nest on our property. The nest was really big, sitting high up in a giant cypress tree. I’d never seen anything like it, and dad said he hadn’t either. Those eagles came back year after year, and before we knew it, people were reporting seeing eagles soaring through the sky up and down the bayou. It was such a beautiful thing, and Dad wasn’t about to let some windmill company come here and kill them off. He loved those magnificent birds—we all did.”

“So, do you think that had something to do with Willie demanding the balloon payment?” Rachael asked.

“Dad thought so, but he couldn’t prove it. I just know he was devastated over the thought of losing the farm. He felt like a failure.” Mrs. Snipes’ eyes grew misty and she dabbed at them with her blanket. “After talking to my brother about the situation, I spoke with Austin and asked him if there was something we could do. He was a successful contractor and we made a very good living, but he told me we couldn’t afford to maintain two homes. He said he was willing to move back to the lower forty-eight and help my dad, but he said we would have to sell off everything we had in Alaska and make Louisiana our home.”

“How’d your dad feel about y’all buying up everything he owned?” As soon as the words left her mouth, Rachael instantly regretted them. She had gotten the verbiage from London, who’d gotten it from Francis, and it had slipped out. Before she could apologize, Mrs. Snipes was providing her answer.

“He was fine with it,” she began. “The most important thing to my dad was that the farm stay in our family. He had asked my brothers and my sister if they’d wanted it, but they’d all turned him down. Personally, I wanted to stay in Alaska, but Austin thought it would be good for Logan to be back on the bayou where he could spend more time with his grandparents. Austin’s grandparents on his mother’s side had died in a small plane crash when he was a teenager, and he had regretted never spending any time with them. Besides, Alaska’s such a rough place. Here, we only have to worry about alligators and snakes, but there…you have to watch out for wolves, moose, grizzly bears, and polar bears. Even a walrus can kill you.”

Rachael asked a few more questions about Logan’s relationship with his grandparents before they’d passed away, and Mrs. Snipes broke down crying several times. “I still can’t believe my baby boy is gone,” she said through a torrent of tears. “It’s like a horrible nightmare that I can’t wake up from.”

Rachael put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so very sorry, ma’am.”

Mrs. Snipes nodded. After a moment, she said, “Thank you for all you’re doing to try and make this right.”

Rachael frowned, hoping they were doing enough to catch the bastards responsible for the senseless and brutal murders. She sat silent for a while, allowing Mrs. Snipes to regain her composure, and as she did so, she reflected on her own relationship status. She often described it as “single and complicated” when asked, but the truth was that she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. She was married to her work, and her work was a jealous suitor, for he wanted all of her time. Staring down at the distraught woman before her, Rachael knew she wanted more out of life than just a job. She wanted a man to cry at her funeral, a family, and even grandchildren someday.

When Mrs. Snipes blew her nose, it snapped Rachael from her thoughts. She blinked and went over her notes, trying to remember where she’d been heading with her questioning. After a moment, she remembered her idea and asked, “Mrs. Snipes, other than Francis Boyd, did anyone else show interest in the property y’all were selling?”

“Oh, yeah, lots of people. Austin said Kristine’s phone was ringing off the hook.”

“Did Austin turn any of them down out of hand?” Rachael asked. “Say, someone who might’ve wanted to buy the property to install wind turbines?”

“I…I don’t think so.” She scowled, apparently considering the idea for the first time. “I mean, Kristine could tell you more about who was interested in it, but I know we wanted to sell to an individual family, and not some developer. After all, we planned on keeping my mom and dad’s house, and we didn’t want someone turning the property next to it into some box store.”

“Do you know if any developers had shown interest and been told y’all wouldn’t sell to them?”

“I don’t believe.” She frowned as she tried to remember. “Maybe Kristine can answer those questions better. But do you think it might’ve been someone like that?”

“It’s a thought,” Rachael said in a noncommittal voice, “and we can’t dismiss anything or anyone until we know for sure.”

She questioned Mrs. Snipes for about five minutes more before turning it over to Karla, who had a few questions of her own. Unfortunately, nothing they learned brought them any closer to solving the case. She called London to let him know everything they’d gotten from the woman, but he only grunted, thanked her, and then said he had to pick out some diapers. Startled, Rachael asked if Dawn was pregnant, but London ended the call without offering an explanation.

“Dawn’s pregnant?” Karla echoed from across the room.

“I don’t know,” Rachael said, staring down at her cell phone, “but London’s buying diapers.”

CHAPTER 29

Seasville, Louisiana

Dawn Luke scowled when she heard what Yvette Blanchard had said, wondering why the woman had thought it necessary to make that revelation, and even more curious about the lie itself.

“What’d he lie about?” she asked when Yvette didn’t elaborate.

“I…can we talk in person?”

“I’m on my way right now,” Dawn said without hesitation. She wanted to get back to the substation as soon as possible and try to salvage the stack of photographs, but she could hear the intense pain in Yvette’s voice when she made the admission. Whatever the secret was, it had weighed so heavily on the young woman that it had ruined her life, so it must be serious.

Dawn wasted no time getting to Yvette’s house, and she found the woman pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside. She stopped pacing when she saw Dawn’s car pull into the driveway and fixed her eyes on the Charger. Dawn could see that she had been crying. She cradled something in her hands, but Dawn couldn’t make out what it was, other than to recognize that it wasn’t a weapon of any sort. When she’d exited her unmarked cruiser and approached Yvette, she saw that it was an old and brittle envelope.

“Um, can we do this inside?” Yvette asked when Dawn reached her on the sidewalk.

“Sure,” Dawn said with a nod, and followed her through the storm glass door and into the living room. Although her life was seemingly such a wreck, Yvette kept a clean home.

“Um, my dad lied to the police,” Yvette said in a shaky voice, as she took a seat on a brown leather love seat and gently placed the envelope in her lap. “He…he told them there was no note, but…but that wasn’t true. You see, when I first went into the bathroom and saw my brother, there was a piece of paper on the counter, and I saw my name on it. I…I didn’t get to read what it said, because I saw Mark in the bathtub covered in blood. His face was…”

Yvette’s voice trailed off.

Dawn had taken a seat on a recliner nearby, and she leaned forward to touch Yvette’s forearm. “It’s okay, you don’t have to describe what you saw,” she said. “Just tell me about the letter.”

Yvette wiped a tear that had sprung from her eye and leaked down her cheek. “Um, well, I remember screaming and running out the bathroom to find my dad. He went running into the bathroom and I heard him make a sound that I’d never heard him make. It was so sad and gut-wrenching. I can’t describe it. It was like a wild animal finding its offspring dead. I just broke down crying for my dad—”

A sob choked Yvette and the words died on her throat.

“Take your time,” Dawn said softly, realizing that Yvette must’ve called in sick at work. “There’s no hurry.”

While Yvette composed herself, Dawn wondered if it would do any good to correct the record with regard to the suicide report. Unless there had been a life insurance payout, the omission and subsequent admission would be of no consequence. The most that could’ve happened to Mark, Sr. if he were alive would’ve been a charge for filing a false police report, but given the circumstances, she doubted any reasonable law enforcement officer would’ve held it against the man.

“Um, anyway, I was sitting right over there”—she pointed to a corner of the room—“on an old sofa we had back then, when the police showed up. The uniformed cop who came over took one look in the bathroom, and then came out and called somebody else on his radio. While waiting for them to show up, Dad told the cop that we had come home from grocery shopping and that I had gone in the bathroom and found him like that. Dad didn’t say anything about the note on the counter, and when the cop asked about a note, Dad straight up lied to him and said he hadn’t seen anything. When the cop asked if Mark had been having problems at school or anything else, Dad said no.”

Dawn was almost certain the suicide note was in the envelope that rested in Yvette’s lap, and she was very curious as to what it might say, but she would’ve also been fine with Yvette keeping the details to herself. After all, the note would’ve been written for the family—not the police—and it would’ve been highly personal.

“He lied about that, too,” Yvette said. “One night, about a week before Mark shot himself, I heard him and Dad arguing in the back yard. I could tell Mark was crying, so I knew it was bad, because he hardly ever cried. I crawled to my window and looked into the back yard to see my dad holding his rifle. Mark was kneeling on the ground crying and trying to say something. I couldn’t understand him, and I asked him about it the next morning before I took the bus, but he said he didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Was he on the football team?” Dawn asked when Yvette paused for a breath.

“Oh, no, Mark never played football.” Yvette didn’t give the question another thought as she continued. “When I got home from school, I heard Dad and Mark talking on the back swing. They didn’t know it, but if I put my ear to my window, I could hear everything that was said on the swing, and I heard Mark begging my dad to call the police for something. I got to the window too late to hear what was going on, but it sounded like Mark wanted to report something, but my dad was telling him to keep his mouth shut.”

Yvette lifted the envelope slightly. “On the night Mark shot himself, after the cops left, I heard the back door open and I ran to my window. I was so scared my dad was gonna hurt himself too, and I was ready to cry out to stop him, but he didn’t try anything. Instead, he pulled that note out of his pocket, stared at it for a long time, and then tore it in pieces and dropped it in the trash.”

Dawn indicated the envelope. “Is that the note?”

“Yeah,” Yvette said. “After he had come back inside and gone to bed, I snuck into the back yard and pulled the torn pieces from the trash can and brought them in my room. I laid them out like matching puzzle pieces and taped them back together. After that, I…I read it and I hid under my blankets and cried all night long.”

Dawn felt so very sad for Yvette, as the woman began sobbing uncontrollably. Although it had been over twenty years since she’d lost her brother, she was still very much in pain. There were no napkins or paper towels that she could see anywhere in the house, and she didn’t feel it would be right to start digging for any, so she simply moved to the love seat beside Yvette and put an arm around her shoulders.

Yvette leaned into Dawn and they remained in that position for some time. Finally, after what must’ve been ten minutes, Yvette placed the envelope carefully in her lap and wiped her face with the front of her shirt. After taking a haggard breath, she stared down at the envelope.

“I read it over and over that night, and then I picked it up inside this envelope,” she said. “I didn’t know where else to hide it, so I stuffed it between the pages of my diary and locked it.”

She paused and shook her head wistfully. “I used to write inside that diary every day, but I never made another entry after Mark ended his life and mine. Sometimes, I would open it to write down a thought, but then I would see Mark’s letter and I would lose myself in it. I would put it away for a few weeks or so, and then I would go back to it and read my brother’s last words over and over again.”

Yvette paused for a long moment. When she continued, her voice was strained.

“Well, that all stopped in high school, when a cop was invited to speak about crime and punishment. He talked about a bunch of different crimes, mostly having to do with teenagers, but then he started talking about what to do if you’re ever at a crime scene. He said he had worked a case where a teenager accidentally overdosed on drugs, and instead of getting help for the victim, her friends had cleaned up everything and flushed the drugs down the toilet. He said that was called tampering with evidence, and that you could go to prison for doing it.”

Dawn took a breath when she paused, knowing where she was about to go with her story. She could see the fear all over Yvette’s face.

“Well, that scared me half to death,” Yvette predictably said, “because that was basically what I had done. I couldn’t bring myself to ever open my diary after that. I…I started to get paranoid and I began having a recurring nightmare where I was in prison and these big women were beating me up. I felt like I was being watched and that if I even looked in the direction of where I’d hidden the diary, someone would bust the door down and take me away. For years, I’ve been expecting the cops to come knocking. Every time I’d hear a siren in the distance, I thought they were coming here to get me.”

Yvette took a breath and looked up. “In fact, when you knocked on the door earlier, I just knew it was the end. I thought you would bust down the door and go straight to my closet where I had this hidden under the carpet. When you didn’t do that, and you were nice instead, I wanted so bad to tell you, but I was so afraid, don’t you understand? Ever since that cop mentioned tampering with evidence and something he called the justice of obstruction or something—”

“Obstruction of justice,” Dawn quickly interjected.

“Yeah, that one.” Yvette nodded in confirmation, seemingly traveling back in time to when her brother had taken his own life. “I know the note from Mark was evidence, because the detective called the house a crime scene when he showed up that night and made Mom, Dad, and me go out back while they did their investigation. They had yellow tape around the house, they questioned us, they took the gun as evidence—the whole nine.

“So, after that cop talked about it in high school, I knew what I did was tampering with evidence. I tried so hard to justify it, to explain it away, but his words kept haunting me. I even began looking that crime up on the Internet. I must’ve done it a million times over the years. Each time I decided to look it up, I was hoping I had misread something the last time, that I had made a mistake in what I’d seen, but I kept finding the same information—what I did could land me in prison for a long time. That’s the only reason I never told anyone. I swear, if I would’ve known it was a crime at the time, I would’ve never done it. I was just trying to protect my brother. I was too immature to understand exactly what I had done.”

“No one’s going to prison,” Dawn said. “First off, you were eleven when it happened, so you were a juvenile. You’re an adult now. Secondly, if you would’ve removed a murder weapon from the scene to help protect a killer, then you might’ve been facing a prison term, but not for simply hiding the fact that your brother committed suicide. That happens a lot, actually.”

Yvette’s eyes were horror-stricken as she extended the hand that held the envelope. Her face had turned much paler and she was trembling.

Frowning, Dawn took the envelope and studied the outside for a few seconds. There were no words printed on it. It was just a plain white envelope that had yellowed over the years. She turned it over and realized that moisture had caused the adhesive strip to seal itself.

“Do you mind if I slice the top edge to open it?” she asked Yvette. “Or would you rather I steam it? We could do it with an iron and a wet towel.”

Yvette shook her head. “No, it’s okay. You can just tear it open. I…I don’t want it anymore.”

Dawn nodded her understanding and removed a knife from her pocket. Fitting the blade into the narrow space between the flap and the envelope, she carefully sliced along the top edge until she had reached the other side. She glanced up at Yvette as she returned the knife to her pocket, and couldn’t believe how frazzled the woman was. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was moving rapidly, but no words were coming out. It appeared as though she might be mouthing a prayer.

“Yvette, are you okay?” Dawn asked, leaning closer. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Your brother’s case is closed. This letter was addressed to your family. It’s none of my business, or anyone else’s.”

Yvette shook her head from side to side, her teeth chattering loudly. “Oh, no,” she managed. “You need to see it.”

Dawn’s brow furrowed as she eased the folded letter from the envelope. Just as Yvette had described, the letter had been ripped into several pieces. Not only that, but it had also been crumpled, so it was a wonder the thing had survived the previous twenty years.

When Dawn had unfolded the letter and turned it to the front, she realized it had been written in pencil, and the writing had faded over the years. She held it up to the light flowing in from a nearby window and leaned closer to get a better look. It was a short letter, only consuming the top quarter of the page, but it packed one hell of a punch. As she read it, her mouth and eyes grew wider and wider, leaving her shocked beyond belief.

CHAPTER 30

Mom: I’m so sorry I have to do this, but there’s no other way. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll be your little man forever, I promise. Love you more!

Sis: You’re the best little sister in the world! I love you so much and I’m gonna miss you the most. I’m sorry I have to leave you like this. Just know that I will always be looking down and watching out for you.

Dad: I’m sorry for not being stronger. I told you I couldn’t live with what we did. Please don’t blame yourself. It was my mistake. I’m eighteen now. I’m a man. It’s up to me to fix my own problems, and this is the only way. No matter what, I will always love you.

Dawn sat stunned for a long moment and just stared at the letter, biting back the burning in her jaw. Had Yvette not been sitting next to her, and had she not been focused on the last paragraph, she would’ve burst out crying. What on earth did it mean? What had Mark, Jr. done, and who was “we”? Was his dad involved in what he had done?

After a long moment, she cleared her throat and asked, “Yvette, do you know what he’s talking about?”

Yvette swallowed audibly and took a shaky breath. “I’m…I’m not positive, but I think it had something to do with that girl that went missing.”

Dawn’s heart lurched in her chest when Yvette’s words registered. She straightened on the love seat and regarded the woman with bated breath. “What makes you say that?”

“Remember how I told you about the night I heard Dad and Mark arguing, when Dad had his rifle?” she asked.

Dawn nodded.

“When I was eavesdropping, I heard Mark say something about a girl. He didn’t say a name or anything, but there had been a missing girl in the news a lot around here, and I remember thinking that’s who he was talking about.” Yvette shifted on the love seat and began wringing her hands. “I remember Dad getting really mad when Mark mentioned the girl. He…he told Mark he had better never say her name again, and that he could go to prison for life if anyone found out.”

“Did you get the impression that your dad was involved, too?” Dawn asked. “Like, did he say, We can go to prison if anyone finds out, or was he just talking about your brother?”

“I’m pretty sure he was just talking about Mark.” Yvette clutched at the front of her shirt. “That’s why I think the note is evidence. I think it has to do with that missing girl. I’m so sorry I kept it hidden for so long. I…I didn’t know what to do. I was a little girl. I was scared. I mean, I’m still scared. I…I know I’ll probably end up going to jail and all, but I need her family to know I was scared. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

“If there’s anything I can promise you, it’s that you can’t go to jail for this. Like I said earlier, you were a juvenile at the time, and any crime you would’ve committed back then would’ve been handled in juvenile court.” Dawn lifted the note. “As for this, there’s no way for an eleven-year-old to know it had anything to do with a murder. Besides, you didn’t remove it from the crime scene—your dad did. You simply recovered it from the trash. You did nothing wrong.”

“Really?”

Dawn nodded. “I give you my word. You’ve broken no laws and nothing will ever happen to you for it.”

It was as though someone had lifted an anvil from Yvette’s shoulders. The woman seemed to breathe easy for the first time since Dawn had met her earlier in the day. However, it didn’t last long, for she suddenly tensed up again and turned to Dawn.

“But, what about the girl? Did…did they ever find her? Did Mark do something wrong? And what about her family? Do they know anything?”

“I’m actually working the case right now,” Dawn explained. “It’s what led me to your house.”

Yvette seemed confused, so Dawn explained how she’d been searching for old records pertaining to Sarah Schofield’s disappearance when she’d encountered the rifle in the attic.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Dawn said. “This happened for a reason, and we need to figure out what the connection is.”

Yvette lowered her head. “Do you think my brother was bad? Do you think he hurt this girl? He was so kind to me. I would’ve never guessed him capable of hurting anyone.”

“Sometimes, people get put in impossible situations and they make decisions that go completely against who they are as individuals,” Dawn explained. “Do I think Mark was bad? No, not at all. He was so troubled by what happened that he tried going to the police, but your dad wouldn’t let him. When that didn’t work, he took his own life. A bad and selfish person wouldn’t have done that.”

Dawn was quiet for a moment to let Yvette gather her thoughts, and then she asked if Yvette had any idea who Mark might’ve been referring to in the letter.

“I mean, I imagine he was talking about his friends, but I didn’t really know any of them.” Yvette wiped her eyes. “They were a lot older than me. I was just starting middle school, and they were already graduating high school.”

“Do you know anyone who might know who he used to hang out with back then?” Dawn asked.

“Um, not really. After he died, his friends quit coming around. I could ask my mom, but she’s really a mess and I doubt she’d remember. She’s never been the same since that day.” Yvette indicated the back of the house. “All she does is pop pills and sleep all day. Most days, I have to force her to get up and walk around, and I have to make sure she doesn’t forget to eat. I…I’m surprised she’s lasted this long after Dad died.”

Dawn was thoughtful as she glanced around the house, considering how one bad decision had ruined an entire family. Finally, she had an idea.

“Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a yearbook from when Mark was in high school by any chance?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got all of them!” Yvette’s eyes lit up with a renewed sense of purpose. “I moved most of his things into my room after he died, because I was scared that my mom and dad would throw his stuff away.”

Yvette stood and hurried off down the hall. Dawn waited in the living room, switching back to the recliner so she could see the hallway. It was more out of habit that she didn’t turn her back on Yvette. She wasn’t expecting any trouble from the distraught woman, but a cop could never be too careful.

After a few minutes, Yvette reappeared holding a stack of hardcover yearbooks—presumably one for every year of Mark’s school life—that she dropped on the coffee table. Dawn leaned forward and shuffled through them, searching for the one from Mark’s senior year. When she found it, she began searching through it, flipping the pages one at a time. If she was hoping to find a picture of Mark with his arms wrapped around his accomplice, she was sorely disappointed.

“Was Mark into sports or clubs or anything?” she asked as she neared the end of the book.

“Not that I remember,” she said. “I know he liked the beach and he loved taking my dad’s boat out on the water, and sports would interfere with fishing. When we would leave for school in the morning, he used to always say he couldn’t wait to get home so he could go to the bayou side and mess with the boat.”

“So, y’all had a boat?”

Yvette nodded, a frown playing at the corners of her mouth. “It’s still in the boatshed on the bayou side. After Mark died, we never used it again. Mom told Dad to sell it so we could have the money, but he never would. After he died, Mom and I just forgot about it.”

Dawn’s heart was pounding in her chest as she flipped to the last page and turned up nothing. “Would it be possible for me to have a look at the boat?”

“Sure,” Yvette said. “I can show it to you now. Let me get the key to the boatshed.”

“Oh, and can I hold on to this?” Dawn held up Mark’s senior yearbook. “I promise to take good care of it and to bring it back when I’m done.”

“Yes, of course.”

CHAPTER 31

Yvette elected to drive her own car to the boatshed, and Dawn followed in her unmarked cruiser. When they reached the bayou side, they parked on the shoulder of the road and exited their respective vehicles. With her portable radio, Dawn called her location into dispatch and shoved it into her back pocket.

“I have to warn you,” Yvette said, “no one’s been in here in a long time, so I don’t know what it’ll be like inside.”

Dawn scowled as they walked across the uneven boards that led to the weathered structure. The door was crooked, and she noticed the bottom hinge was hanging loose. A few of the planks that made up the exterior wall were missing, and she caught fleeting glimpses of a boat inside as they walked.

Yvette grunted when she reached for the lock. The door looked like it was hanging on by a hope and a prayer, and when Yvette tugged on the handle it swung open and then fell off the remaining hinge.

“Wow, it’s worse than I thought,” she said, peering inside. “Part of the metal roof is gone, and so is the cover for the boat.”

Dawn picked her way through the entrance and saw an old Boston Whaler that looked like it needed a mercy killing. One of the cables from the boatlift had popped and that corner of the boat was suspended precariously over the water. Glancing around, Dawn found an old wooden ladder and she dragged it closer. She climbed to the top step and peered over the side of the boat, examining it from her vantage point. The windshield was gone. The interior and exterior were covered in a greenish-black film that was probably a mixture of decades-old mold, mildew, and pollen. The seat cushion was dry-rotted all the way through.

Dawn sighed. She had been hoping for something to help piece together what might’ve happened that night. She wasn’t sure exactly what she had expected to find, but an article of clothing or some other personal item that belonged to Sarah would’ve been nice.

“This isn’t much help, is it?” Yvette asked.

Dawn shook her head as she scanned the deck. Beer cans were strewn about, and it was obvious to her that they were more recent than twenty-one years earlier. Apparently, some neighborhood kids had been using it as a camp, which meant a search for DNA and fingerprint evidence would be futile. Still, she wanted to get a closer look inside the compartments. When she expressed her desire to go aboard, Yvette grew worried.

“I don’t know if it’s safe,” she said, pointing toward the snapped cable. “What if the other straps break?”

“Then I guess I’ll have an early bath,” Dawn said with a smile. She descended the ladder and hurried to her cruiser to retrieve a pair of latex gloves and her camera. She would need photos of the boat just in case it was related to Sarah’s disappearance. She didn’t want to disturb anything without documenting its current condition. She would’ve preferred it if the boat had been entombed in a secure boatshed, but she knew that would’ve been asking for too much.

Once she had returned to the boatshed, Dawn asked Yvette to wish her good luck, and then took a few pictures of the exterior before climbing the ladder again. When she reached the top, she slung the camera strap over her neck and then tucked it under her arm. She grabbed hold of one of the nearby cables and tested it with her weight. It seemed like it would hold, so she went for it.

The boatlift was a homemade job, and Dawn didn’t like the way the boat swayed when she transferred her weight from the ladder to the gunwale, but she was determined to search the hatches. If Mark, Jr. had been involved in Sarah’s disappearance and the boat had been parked there for the past twenty-one years without moving, there was a chance something might’ve been left behind. Fingerprints might’ve been an option, but she wasn’t sure what to do about the film that covered the entire boat. It would have to be removed in order to dust the original surface, and that removal process would probably destroy any latent prints that might be buried there.

Dawn waited a few seconds for the boat to steady and then she took a careful step toward the bow. Allowing the camera to dangle from her neck, she held her hands out to her sides like she was surfing. She took another step and then another.

“I don’t know if it’ll hold,” Yvette called anxiously from the wharf, pointing upward toward the ceiling. “The board holding that hook is rotten. There’s a leak in the roof and the water’s been destroying it.”

Not daring to speak, Dawn nodded slightly and took another step, and then another, making her way painstakingly toward the hatch. When she finally reached it, she took a breath and—careful not to make any sudden moves—squatted slowly. Finally resting on her knees, she turned the knob and pulled the hatch open.

“Shit,” she muttered.

“What is it?” Yvette asked.

“It’s empty.” With her feet swaying to and fro like she was walking on a rope bridge, she straightened and began heading for the captain’s chair, where she thought there must be another hatch. The boards of the boatshed overhead creaked and groaned as she made her way aftward, praying with each step she took that it wouldn’t be her last.

“Please be careful,” Yvette called from somewhere behind Dawn. Dawn could tell by the sound of her voice that she had moved farther away.

“I’m almost there,” she whispered. She took two more light steps and was finally within reach of the seat. She leaned forward and tugged on what was left of it. Nothing happened. She shifted her weight forward and screeched when the boat suddenly lurched.

“Oh, no!” Yvette called. “Are you okay?”

“I’m…I’m fine.” Dawn took a nervous breath and wiped a bead of sweat that had formed on her forehead. “The seat doesn’t pull up.”

Careful not to disrupt the balance of the boat, Dawn leaned forward until she could see under the console. There was nothing but a smashed beer can and a plastic rubbery object. She leaned forward to get a better look and realized it was a used condom.

“Ugh, shit!” she said, lurching backward to put some distance between herself and the prophylactic. Her movements were so sudden that something snapped above her and the boat lurched violently. She lost her balance and spilled headlong toward the console. She tried to avoid it, but smashed right into it, destroying her camera in the process and being forcibly bent forward. She grunted when the wind left her lungs, but she had no time to reflect on it, for she was wrenched in the opposite direction and sent sprawling along the deck.

From somewhere beneath her, Yvette was screaming for help, and overhead, more boards could be heard snapping. One large chunk of creosote board slammed into the deck beside her, sending shards of debris flying into her face. She blinked and tried to push herself off of the deck, but the bottom fell out from under her.

The next thing Dawn knew, she was sailing through the air, and the world seemed to be crashing down all around her.

CHAPTER 32

Mathport, Louisiana

When Abraham and I left the local big box store, we were armed with several packs of diapers, two dozen jars of baby food, a slew of kids’ toys, and a bunch of other odds and ends that we would’ve never thought about. Neither of us were fathers, but we weren’t too proud to ask for help. After a careful look around the store, we had selected an associate who had a picture of three young kids pinned to her smock, and we’d struck parental gold. When we told her the ages of the kids and mentioned that one was a boy and the other a girl, she had led us quickly up and down the aisles, pointing to everything we would need to entertain the kids and keep them clothed and fed for a couple of weeks.

We had tried to pay the worker before heading to the cash registers, but she’d refused to take anything. When we insisted, she said, “I wouldn’t take it in any case, but there’s a policy against it. Y’all want me to get fired?”

We had grumbled about the policy, thanked her profusely, and then headed for the front of the store. After paying for the loot, we headed for Tina and Calvin Robichaux’s house. We were in the neighborhood and still three or four houses away when we both saw a low-rider minivan parked in the front yard.

“What in the hell is that?” Abraham asked, leaning closer to the windshield. “Why on earth would someone do that to a minivan? It should be illegal.”

I laughed at the ridiculousness of it and nodded my agreement. Although we had intended to bring the toys and food to the house before Calvin got off of work, it seemed we were too late. I grew curious as we pulled up to the front of the house, because the front door of the trailer was wide open, and so was the driver’s door of the van. It was as though the driver had skidded into the yard and jumped out at a dead run.

I had no sooner parked and opened my door when I heard the unmistakable sound of a gunshot exploding from the interior of the trailer. As suddenly as it sounded, I heard screams and cries coming from inside the home.

At thirty-six, I had the reaction time of a star-nosed mole and I was in peak physical condition. I could outlast and outperform every employee in the sheriff’s office, with the exception of the kid who sat beside me. His reaction time was even faster than mine, and this was apparent when he beat me to the door of the trailer by two full steps.

As we were piling out of my truck and racing across the yard, we heard three more gunshots and feared the worse. Under normal circumstances, we might’ve set up a perimeter and called for backup, but there was no such luxury with an active shooter situation. The best—and possibly only—chance that Tina and her children had to survive was for us to get in there as quickly as we could and stop Calvin.

As soon as Abraham cleared the doorway, he ducked to his right, which was the area from which the gunshots rang. I followed immediately behind him. I had blinked as we traversed the ground in front of the trailer to try and prepare my eyes for the darker interior of the trailer, and I was glad I had. It helped to make out the shadows in the dark hallway. Over Abraham’s shoulder, I could see a closed door up ahead, and shouts and screams were coming from within.

To our left, I could hear the hysterical cries of the babies. It was music to my ears. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks that the babies hadn’t been harmed just as Abraham reached the door and kicked it open, sending splintered wood and particle board flying.

It only took a split second to take in the room. Tina was cowered in the far left corner, her hands and knees pulled up high in a feeble attempt to shield her body from the gunshot she knew was coming. A young punk that I guessed was Calvin stood over her. His body was between us and Tina, putting her in direct line with our gunfire.

At the sound of the door crashing in, Calvin started to turn, the muzzle of the shotgun swinging with the motion of his body. I was useless behind Abraham. He was between me and the gunman, and even if I’d had a clear shot at Calvin, it would’ve been dangerous to take a shot because we were all moving and Tina was behind him. Thankfully, and regardless of how young he was, Abraham had been battle-tested, and his instincts were spot-on.

Just as the muzzle came around and a nanosecond before fire spat from it, Abraham used his pistol to chop down on the barrel, sending the blast into the floor at my feet, rather than through the wall where the babies were freaking out. Wasting no time, Abraham uncoiled his gun hand and slammed the butt of the pistol grip into Calvin’s jaw. My ears were ringing from the explosion of the shotgun, but I clearly heard the sickening sound of bone crunching beneath metal, and Calvin collapsed like he’d been shot through the brain stem.

I didn’t even stop to see if Calvin was dead or alive. I flipped his limp body over, pulled his noodles behind his back, and cuffed them. Abraham was helping Tina to her feet.

“My babies!” she was screaming. “Oh God, my babies!”

I felt more than saw Abraham and Tina leave the room to check on the children. I turned Calvin onto his side and examined his face. I winced when I saw the deep gash that extended from the left side of his cheekbone to his ear. There was so much blood that I couldn’t tell if his ear was still there or not.

Over my shoulder, I heard Tina thanking God that her babies were okay, and I did the same. Although my quick glance into the room had seemed to catch movement, I couldn’t be sure if it was Cal and Kim or only one of them crying and stirring.

Calvin groaned weakly under me and I shook him to bring him into the world of the living.

“Come on, Calvin, wake up and taste that pain, buddy.” I shook him again. “You need to know what this feels like.”

He tried to open his eyes, but they rolled back in his head. I called for an ambulance and let dispatch know what had happened.

“Do you need a detective?” asked the dispatcher.

“No, just send a patrol supervisor if you don’t mind,” I said after a moment. Abraham and I needed to get back to our case. Besides, it would’ve been a patrol call had we not showed up when we did—unless Calvin would’ve gone through with murdering Tina. “Yeah, just send a patrol supervisor, please.”

When the dispatcher said she would send someone over right away, I thanked her and looked around the cluttered room for something to put over Calvin’s face. Blood was pouring from the wound, and I didn’t want him staining the entire floor. I also didn’t want him spraying blood in my direction once he regained consciousness and started crying about his scratch.

I saw a loose sheet on the bed, so I straightened and snatched it up. After folding it to a manageable size, I placed it over the wound, careful not to get any blood on me.

“Hey, is he okay?” Abraham asked from the doorway behind me.

I turned and saw him holding one of the babies—the eighteen-month-old named Kim—and rocking her gently. She had stopped crying and was just resting there with a confused look on her face. There was no doubt her sensitive ears were ringing something fierce and she didn’t know why. I looked back down at Calvin and shrugged. “He’ll live. He’s lucky his wife was behind him.”

“She said someone called him to say two men were at his house, so he left work to come home to try and catch them here.” Abraham grunted. “It seems the tables were turned. We caught him.”

“Did he hurt Tina?” I asked, trying to see down the hallway behind Abraham. I didn’t hear Tina anymore, so I figured she must’ve stepped outside.

“He punched her in the face and then stuck the hot muzzle of the shotgun against her chest after firing it,” he explained. “She’s got a pretty nasty blister on the top of her left breast. If there’s one good thing to come from this, she admitted he wasn’t with her Sunday night. I’ve got a list of his friends we can check out. She said she called all of them to find out where he was that night, but she believes they all lied for him.”

I scowled. He didn’t possess the type of rifles that were used to kill our victims, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have gotten rid of them. The fact that he no longer had an alibi witness kept him on our suspect list, at least for the time being. “Did you get to ask her what all happened here?”

Abraham nodded. “She said he just rushed into the house calling her a whore and demanding to know the names of the two men she was partying with. She tried to tell him we were cops, but he wouldn’t believe her. He said he would find us and kill us.” Abraham looked down at Calvin and chuckled. “I guess he won’t be doing that, right?”

“If he ever wakes up, the only thing he’ll be killing is a bottle of Tylenol,” I said and laughed, but quickly clamped my mouth shut. What if he didn’t wake up? He was a suspect in our murder case—possibly the last one on a short list if Francis Boyd passed his lie detector test—and we needed to interview him to find out what he knew. Suddenly worried, I kept looking down to make sure his chest was rising and falling. It was, so I didn’t touch him. I was good at breaking men, but knew nothing about putting them back together.

While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, I asked Abraham to keep a brief eye on Calvin while I retrieved some latex gloves from my truck. Once I was back in the room, Abraham left with the baby and I unloaded the shotgun and placed it in a corner. I then took the liberty of looking inside the closet and under the bed to see if there were any M1 carbines hiding there, but it seemed that Tina had photographed all the guns in Calvin’s possession.

A few minutes later, two EMTs rushed into the house carrying their medic boxes. I explained what had happened and watched as they began trying to bring Calvin back to reality. They were working feverishly, but he wasn’t coming alert.

“Shit,” I muttered, thinking I shouldn’t have told Abraham that Calvin would live. I’d said it with such confidence at the time that I thought it was true. However, there was a real possibility he might not recover from that blow. Even if he did, he may never utter another coherent sentence.

CHAPTER 33

It was almost three in the afternoon when the medics had stabilized Calvin Robichaux and readied him for transport to Lady of the Bayou Hospital. The patrol shift lieutenant had arrived at the scene with one of his sergeants and taken over the investigation. Before leaving, Abraham and I unloaded the gifts for Tina Robichaux. With her husband heading to the hospital and then to jail, she would need all the help she could get. I was just hoping she would find a way to support herself and her babies, otherwise she might be tempted to drop the charges against Calvin and take him back. While he had turned toward us and fired the shotgun, it could be argued that he didn’t know we were cops making an unannounced entry on the basis of exigent circumstances, and it might very well work, considering Abraham and I were both plainclothes detectives.

At the moment, though, Tina was steadfast in her assertion that she would see the charges through to the end, and she had begun crying when she’d seen what we had brought her. She had also apologized profusely for lying to us earlier.

I had decided at that moment to do whatever I could to help her get back on her feet, and Abraham had vowed to join me in that effort when I’d mentioned it to him as we were driving back to the detective bureau.

We were not far from the bureau and talking over how we could best help when a call came over the radio that interrupted our conversation.

“Headquarters to any unit in the Seasville area,” called the dispatcher in a frantic voice, “we’ve got a signal 108 on the bayou side across from JB Gas and Stuff in Cut Bank!”

Without thought, I whipped my truck around and began heading south on Highway Three. A 108 was the code that went out when an officer needed assistance because his or her life was in danger, and it usually involved a fight with a suspect. It was this that I had in mind when the next radio traffic came through and caused a chill to reverberate up and down my spine.

“The caller claims a boatshed collapsed on a female detective,” said a different, more seasoned dispatcher. “We’ve got EMS and fire rescue en route.”

“Dawn!” I uttered, just barely over a whisper. “It’s Dawn!”

I was struck with a sense of blinding fear as I raced down the highway, my siren blaring and my lights flashing. Cut Bank was a small, unincorporated town north of Seasville, and the only female detective working down the bayou at that time was my fiancé. The other two female detectives we had were up in Gracetown.

Usually, I would drive only as fast as I safely could, but at that moment, I decided to throw caution to the wind and I pushed the truck as fast as it would go. I didn’t get an objection from Abraham, but I did notice him hanging onto the “oh, shit” bar with both hands.

We hadn’t gone far and were still about fifteen minutes away—well, less than ten by our speed—when the first units arrived at the scene. Without looking, I reached down and turned up the volume on the radio, desperately wanting to hear those magic words—that all was well and they could cancel EMS. The words didn’t come, and I kept my boot on the gas.

I could feel my hands sweating. I had been in countless life-and-death situations in my life, and I’d never been as scared as I was right at that moment. I prayed silently and I prayed out loud. I just couldn’t lose Dawn. We were too close to having a life together, too close to fulfilling our dreams. I glanced once at Abraham and read the expression on his face. He looked as scared as I felt, so I knew he was thinking the same thing.

Broadmoore was long behind us when we came upon a line of slow-moving traffic. My heart was pounding so hard in my chest that I could hardly think straight. I slowed a little and drifted over the center line to see down the highway. There were cars heading straight for us, so passing was out of the question. I slowed and waited for the cars to move over. They did, but not nearly as fast as I would’ve liked them to. Since my truck was unmarked, I was sure that some of them moved over reluctantly, thinking mine wasn’t a real emergency vehicle.

Once we’d cleared the line of traffic, I buried the needle again. I was driving so fast and the engine roaring so loud that I couldn’t hear the words spoken when the radio scratched to life again.

“What’d they say?” I asked, reaching for the volume knob to turn it even higher. It was no use. I had already turned it as loud as it would go.

Abraham snatched the mic from the dashboard clip and hollered into it, calling out the code that asked for the original officer to repeat his or her traffic.

I took my foot off the gas momentarily to quiet the engine in anticipation of the response. When nothing came, Abraham repeated the code requesting that the officer repeat his or her traffic. I was about to give up and stomp the accelerator again when a scratchy voice came over the radio.

“I’m code four.” The voice was strained, a little raspy, and there was a terrible echo, but I immediately recognized the voice as belonging to Dawn. “I just need some help getting out of here.”

I exhaled violently and felt all the stress and tension leave my muscles at once. The feeling of relief was so intense that it almost rendered me limp, and I had to stop myself from sinking to the floorboard in a puddle of mush.

Abraham let out a triumphant yell and slapped my shoulder so hard that it jostled me in my seat. “Thank God!” he said in a jubilant voice. “Thank God in Heaven that she’s okay!”

I nodded my agreement, but I suddenly started to worry a little. While she had radioed that she was code four and that meant everything was under control, it didn’t mean she wasn’t hurt. I didn’t drive as fast as I was earlier, but I was still speeding to get there. I needed to know she was okay.

CHAPTER 34

Cut Bank, Louisiana

When the port side of the boat dropped suddenly, it had flung Dawn at a slightly upward angle. When she reached the apex of her trajectory, there was a brief moment of weightlessness that found her suspended above the wharf—legs and arms flailing in a feeble attempt to right herself—and then she fell. She landed with a thump on her left shoulder and thigh and involuntarily let out a grunt.

Before she could move a muscle to see if she had broken anything, a dark shadow came crashing down over her and everything went black. She felt a sharp pain on her left leg and something slammed into her stomach, knocking the wind from her lungs. There were more crashing sounds and the wharf trembled beneath her, but she encountered no more pain.

“Damn!” she said with a groan, but also a little relief, as she pushed something heavy from her stomach. She could tell by the shape that it was a boat battery. She took a breath and felt a sharp pain in the area of her ribs. Despite it all, she began to laugh at a thought she’d had a split second earlier, but tried to stifle it when more pain shot through her ribs.

She had winced violently when she’d seen the giant shadow descending upon her, but in the same instance, she had remembered watching cartoons when she was a kid and seeing the shadow of a large boulder dropping from the sky to smash Wile E. Coyote. She would scream at the TV, trying to warn the coyote, but he would never hear her.

Filled with relief, she was still fighting to stifle the laughter when she heard a voice from somewhere nearby, and it was only then that she remembered hearing Yvette screaming for help at the moment the boatshed had started collapsing. Yvette had also been inside the boatshed but near the doorway, so Dawn figured she must’ve jumped clear of the roof before it landed on her.

“Help!” Yvette was screaming. “Detective Dawn Luke is trapped beneath a boatshed! I think she’s dead! It all fell down on her! Oh, my God, it’s so bad!”

Dawn took a painful breath and hollered out to let Yvette know she was okay, but her voice bounced right back at her. It sounded like her head was trapped inside a five-gallon bucket. She reached out in the darkness and felt around. Suddenly, everything made sense. The Boston Whaler had flipped over and fallen on top of her. She was trapped in the hollowed out portion.

“Yvette!” she hollered again. “I’m okay!”

Yvette’s voice was fading. It sounded as though she had walked away from the wreckage to speak on the phone. Dawn cursed under her breath. She knew London would come running when he heard the news, and she didn’t want him to get hurt trying to respond to something that wasn’t really an emergency. It was then that she remembered the radio in her back pocket.

Pain shot through her ribs and her left leg as she twisted around to reach for her portable. As she tried to slide it from her pocket, she felt a bruising pain on her right butt cheek. She paused for a second. She was no stranger to pain, but it seemed to be hitting her from all angles, and it was the most inopportune time to get hurt.

“I’m gonna be all banged up for the wedding,” she muttered, taking a breath and readying herself to go for the radio again. As she twisted her body and reached back under her, she felt something soft and rubbery and gave a start. Was it the used condom?

“Ugh!” she hollered, trying to shuffle away from the item. “I’m gonna kill the asshole who left that here!”

Her leg throbbed as she moved, and she realized she was dragging something along with her. She lifted her right leg in an attempt to free her left leg from the object, but bit down hard when a sharp pain shot through her lower extremity. Forgetting about her radio, she went for her cell phone in her front pocket and pulled it to her face. The screen lit up when she touched it and she sighed gratefully.

Once she found the flashlight feature and activated it, the first thing she did was turn it in the direction of the soft rubbery item. She was relieved to see it was some kind of food wrapper. Thankful that it wasn’t the prophylactic, she turned her attention to her left leg. Staring down her body in the narrow space beneath the overturned boat, she saw a splintered board attached to her leg. When she lifted her leg, she saw that a large nail had imbedded itself in her flesh.

“Just great!” she grumbled. “I’ll have to wear long socks to hide an ugly nail hole. That’ll look classy with my wedding dress.”

Shaking her head, she scanned the rest of the area around her. The battery that had smashed her ribs in was on its side facing away from her. She cursed it and then checked the wharf beside her to make sure there was nothing gross nearby. When all was clear, she twisted around again in an attempt to retrieve her radio. Now that she knew what was wrong with her leg, she was able to move in a way that didn’t put more of a bind on it. As she forced the radio from her pocket, she tried to remember the last time she’d had a tetanus shot. She was pretty sure it had been more than ten years.

Dawn could still hear Yvette hollering somewhere in the distance. It sounded like she was trying to summon the help of passersby. The poor girl sounded like she was in a panic. Just then, sirens sounded from nearby, and they seemed to be growing closer. Dawn was grateful that help was on the way and they would be able to lift the boat from on top of her, but she was also worried officers might get hurt trying to respond to the scene.

Fumbling with the portable, she finally found the transmit button and pressed it. “211, Headquarters, I’m code four,” Dawn called, making a face as her voice echoed back at her. She knew she sounded muffled in the enclosed space, and it didn’t help that she was fighting back the pain, so she wondered if anyone would understand what she had said.

Sure enough, about a second later she heard someone calling, “Ten-nine?”

Ten-nine was the code asking for radio traffic to be repeated. She eased the radio to her mouth and was about to press the transmit button when the officer came back on.

“Ten-nine to that unit!”

Dawn recognized it to be Abraham, and by the level of urgency in his voice and the siren screaming in the background, she knew he was with London and that they were hauling ass to Cut Bank.

“I’m code four,” she said again, this time pushing the microphone portion of the radio against her throat to keep out the echo. “I just need some help getting out of here.”

CHAPTER 35

Beads of sweat had broken out on Dawn’s brow from the pain she was enduring, as well as the rising temperature beneath the overturned boat, and she wiped them away with her hand. When her light had been on earlier, she’d seen the deck of the boat about a foot above her body. She lifted her right leg—careful not to move the left one—and pushed against the deck. She was strong for her size, but the boat didn’t budge.

“Damn, how heavy is this thing?” she asked out loud. She figured it would’ve been easy enough to just flip the thing back onto its bottom, but that seemed to be out of the question.

After a moment, she could feel the vibrations of heavy footsteps pounding against the wharf boards, and she could hear voices calling out commands. She accessed the flashlight on her cell phone again and looked around. The captain’s seat was several feet away, and the console even closer. The tops of both had been crushed under the weight of the boat.

Dawn gulped when she realized how close they had come to smashing her. By some miracle, she had been positioned in such a manner that the hollowed out portion of the boat had landed over her location.

“Dawn!” called a voice from just outside of her trap. “Dawn, are you okay?”

She recognized it as Deputy Andrew Hacker, and she became suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Andrew had pulled the weekend shift and wasn’t due back to work until Wednesday night, yet there he was on his day off responding to an officer in trouble. Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office was filled with officers like him, and Dawn was proud to be a part of that family.

“I’m okay!” she hollered back. “I’m in a hollowed-out portion of the boat. Take your time. Wait for help. This thing’s heavy.”

She heard movement from the side of the boat and heard heavy grunts, and then a violent string of cursing.

“Damn!” Andrew said after a moment. “You ain’t kidding. This thing must weigh a ton.”

With nothing else to do but wait, Dawn continued scanning her surroundings, searching for a break in the wharf that she might be able to crawl through. She knew she would have to deal with the board attached to her leg, but she would gladly do it if it meant an early release from that hellhole.

When she looked to her right, she could see daylight emitting from that side of the boat, but the battery was obscuring her view. Trying not to move her left leg, she twisted around to grab it, but it was just out of reach. The plastic cover for the battery was nearby, so Dawn grabbed it and tried to use it to drag one of the cables within reach. If she could grab the cable, she might be able to pull the battery toward her and get it out of her way. If that didn’t work, she would have to either sit tight and wait, or move her body and risk causing more damage with the nail imbedded in her leg.

The battery cover was on its side, so Dawn grabbed the edge with her right hand, lifted it a few inches off the ground, and set it down on the nearest cable. Trying to hold it tightly against the cable, she pulled toward her, but it was no use. The cover slid uselessly off the cable, and the cable barely budged.

More people had joined Andrew on the outside, and they were discussing how to lift the boat from the wharf without causing more damage. Dawn heard someone mention that the boards they stood on were rotted and weak, and that worried her a little.

Trying to do her part from the inside, she lifted the battery cover again and was about to drop it on the cable when something spilled from it and landed on the wharf nearby. Hoping for a hydraulic jack, but knowing it was probably another used condom or an empty beer can, Dawn craned her neck to see what had fallen from the cover.

“What the hell?” she muttered when she saw the item. If she would twist just a little, she could reach it with the tips of her fingers, so she did just that. Her curiosity was so great that she forgot all about the pain she felt. From the looks of the object, it appeared to be a wallet of some sort. When her fingers grasped it, she could tell it was made of leather.

Dawn’s mind began to race as she slid it close enough to pick up. What if Mark, Jr. had forgotten his wallet in the boat the last time he’d used it? If so, what kind of information might be hidden inside? A phone number to the home of a girl named Sarah Schofield, perhaps? Or a mailing address?

Once the wallet was within reach, Dawn snatched it from the wharf and held it above her where the light from her cell phone illuminated it. She scowled. It wasn’t a man’s wallet, but one for a girl. A little chain dangled from the zipper and there was a charm attached to it. Dawn rested the phone between her breasts and was about to unzip the wallet when she heard a welcoming voice call out her name. It was London!

“I’m okay!” she hollered back. “I’ve just got a board stuck to my leg and some possible bruised ribs, but I’m fine other than that.”

“What do you mean you’ve got a board stuck to your leg?” he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

She could tell he was on his hands and knees speaking in the crack between the gunwale and the wharf. “A nail stuck me when the board fell on my leg,” she explained. “It hurts like a bitch, but I don’t think it hit the bone.”

“Okay, just sit tight and don’t move,” he continued. “We’re gonna get you out in no time.”

Dawn felt bad that he had been pulled from his murder investigation to come rescue her, and she said as much while he was still there.

“You’re more important than any case I could ever work,” he said. “You’re my life.”

She smiled and her eyes smarted. “You’re my life, too, London Carter.”

“Sit tight.”

Although he couldn’t see her, she nodded and blinked away the moisture. She then turned her attention back to the wallet in her hands. As she unzipped it, a thought occurred to her. Why on earth had it been hidden underneath the battery cover? That could only mean one of a few things, and her heart began to race at the possibilities.

When she unfolded the wallet, the contents of the large pocket spilled out and she blinked involuntarily as some of it landed across her face and neck. She realized it was cash money, about eighty dollars. She frowned. The girl had definitely not been robbed. She collected all of the money and shoved the bills back into the pocket.

As voices and movement escalated on the outside of the overturned boat, Dawn unsnapped the inside flap of the wallet and opened it. The tops of several cards were sticking up from slots on the right side, and on the left there was a cloudy window behind which appeared to rest a driver’s license. With hands that shook slightly, she grabbed the edge of the driver’s license and gave it a tug. Nothing happened. Apparently, the years had glued the license to the inner pocket.

Not to be denied, Dawn worked a finger behind the license and shoved it deep into the pocket. When she pulled it out, she again tried to remove the license, but it was still stuck. With a grunt, she used her fingernail to create a little space between the license and the front of the pocket, and that’s when she realized it was the plastic window that had married itself to the license.

Dawn didn’t want to destroy the wallet, but she needed to see the license. Working a second finger into the crack of the pocket, she set herself and made a quick wrenching motion. To her delight, the plastic window tore free and the license fell to the front of her shirt.

She quickly retrieved it and lifted it to the light. When she had flipped it to the front and turned it right side up so she could read it, she gasped out loud.

CHAPTER 36

When Abraham and I drove up to the scene of the boatshed collapse, my heart sank in my chest. Although Dawn had called code four, I didn’t see how she could’ve escaped the wreckage unscathed. The boards that had previously made up the roof and walls of the structure had been reduced to a pile of debris that covered every inch of the wharf.

“Where is she?” I asked out loud and to no one in particular as I jumped from my truck and sprinted toward the mess.

Andrew Hacker was the first person I saw. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, so I knew he was off duty and had responded when he heard the call. I went straight toward him.

“Where is she?” I demanded, a little more forceful than I’d intended.

“She’s under the boat,” he said quickly, not wasting any time letting me know she was okay. “It flipped over and landed on top of her, but she only sustained minor injuries. The boat actually saved her from being crushed.”

I exhaled my relief, not caring who knew how worried I had been. “What’s the plan?”

“We’re working on pulling some of the boards away from the boat,” he explained, “and then we’re gonna try to get a crane from next door to lift the boat off of her. It’s too heavy to move by hand. I swear, it must weigh over a ton.”

I nodded and hurried toward the pile of twisted boards, maneuvering my way through the wreckage until I was beside the boat. I called out several times before Dawn finally answered me. When I asked how she was doing, she told me she was okay, but that she had a board stuck to her leg. I knew my wife-to-be was tough, but I didn’t like the thought of her being hurt.

We spoke for several more seconds, and then I told her to sit tight and that we would have her out in no time. I wasn’t positive that was the case, but if I had to cut that boat in half myself with a chainsaw, I was getting her out.

I fell in beside Andrew, Abraham, several other deputies, and a dozen firemen who had responded to the scene. Before long, we had enough boards cleared away that we could safely try to move the boat.

“How’s that crane coming?” I asked Andrew.

“It should’ve been here by now,” he said, looking annoyed. “Let me walk over there and see what’s going on.”

“Officer,” said one of the firemen, “we can lift that thing with the Jaws of Life.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I’ll lift that boat like an empty turtle shell,” he said with a confident nod. “I’ve lifted an eighteen wheeler twenty inches off the ground before, so this’ll be a cake walk.”

“Do it,” I said, and headed for the boat as he sprang into action. Once I reached the corner where I’d heard Dawn’s voice earlier, I squatted there, careful not to step off the edge of the wharf and end up in the water. “How’re you holding up, Dawn?”

“You need to get me out of here as soon as possible,” she said in a voice that frightened me. “What’s taking so long?”

“Is it your leg?” I asked, glancing up to check on the status of the fireman. I saw him and two others unloading gear from the fire truck and a fourth fireman running hoses in my direction. “I’ve got an ambulance standing by. The fire department is about to lift the boat with the Jaws of Life.”

“No, it’s not that,” she said. “I need to get to work. I found Sarah Schofield’s wallet.”

I took a breath. “You did what?”

“It was hidden in the battery cover on the boat,” she said, sounding like her head was in a bucket. “Mark, Jr. killed himself over what happened to the missing girl, and he didn’t act alone. I need to get out of here and find out who his accomplices were.”

I let out a long and frustrated sigh, knowing it would be difficult to convince her to receive medical attention before jumping right back in the saddle.

“I heard that!” she said.

“Will you at least promise to let the medics bring you to Lady of the Bayou to pull the nail out of your leg and get a tetanus shot?” I asked. “And maybe get your ribs x-rayed?”

“And if I say no?”

“I’ll tell them to leave you here.”

She burst out laughing, but then cursed and punched the inside of the boat. “Damn it, London, don’t make me laugh!” she wailed. “It hurts.”

“Will you get checked?”

“Yeah, I promise to go to the hospital,” she said, resignation in her voice. “I need them to patch me up for the wedding.”

I looked up as the firemen approached and began readying the Jaws of Life to lift the boat. One of the men carried a jack to slip under the gunwale of the boat for support once it was high enough for Dawn to make her escape.

Just as they were trying to wedge the tip of the tool under the gunwale, I heard a hollow grunt from Dawn’s location.

“Dawn, what’s going on?” I asked, dropping my ear to the crack near the wharf. “What happened?”

“I pulled the nail out,” she said breathlessly. “It hurts like a mother.”

“Why would you do that?” I asked in exasperation.

“I’m not dragging this board around with me,” was all she said, and then she was quiet.

It took less than a minute for the firemen to raise the edge of the boat and set the jack in place. As soon as the space was wide enough for Dawn’s slender body to fit through, I reached under, took her by the arms, and gingerly pulled her to safety.

She was a mess. Her face and clothes were smudged with some kind of greenish film, there was blood on the left leg of her jeans, and her elbow was pressed against her ribs, but she was smiling.

“I’m close, London,” she said as I helped her to her feet and put an arm around her to help her to the ambulance. There was a small leather wallet clutched in her left hand. She indicated it. “This belongs to Sarah Schofield. After all these years, I might be able to find answers for her mom.”

I nodded, more concerned for her safety at the moment. Abraham was waiting with the medics at the edge of the wharf, and although Dawn allowed herself to be helped to the stretcher, she wasn’t about to let go of the wallet.

I tossed Abraham the keys to my truck. “Want to meet us at Lady of the Bayou?”

He nodded and headed for my truck. I got in the ambulance behind Dawn and settled in for the ride to the hospital. I was grateful that Dawn had survived the ordeal, because I knew it could’ve been a lot worse, but I still didn’t like seeing her in pain and I wished I could’ve traded places with her.

CHAPTER 37

It was seven-thirty-five in the evening before Dawn was released from the hospital. In addition to the nasty nail hole in her left leg, she had sustained two cracked ribs, a bruised butt cheek, and a chipped bone in her right elbow. All in all, she was mobile, but I wasn’t allowed to make her laugh, and she walked with a slight limp.

Earlier in the day, Abraham had coordinated with Andrew to transport Dawn’s unmarked cruiser to the house and leave mine at the hospital so we’d have a ride home. Andrew had also given Abraham a ride to his house so he could retrieve his unit, and it was about the time that Abraham had returned with my truck keys that I received word from Captain Chuck Wayne that Francis Boyd had passed the lie detector test.

“I ran him on the polygraph first and then the CVSA,” he’d said. “I pressed him as hard as I could, and there wasn’t even a hint of deception on either test. If you ask me, you can scratch this man off your suspect list.”

I hadn’t been sure how to take the news. While it was good that we could stop wasting time on him, I would’ve preferred to have a suspect in hand. Abraham had agreed with my sentiment. While Dawn had been getting her ribs X-rayed, we had huddled in the waiting room going over every possibility. An hour or so later, while we were still trying to come up with a viable suspect, I’d learned that Calvin Robichaux would make a full recovery, but it didn’t matter either way. Abraham had been able to track down all of his friends and had learned that he was screwing some girl he’d met at a local bar during the time of the murders.

After hearing that word, I had gotten desperate and called Roger Bankston, but he had informed me that neither he nor his buddies at the DEA had come up with anything on the “hit gone bad” theory, so we were left scratching our heads.

Abraham had remained at the hospital after returning from running down Calvin’s adulterous affair, and he was still there when Dawn had been released.

Sheriff Chiasson had met us at the hospital earlier in the day, and he’d also remained until the doctor had told Dawn she could leave. Abraham and the sheriff followed us out into the parking lot, where we said our goodbyes.

“Just so y’all know, I’m going to work tomorrow,” Dawn had proclaimed loudly as she’d walked out of the emergency room refusing my help and still holding Sarah Schofield’s wallet tightly in her grasp. “And ain’t nobody stopping me.”

None of us had been dumb enough to challenge her, and she and I made the drive home without incident. When I parked in the driveway, I offered to help her to the house. She thanked me, but shook her head.

“I need to walk out the kinks,” she said, hobbling just a little. “I never knew an ass bruise could hurt so bad. I’d rather have a nail stuck in my opposite leg.”

I stifled a chuckle so she wouldn’t do the same, and then followed inside and to our bedroom, where she allowed me to help her get undressed. We showered together and as the water rained down on us, she leaned her head against my chest. She appeared deep in thought and I figured she was doing what I had been doing all afternoon—thinking about how much worse things could’ve been—but I was wrong.

“You know,” she said, squinting against the water droplets as she looked up at me, “if it wouldn’t have been for Yvette Blanchard coming forward, I never would’ve found that wallet. It was a brave thing she did. She was certain she was going to prison for concealing a crime, yet she still reached out. Thanks to her, I’ll be able to call Mrs. Schofield tomorrow and give her the first bit of news she’s had in more than twenty years.”

I smiled as I looked into her brown eyes. She was such a caring and selfless person. She was banged up pretty good and had almost died, yet instead of feeling sorry for herself and thinking about what might’ve been, her mind was on the poor lady who had lost her daughter so many years earlier.

“I love you,” I said, and kissed her wet lips. When I pulled back, I offered to retrieve the case file from her car in case she wanted to work on the file while I cooked dinner.

Her eyes immediately lit up. “Are you serious?”

“As serious as that boatshed collapse,” I said.

She screeched like a little girl on the last day of school, winced with pain, and then nearly pushed me over as she reached for the knobs to the faucet and turned them off. She caught herself, quickly kissed me, and then grabbed a bath towel. She talked a mile a minute as I helped her dry off, telling me what she needed to do and what she was hoping to find.

“The first thing I need to do is recover those photographs,” she said. “And then I need to see if there are any pictures of Sarah with a local boy. If there’s a picture of her with Mark, it’ll confirm that he had contact with her, and all that’ll be left is for me to find his friends from back then. In the suicide note, he made it sound like others were involved, so I’ll have to look to his closest friends.”

I scowled.

“What is it?” she asked, stopping short.

“You’re beat up pretty good,” I began, “so I don’t think you should go hunting his friends without some help, and I’ll be tied up on my murder case.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, wrapping the towel around her as she stepped out of the shower. “I’ll get Melvin or somebody to come with me.”

I nodded my satisfaction, but cocked my head as I watched her hobble away. Before she had wrapped the towel around her bottom, I’d caught sight of her right butt cheek. As always, it was perfectly shaped and appealing, but what had once been an unadulterated picture of smooth, snowy white perfection, was now a swollen canvas that bore a nasty bruise shaped like the portables we carried.

“Dawn,” I said, forgetting about her cracked ribs, “it looks like your ass ate a police radio.”

CHAPTER 38

While Dawn soaked the stack of photographs in a bucket of distilled water on the table, I moved about the kitchen preparing dinner. I first put on a pot of rice. While most people used rice cookers to make their rice, I cooked mine over fire, just like my mémère had taught me. I first poured the rice in a pot, used my fingers to measure the water—that was the most important part—and then put it over the fire to boil. After the water boiled down, I’d cover it for about fifteen minutes until done. Meanwhile, I began pot frying some shrimp, starting with onions, water, and seasoning.

Dawn was still cursing me for my earlier comment about her ass eating the police radio, and I was still apologizing for making her laugh. She had loudly exclaimed that one of her ribs had punctured a lung, but then quickly said she was joking when she saw the look on my face. That, of course, caused her to laugh even harder, and left me standing there helpless, not knowing how to stop her pain.

“I finalized everything with Riverbend Farms,” Dawn said after a moment. “They’re ready for us.”

“I can’t believe we’re getting married in two short months.” I shook my head. “It seems like forever ago that I proposed to you.”

Dawn chuckled, but then sucked in her breath. “Damn, I keep forgetting about that rib. It doesn’t hurt when I’m sitting still.” She shifted in her chair and then said, “I still can’t believe you managed to keep everything a secret until you dropped down in front of that waterfall. I never thought of you as a romantic, but after that day—”

“I ain’t no romantic.” I grunted. “It just seemed like a nice place to propose, so I did it.”

“That’s what makes it all the more romantic.” She flashed me a coy, little smile and then shoved a hand into the bucket. “How long’s it been since I put these pictures in the water?”

I looked at the rice pot. I had covered it a few minutes earlier. “I don’t know, maybe twenty minutes?”

“I’m supposed to let it soak for thirty.” She pulled her hand from the bucket and shook it off. “Need help with dinner?”

“Nah, you just relax.”

“I feel helpless just sitting here.”

“You’re actually doing God’s work,” I reminded her, indicating the case file on the table. “It’ll be great if you can bring closure for that family.”

She nodded wistfully, and began thumbing through the file, filling me in on things as she read them. After about ten minutes, she removed the photos, and that was around the time my cell phone started ringing. I wiped my hands and answered, seeing that it was Abraham’s number.

“Hey, Sarge,” he greeted, “how’s Sergeant-soon-to-be-Carter?”

I didn’t like when he called me by my title and he knew it, so he would do it from time to time as a joke. “She’s fine,” I said. “She’s banged up pretty good, but you couldn’t tell by looking at her.”

By his tone, I thought he had only called to check on Dawn, but then he said, “Guess what?”

“What?”

“My dad heard back from Bubba Wisinger and got him to call me,” he said. “Mr. Bubba said he’s got photos of every World War II veteran from this area, and most of them are posing with the rifles and pistols they brought back from the war. He said we’re welcome to look over his collection of photographs if we wanted to see if any names jumped out at us, and I told him we’d be there first thing in the morning. I hope that’s okay. I can call and see if we can reschedule if you like, or nix it all together.”

“No, that’ll be fine,” I said. “Where does he live?”

“He’s got a house off of Highway Eighty in Dixie Meadow,” Abraham said, his tone growing with excitement. “I’ve actually been there as a kid. He’s got racks and racks of guns. His entire house is a museum. Hell, he’s even got an old Gatling Gun.”

I nodded thoughtfully, watching the shrimp sizzle in the pan. I wasn’t sure what old pictures of WWII veterans might be able to contribute to the investigation, but I was willing to try anything. “Did he say if he knew of anyone who owned more than one M1 carbine?”

“He said he’s got a few buddies around the country who own more than one, but he’s the only one locally that he knows of who owns several.” Abraham chuckled. “I almost asked him for his whereabouts on Sunday night, but I don’t know him well enough to joke with him, so I thought it best not to.”

I chuckled at the thought of Abraham asking the question and Wisinger’s potential answer. If he was a true Cajun, he would’ve taken it in stride and probably come back with a smartass response.

“Well,” I said, “I hope it turns into something.”

We agreed to meet at the bureau first thing in the morning, and then I ended the call. I decided to contact Rachael next to see if she was still hanging out with Deborah Snipes.

“Nah, I’m home,” she said. “All was quiet in the neighborhood. Besides, there were four SWAT operators watching the place and Mrs. Snipes wanted to get some sleep, so Karla and I got out of there.”

“Did she say anything more about their land or the reason someone might have for attacking them?” I asked, starting to worry that the case might go unsolved.

“Not a thing,” she said, her own frustration obvious. “She did speculate that an investor might’ve wanted the property and gotten mad when they were told that Mr. Snipes wouldn’t sell to them, but I spoke with the realtor and she said the only people who showed interest were individuals.”

It was only then that I’d remembered Kristine Foret. After wrapping up my conversation with Rachael, and each of us promising to keep the other informed if we heard anything, I ended the call and turned to Dawn.

“Hey, I was thinking we might talk to this realtor who’s representing Austin and Deborah Snipes,” I said. “She seems no-nonsense and she’s got a bunch of awards for selling houses and property.”

“Why not talk to her now?”

“I’d rather wait until the case is closed.”

“We’ll probably be married by then,” Dawn said with a grumble. “Look, we might not be able to find the right property and have our house built by the wedding, and that’s fine, but if we still haven’t found something by the time I get pregnant, we’re taking the first available house we find—to hell with building at that point.”

I nodded my agreement. We had worked hard on designing a house that we would both love, and the completed plans had been delivered the previous month. With the plans in mind, we had visited over a dozen properties in recent weeks, and three of them would’ve met all of our desires save one—a shooting range.

“I’m sorry, Honey, but you might have to give up your dream of having your own firing range,” Dawn said, looking up from the stack of photographs she was slowly separating piece by piece. “I know you’ve always wanted your own place to shoot, but it might be impossible to find in the amount of time we have.”

I was old enough to know I couldn’t have everything I wanted, so I again nodded my agreement. “As soon as this case is over, we can sit down with Kristine Foret and show her our plans. If she doesn’t immediately know of a property that would work, I’ll give it up. After all, I’ve got free rein of the sheriff’s office range, and that’ll be close enough to any house we find.”

I shut off the fire under the rice, cooked the shrimp a little longer, and then turned to tell Dawn that supper was ready. She didn’t hear me the first time, because she was bent forward focusing intently on a photograph in her hand.

“What is it?” I asked.

Without saying a word, she started to gingerly stand, but I stopped her.

“What do you need? I can get it.”

She pointed to the opposite side of the table, where her case file had spilled over. “I need that yearbook.”

I quickly got it and brought it to her. I watched as she thumbed through the pages, apparently searching for someone. I looked at the picture she had been referencing, and I saw a young girl in a yellow bikini sitting on a pier next to a shirtless boy wearing blue swim trunks.

Finally, Dawn stopped flipping through the pages when she came to the seniors section of the yearbook. Her finger ran down the list of names until she came to Mark Blanchard, and then it slid across to find the corresponding photo.

“Oh, my God, this is it,” she said, glancing from the photo on the table to the yearbook, and then back again to the photo. “This is a picture of Mark Blanchard, Jr. and Sarah Schofield together in Beacher. Her best friend did capture a picture of the killer.”

“Good job!” I said, impressed as always with my wife-to-be.

“I’m not done yet,” she said, turning her attention back to the pack of photos that she’d spread out across the table to dry. “I need to find the rest of those bastards—the ones who are still living and who think they got away with it.”

CHAPTER 39

Although Dawn and I had stayed up late Monday night looking at the photographs that Sarah Schofield’s best friend had taken, we woke up early the next morning and got ready for work. While there had been a lot of pictures taken of Sarah, there had only been one taken of her and a boy, and it was the one that Dawn had used to identify Mark Blanchard. While Sarah and Mark had been in a photograph together, they had not actually been the subject of that picture. The center of the photograph had actually been two other girls who had been sipping on two different straws from the same giant margarita, and Sarah and Mark had just so happened to be in the background sitting side by side on the pier.

Dawn had been certain that the friend hadn’t noticed Sarah and Mark in the background, because the camera was focused on the other two girls.

“Michael Theriot confiscated the friend’s roll of film and promised to give it to her once he’d had it developed, but he never did,” Dawn had said, “so she probably never knew about Sarah and Mark. In fact, I bet Michael never even looked at the pictures. If he had, he would’ve noticed that the boy in the picture with his missing girl was the same boy who killed himself almost two months later.”

Knowing the former captain like I did, and having been forced to shoot him in the line of duty, I would’ve put nothing past the man, and I agreed with Dawn’s assessment. Theriot had definitely not been one for details, and he’d never actually earned a promotion in his career. He had been elevated through the ranks because of his close connection to the former sheriff and an incident that had occurred earlier in their law enforcement careers.

“Are you sure you feel strong enough to go to work?” I asked as I watched Dawn loading up the file folder. The bruises on her butt cheek and ribs were even darker than they had been the previous night, and I noticed her wincing every time she took a deep breath. She also favored her left leg, and I knew it hurt a lot more than she let on.

“I’m really close, London. I can feel it.” She shook her head. “I can’t stop now.”

I helped her carry her things to her unit and then offered my arm to help her lower herself into the driver’s seat. She took it gratefully and sighed once she was seated. I leaned over and kissed her, then closed her door.

“I hope you solve your case quickly,” I said after she’d buzzed her window down. “I could use your brainpower.”

She frowned. “Why? What’s up?”

We had both been so focused on her case during the previous night that I hadn’t had a chance to update her on the progress—or lack thereof—of the Snipes murder investigation. I gave her a brief rundown and watched her forehead crinkle as I talked. When I was done, she cursed silently.

“You’ve got no suspects at all?”

“Not anymore,” I acknowledged. “They’ve all been eliminated. We were thinking it had to be tied to the land, but I’m not so sure anymore. Abraham and I are supposed to meet with an expert on World War II weapons this morning, but I don’t know how far that’ll take us. He’s got pictures of every veteran who came back from the war, and a lot of them are posing with the weapons they brought back. I’m hoping we’ll find someone with a pair of M1 carbines.”

“You’re thinking that the descendants of such a man might be your suspects?”

“I know it’s a long shot,” I admitted, “but at the moment, it’s all we’ve got.”

She nodded and shifted gingerly. “As soon as I’m done with my case, I’ll give you a holler.”

“Please be careful, and remember to call—”

“For backup before I go looking for anyone,” she said, cutting me off. “I’ve got it, Mother.”

I laughed, kissed her again, and watched her back out of the driveway. I was worried about her and wanted to ride along, but I knew I had to tend to my own case. The murder wouldn’t solve itself, and if we didn’t get creative, we might not be solving it at all.

CHAPTER 40

Abraham was waiting in the parking lot when I arrived at the detective bureau in Payneville. I didn’t even pull into a spot.

“Got any bright ideas?” I asked once he had jumped into my truck. “This case is growing colder by the minute and I’m growing more and more worried.”

“I think the rifles are the key to it all,” he said. “We find the rifles, we find the killers.”

I hoped he was right, and said as much. I then told him about Dawn’s case and the progress she was making. “She thinks she’s close to solving it,” I said after wrapping up the details. “Maybe she can get in on this case afterward. Lord knows we could use the help.”

Abraham nodded. “I keep thinking it has to be a hit and the killers have to be from out of town, because there’s been so little evidence left behind.”

“You might be right,” I said with a sigh. “If that’s the case, we’re in trouble, because those rifles could be from anywhere.”

“Oh, wow, I didn’t think about that.” He was quiet for a long moment. “Should we check all the local motels to see if anyone’s come into town recently?”

“That’s a thought. We’ll also have to check those online vacation rental sites. Nowadays, there’s no telling who’s renting out their houses. I kept seeing out-of-state plates at a house up the street from me, and I later found out from a neighbor that it’s one of those self-service online rental jobs.”

I saw Abraham jot down some notes. He then pointed out the way to Bubba Wisinger’s house, which was an old plantation home set back in the sugarcane fields off of Highway Eighty. It was a large house in desperate need of a paint job. I surveyed our surroundings as I found a spot to park in the driveway. I didn’t see any motion detectors, surveillance cameras, or security bars on the windows and doors.

“He keeps his guns in this house?” I asked skeptically. “His World War II collection?”

“Yeah.” Abraham nodded. “If I remember right, he’s got a pack of Rottweilers that live in the house, and they’re ferocious. Of course, they might be dead by now, because I was a kid when I came out here.”

I cast him a side-eyed glance. “When was that—yesterday?”

He laughed.

We had barely stepped out of my truck when I heard what sounded like thunder coming from the interior of the house. “Nah, they’re not dead,” Abraham said. “In fact, it sounds like he’s got more of them.”

I nodded my appreciation. There was nothing like a pack of vicious-sounding dogs to keep burglars away. Abraham led the way to the door and knocked. I didn’t know how anyone on the inside could possibly hear a knock, but they apparently did, because the barking suddenly stopped and we heard doors slamming.

After a moment, the front door opened and a man of about sixty or so stood there peering out over a pair of reading glasses. He took one look at Abraham and smiled.

“You haven’t changed a bit, son.”

Abraham blinked. “You remember me?”

“How could I not?” Bubba Wisinger asked with a snarl. “You dropped one of my most prized pistols.”

I shot a glance at Abraham, but could tell by the shocked expression on his face that he was hearing about this infraction for the first time.

After holding his snarl for a long several seconds, Bubba roared with laughter. He leaned forward and slapped Abraham on the shoulder. “I’m just joshing you, kid! I do that to everybody that visits.” He turned and waved for us to follow him inside. “But I remember you. Your dad and I have been friends for a long time.”

I knew he was talking, but I barely heard him. After stepping through the foyer, we entered a world that was all gun. Every wall I could see was lined with rifle racks, and each slot was occupied. Each wall was dedicated to a specific country, and I quickly found the one representing the United States, because it was the biggest wall with the largest inventory. Amongst all of the other weapons, there must’ve been fifty M1 Garands and just as many M1 carbines resting along the rifle racks.

“Wow,” I said, genuinely impressed. “This is quite a collection.”

“It’d better be. I’ve spent nearly every cent I’ve ever made collecting these gems. I had several girlfriends and a wife over the years, but they all said I loved my collection more than I loved them, and they all eventually left.” Bubba turned and smiled, exposing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “They were all right.”

Bubba wanted to show us his entire collection, and I didn’t object. It was a small price to pay for his information. Besides, I enjoyed seeing everything he had. Every now and then during the tour, I could hear the dogs cutting up outside, and each time he would say, “They earn their keep.”

Finally, we were seated at a table in what had probably once been a kitchen but had been turned into another display room, and Bubba placed a large and thick photo album in front of us. “My dad started collecting these photographs, newspaper articles, and biographical sketches long before I was born,” he said. “It lists something from every single G.I. who served in World War II from this area. My own grandpa’s in here, as well as one of my great uncles who died in the Battle of Normandy. My grandpa left me an M1 Garand and my great uncle left me a German Luger.”

I whistled. I’d give a lot for a wartime Luger.

Bubba stared off into nothingness, said, “Do you realize if my grandpa would’ve died in the war, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to y’all right now? My dad wouldn’t be here, neither would his brothers and sisters and all of their children. My nieces and nephews wouldn’t be here, and neither would their children. It’s crazy to think about how one bullet could’ve wiped us all out before we even got here.”

I nodded, understanding full well what he was saying. One death could erase an entire family forever. Switching gears, I indicated the photo album. “Can I have a look?”

“For sure.” Bubba slid the photo album over and began talking about the M1 carbine while I flipped through the pages. Abraham sat close by and looked over my shoulder. The information Bubba provided while we worked was sound, and I was positive we both appreciated learning about a rifle that had made such an impact in the War.

As we worked our way through the photo album, we saw dozens of pictures of soldiers who had returned from the war, some of whom had posed with weapons, some who had not. I didn’t recognize a lot of the weapons the men sported, and I asked Bubba about them.

“Returning soldiers weren’t allowed to keep their service weapons,” he explained, “but they did bring back weapons that were found on the battlefields. Most were enemy weapons, and that’s what you’re seeing in many of the pictures, but some managed to acquire”—he winked when he said the word—“M1 Garands, M1 carbines, M1911s, and other U.S. weapons. My dad bought a few of them off of World War II, Vietnam, and Korean veterans, and they’re the most prized of my collection.”

I frowned, starting to think we were going down a rabbit hole, and continued turning the pages without much hope of finding anything. That was when Abraham quickly leaned forward and stabbed one of the pictures on the page with a finger.

“Who’s this guy?” he asked.

I leaned closer to see the picture he pointed at, and saw that a soldier was hoisting a pair of M1 carbines—one in each hand. There was a somber expression on his face, and I nodded my understanding as I read the caption, which was handwritten and a little worn: Taken from my dead brothers on the battlefield…their deaths were avenged.

Bubba leaned forward and studied the page. There was no name on the photograph or assigned to the caption, and I grunted, knowing such would be our luck.

“It might be listed on the back,” he mused, reaching for a corner of the plastic protector. Once he had it between his fingernails, he gently pulled it back to expose the photo, while explaining, “Some of these get stuck to the pages, so you have to be really careful not to rip them when you pull them off.”

Abraham and I crowded him as he eased the picture from the backer board and turned it over. There, written in blue ink, was a name: Julius Matherne.

I looked at Bubba. “Do you know this man or any of his family members?”

“No,” he said. “My dad collected this photograph, and I’m not sure where he got it from.”

My hope renewed, I took a picture of the front and back of the photograph and then continued searching through the album. We documented a few more names and photos, but there was nothing as promising as the Julius Matherne connection, and even that was weak, at best, and just plain desperate, at worst.

Once we were done, I thanked Bubba and gave him my business card. “I appreciate your time,” I told him as we walked out. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

Bubba said he would and waved at us while we headed for my truck. He seemed lonely and I got the impression he didn’t want us to leave.

“Does that name mean anything to you?” I asked Abraham when we were in my truck and heading back south.

“Nope,” he said, “but I’m about to run it.”

He flipped open his department laptop and fired it up. He then ran the name through our NCIC database. “Shit, he’s not even listed here,” he said after a minute or so, his shoulders sinking. “I guess they weren’t keeping records back then. It doesn’t pay to check the complaint computer, right? I know they were talking about updating old records, but I think they only go back twenty or thirty years, not seventy or eighty.”

I nodded idly, staring ahead as I drove south along Highway Eighty. It was a beautiful day and I wished I could’ve been at the firing range right at that moment. I hadn’t shot my sniper rifle in a week, and I was starting to get withdrawals. I was thinking about what kind of hell I would put myself and our team through during our next training session, when it suddenly came to me.

“Run an Internet search for Julius Matherne’s obituary!” I blurted out. “Those records go back to the beginning of time.”

With renewed vigor, Abraham began pecking away at the keyboard. It didn’t take long for him to hit pay dirt.

“I’ve got it,” he said, pausing a moment to read. “Oh, wow, he died about twenty years after getting out of the service. He was still a young man. Let’s see, he left behind a wife, Elizabeth, and a daughter, Sandra…”

I glanced over when his voice trailed off. He was tapping away at the keyboard, probably looking for obituaries on the wife and daughter. If the rifles went to the daughter, and the daughter passed it on to her children, then we might be able to get our hands on them and find out if they were connected in any way. Even as I considered it, I continued to think we were running down another rabbit hole, yet I thought we had to see it through—just in case. I’d had crazier theories lead to direct evidence that blew a case wide open, so I wasn’t taking anything for granted. Besides, it wasn’t like we were wasting time—we had no other direction in which to go.

After another long moment of Abraham searching, stopping, silently cursing, and then searching some more, I finally asked, “Well, do you have anything?”

“Nope,” he said, throwing up his hands. “That’s it. There’s nothing more. I can’t find the daughter in NCIC or in the state database, and I can’t find an obituary on her, but I’m not surprised. I’m sure she got married at some point, but I have no idea what her married name might be. I checked the complaint computer for Sandra Matherne and I found four of them, but none is the one we’re looking for. Our Sandra would be around seventy-five, and the ones in our computer range in age from eleven to thirty-nine. Definitely not the right one.”

“Shit,” I said. “Another dead end.”

CHAPTER 41

Seasville, Louisiana

When Dawn arrived at the substation, she sat for a moment in her unmarked cruiser and surveyed her surroundings. When she was certain no one was around, she carefully dragged herself out of the car and stood there for several seconds, letting the pain flow through her. She had refused any prescription pain medication, and she accepted that she would have to deal with a little discomfort for a while.

Favoring her ribs, she leaned forward and gathered up her file folder. She then made her way into the building—feeling the throbbing from her butt cheek and the nail hole in her leg with each step—and toward her office. When she passed the holding cells and turned into the jailer’s station, the corrections officer, who was an elderly man named Alvin, jumped to his feet to get the door.

“I heard what happened, Sarge,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks, Alvin,” she said. “It was a little hairy there for a second. Thank God I got out unscathed.”

Alvin’s brow furrowed. “Um, I thought you got hurt pretty bad?”

“Nothing but a scratch,” she said with a smile. “Compared to what could’ve happened, I was unscathed.”

He gave a polite nod and returned to his station as she headed up the hall to her office. Once she was seated behind her desk, she took a second to catch her breath. She wasn’t tired from the walk, but rather from trying to pretend she wasn’t in pain.

“Alright,” she finally said, pulling out the file, “let’s see if we can do some good today.”

She began by removing the packet of photographs she had restored on the previous evening. She had set them out to dry overnight, and when she’d awakened, they were good to go. She was surprised how well the distilled water had worked, and was relieved that she hadn’t ruined them beyond repair. None of the photos stuck to each other anymore, and the images were in good shape.

After spreading the pictures out over the desk, she began removing all the ones that offered nothing. These were photos of pelicans, egrets, the Gulf, a sunset, and random boats along the beach. She didn’t see a vessel that matched the description of Mark Blanchard’s boat, so she didn’t think any of them were relevant.

She was left with a dozen photographs of various people in different locations. She put aside the one of Mark and Sarah talking in the background, and began scanning every centimeter of the other photos, searching for anyone who seemed out of place. Most of the pictures depicted the same four or five girls, and Sarah was usually among them. She concentrated on the boys in the background. It was hard to distinguish between locals and outsiders, but in some instances, it was clearer than in others. The local boys tended to have darker complexions from living and working out in the sun, while the spring breakers seemed to be either pale or bright red from being sunburned.

Dawn was interrupted several times while she worked, mostly by office staff members who had heard about the boatshed collapse and wanted to wish her well. In each instance, she stopped what she was doing and gave them her full outward attention, but on the inside, she was neck-deep in her case. Not only did she want to bring those responsible for Sarah’s disappearance to justice, but she wanted to be able to return Sarah’s body to her mother.

When Dawn had spoken with Mrs. Schofield the previous night, the grieving mother had been overcome with emotion. She was appreciative of Dawn’s efforts, but also deeply saddened by the implications of the discovery.

“I’ve always dreamed that she was stranded on an island somewhere like Gilligan and his crew, and that she was living it up in a tropical paradise.” Mrs. Schofield had paused to shudder. “I never allowed myself to think of the alternative. I…I don’t know if I even want to know the truth anymore. Part of me thinks it would be better to live without knowing. At least then I would still have hope. If you tell me…if you find out she’s gone, it…it would be all over. There would be no more chance of getting my baby girl back.”

Dawn had felt horrible, but she hadn’t even been tempted to offer Mrs. Schofield any kind of hope that they might find Sarah alive. To do so would’ve been cruel. At the onset of her investigation, Dawn had known that there would be little chance of finding Sarah alive, but after she’d located the young girl’s wallet, she knew that any sliver of a chance had dropped to nothing.

Eventually, toward the end of their conversation, Mrs. Schofield had regained her composure and told Dawn that she hadn’t meant what she’d said.

“I do want to know what happened to Sarah,” she’d admitted. “It’s just been such a roller coaster of emotions all these years, and that would be the ultimate crash. But I do appreciate the fact that you reopened the case, and I would like to bring her home, one way or the other. I…I’m still praying for a miracle, but I understand it might be a long shot.”

Dawn had offered to have someone with their police social services department contact Mrs. Schofield, but she said she’d been seeing a psychologist for several years. “I’m a veteran,” she said, “and I see a psychologist from the V.A. clinic in town. She’s very helpful. I’ll schedule a session with her for this week. I’ll be okay.”

With tears clouding her own eyes at the remembrance of Mrs. Schofield’s words, Dawn continued to shuffle through the photographs. She was about to put one photograph aside when something caught her eye from the top, left corner of the picture. She blinked away the moisture and lifted the picture closer to get a better look at it.

“What have we here?” she asked softly, leaning back to search her desk for a magnifying glass. Once it was in hand, she held it over the photograph and adjusted it until it was in focus. She clucked her tongue as she studied what she was seeing. Could it be something?

CHAPTER 42

Dawn was still peering through the magnifying glass when Detective Melvin Ford entered the office and greeted her.

“Glad to see you’re okay,” he said cheerfully. “I heard it could’ve been a lot worse.”

Dawn only nodded, trying to make out the face of the man in the picture. He was shirtless, wore bright orange swim trunks, and had bushy brown hair—that much was easy to see. However, because of his distance from the camera, his face was a little grainy. What had drawn her attention to him was the way he had been looking at Sarah. It might’ve just been a photograph, but the look on his face gave Dawn the creeps.

“Melvin, take a look at this.” Dawn pulled the magnifying glass from her eye and handed it and the picture to Melvin. “Look at the fellow in the background with the bright orange shorts. The girl in the yellow bikini is our victim. Tell me what you think.”

Melvin put the glass to his eye and lifted the photo into focus. Without hesitation, he said, “He looks like he wants to eat her.”

Dawn settled carefully back in her chair, nodding her head thoughtfully. “Doesn’t he look too old to be hanging out with spring breakers?”

“Yeah,” Melvin agreed. “He looks to be in his mid- to late twenties. Do you know who he is?”

“No, but I need to find out.” Dawn chewed on her lower lip. It would be impossible to identify him from the photograph, so she would need to figure out another way. “I’ve got it!”

She quickly began shuffling the other photos around, searching for the same bright orange swim trunks. Thankfully, they were easy to find, and she located him in six of the other photographs. He was always in proximity to Sarah, but he was only looking at her in the one photograph. She showed Melvin the six new photos.

“What do you think about these?” she asked.

Melvin studied them. “Hmm, he’s not paying her any mind, but it actually looks intentional—like he’s trying to make it look like he doesn’t see her.”

“Exactly!” Dawn snatched up the photo with the clearest shot of him and pulled out Mark Blanchard’s yearbook. Holding the picture close, she began moving up and down and across the pages, trying to match his face to any of the students. It was not nearly as easy as spotting the orange swim trunks, and she had gone through every student without finding a match. Of course, she wasn’t surprised, because he did look too old to be in high school.

Dawn looked up when she was done and asked Melvin, “Care to go for a ride?”

“Sure!” His face beamed. “I was hoping to be brought on board. This case sounds pretty intense.”

“I promised London I’d take you along if we went after somebody,” she explained. “We’re not going after anybody yet, but if we identify this cat, we’re paying him a visit.”

Dawn shoved all of the photographs and documents back into the folder—careful not to overextend and tweak her ribs—and then stood.

“Where’re we going?” Melvin asked as he followed her down the hall and toward the exit.

“The library,” Dawn said. “They keep copies of every yearbook that comes out of the high school. Assuming this hungry predator made it that far, we should be able to match him up.”

Melvin was behind her so she couldn’t see his face, but the grunt he made indicated he was impressed with her idea.

“Want me to follow you?” he asked once they were in the sallyport behind the building.

“Nah, jump in,” she said. “No use burning gas in two vehicles.”

They made small talk on the drive to the library, and the subject turned to the wedding.

“Are y’all ready to get married?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” Dawn said. “I can’t wait to be back in the mountains. I found a place near the wedding venue that’s called Tellico Grains Bakery. I want to have breakfast there the day before the wedding. Are y’all in?”

“Hell to the yeah!” Melvin rubbed his stomach. “If it involves food, I’m all about it!”

Dawn smiled and nodded her agreement. She was originally from Arkansas, but she knew enough about the local culture to know that Cajuns loved to eat. She was taught it was a sin to turn down a Cajun’s cooking. If one of them offered to break bread with you, it meant they liked you, and it was an insult to turn them down.

Traffic was light at that time of the day, so they made it to the library across the bayou in no time. Once they walked inside, Dawn greeted the librarian and then headed for the bookcase that held the yearbooks. She had been there before for the exact same reason, and the librarian seemed to remember her.

“I don’t know which one you need,” the woman began with a smile, “but we just got the most recent one from South Magnolia last week.”

Dawn thanked her, but didn’t reveal the reason she was there. Instead, she found the yearbook representing the year Mark Blanchard graduated, and pulled out the one from the previous year. Melvin took the year before that one, and they both sat at a long table to begin their search.

Dawn had been tempted to go back three years prior to the year Mark had graduated and only search through the list of seniors, but she knew the young man could’ve dropped out early or joined the school later, so she had resolved herself to the painstaking task of searching every class from every year.

“Why does this school have to be so big?” she grumbled after an hour of searching. “There’re at least 300 students in each graduating class. Where in the hell are they coming from—the marsh? When I graduated high school in Bent Fork, we had fifty-six seniors, and that was a big year. We’d usually have less than fifty.”

“Hell, have you ever seen a graduation for Central Magnolia?” Melvin asked.

Dawn shook her head.

“They graduate more than South,” he said, “and Chateau High graduates nearly 350 students every single year.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re not searching their yearbooks, at least.” She stood up for the umpteenth time and tried not to limp toward the bookcase to replace the last three books she’d gone through. Once they were where they belonged, she grabbed the next three and strolled back to the table. She figured the more she moved the more her butt cheek would benefit, but her leg and ribs needed rest.

Once she was seated again, she peeled open the next yearbook in line. If she was right, the seniors in the current yearbook would’ve been twenty-five years of age at the time of Sarah’s disappearance, and the guy staring at her like he wanted to eat her was about that age. With great anticipation, she began to slide her finger from left to right along the headshots of the graduates. She scowled when she reached a blank box with a name and a notice that told her the student had been absent for picture day.

“Wouldn’t that be our luck,” she began, “to have our suspect be absent on picture day?”

“You’re getting those, too?” Melvin shook his head. “I had seven seniors absent on the last book I went through, and I was starting to wonder the same thing.”

Dawn didn’t want to think that they had been searching through those yearbooks for nothing. They had been there for almost two hours, and that would’ve been a lot of wasted time. As it was, she still needed to contact Sarah’s best friend and send her the photos to see if she knew anything about their possible suspect.

After checking the first page, Dawn went through the second, and then flipped to the third and fourth spread. She was glad the graduated were at least holding their caps in their hands. Had it been on their heads, she wouldn’t have been able to see her suspect’s bushy hair as well. That thought led her to another, more troubling one—what if his hair was neatly trimmed for high school? Would she be able to identify him by his facial features? She sure hoped so.

She flipped to the fifth and sixth spread, but still nothing. It was when she turned to the next spread that she got her lucky break.

“I found him!” she cried, forgetting about her wounded ribs and legs and leaping to her feet. She groaned and bent over, but weakly continued, “We’ve got the bastard!”

CHAPTER 43

Dawn, the newest card-carrying member of the Seasville Public Library System, and Melvin headed back to the substation with one South Magnolia High School yearbook in their possession.

Once they were back in Dawn’s office, she opened the yearbook to the page she had marked, and then fired up her computer. The suspect’s name was not one that she recognized. It had not turned up in any of the pages or notes from former Detective Michael Theriot’s investigation into Sarah’s disappearance, and neither had it turned up in the investigation into Mark’s suicide, which had been worked by a detective Dawn had never heard of.

As Dawn typed the name into her search engine, a cold chill washed over her. What if the young man had had nothing at all to do with Sarah’s disappearance? What if she and Melvin had read more into his expression than was there? What if they had seen what they’d wanted to see?

“We need to proceed with caution,” she said as she waited for the hourglass on her cursor to stop flipping. “There’s a chance this fellow is totally innocent.”

“Oh, you’re right,” Melvin said, sucking in a breath. “I hadn’t even considered it. He just looked too interested in her.”

“It could be he was interested and that he approached her and was turned down,” Dawn said. “That could’ve been the end of it, or it could be that he never approached her at all. He could’ve just lusted upon her from afar, too much of a wuss to make contact.”

Melvin nodded his agreement and sat across the desk from Dawn, flipping through the photographs again while Dawn conducted her research.

Once the hourglass stopped doing summersaults, Dawn saw that the search had returned zero results. That had been a search of their complaint database, which wouldn’t have gone back twenty years. Technically, she needed a date of birth to run a Louisiana driver’s license check. While she didn’t know the one for her suspect, she did know his approximate age, so she made up a date of birth and went with it. There were a dozen possible returns, but none of them were close to the age of her suspect.

Taking a deep breath and then suddenly regretting it, she tried to remain patient as she ran his name in the NCIC database. She met with the same results.

“Come on,” she said with a groan, turning next to the database they used to search for people and their addresses, phone numbers, and relatives. The phone look-up feature was virtually useless, but the system was usually pretty successful at accurately connecting people to their families and neighbors.

After entering the search criteria, she encountered the main problem with having limited information on a subject—she got back three hundred results, and most of them were from outside of Louisiana. Having done this before, she quickly entered new parameters, asking the system to only show results for subjects who had been between the ages of twenty-three and twenty-seven years old at the time of the disappearance, which she thought was a good range.

“Okay, now we’re talking,” she said to Melvin, who was still flipping through the photographs Sarah’s best friend had taken. “We’re down to eighty-four possibilities.”

He grunted in response.

Dawn began clicking on the links to each name, and each time she did, she was able to eliminate that name for one reason or another. One was deceased, another’s list of addresses showed he’d never lived in Louisiana, and another was a woman of the correct age group but who went by her husband’s name.

While those were easy enough to eliminate, she soon came to several names she wasn’t sure about. Three of them had actually lived in Louisiana, but none had lived in Magnolia Parish, so for the time being, she passed them up while reserving the right to return to them.

She eliminated the next twelve names, and then came to one with a Magnolia Parish address. Thinking she had finally hit pay dirt, she dug into it with gusto. The address was located in the city of Chateau, which was far from Beacher, but not impossible. The man seemed to be an only child, he was married, and he had three children. When Dawn checked the ages of the children, they had all been born after Sarah’s disappearance.

Her heart pounding in her chest, she ran a driver’s license check with his correct date of birth. It came back as not on file. Cursing, she drummed her fingers furiously on the desktop. She suddenly thought about social media. Minimizing the screen for the investigative databases, she searched Facebook first. There were too many men with the same name to bother with, and there was no way to distinguish the ages, so she snarled and went back to the search database.

After printing up the files on the Chateau man, she continued down the long list of names. That’s when she came to an address that looked peculiar.

“Melvin,” she said, grabbing her chin thoughtfully with her left hand while working the mouse with her right, “come see this.”

Melvin got up and walked around the desk to look over her shoulder.

“Do you recognize this address?”

“No.”

“Do you know where it’s located?”

He shrugged. “I know the general area.”

Dawn clicked on the link that would take her to the man’s relatives. She was still reading down the list of names when Melvin muttered a curse and pointed. “I know that name!”

“I do, too,” Dawn said, and picked up the desk phone to make a call. After a quick back and forth with another detective, and receiving the verification she needed, Dawn hung up and searched another name. After connecting the dots from there, she sat back in her chair and shook her head, more confused than ever.

“We need to call London right away,” she said. “I don’t know what this means, but it can’t be good.”

CHAPTER 44

Earlier…

Detective Abraham Wilson and I were still trying to track down Julius Matherne’s ancestors from our cubicles at the detective bureau when Abraham got a phone call from Bubba Wisinger. He called out to me and I slid my chair over to his desk while he switched to speakerphone.

“Hey, Mr. Wisinger, what’s going on?”

“Abe, I might’ve found something,” he said, sounding as though he were out of breath. “I thought Mr. Julius Matherne looked familiar in that one picture, so I went into my safe and pulled out my grandpa’s personal scrap book. He’s got a picture in there with him, Mr. Matherne, and another fellow named Omar Billiot. Mr. Matherne is posing with his carbines, my dad has his Luger, and Mr. Billiot has a carbine of his own that he brought back from the war. I was thinking if you’re having problems locating Mr. Matherne, you might be able to find him through Mr. Billiot. I think they were close friends.”

“Would you know how to get in touch with Mr. Billiot?” Abraham asked.

“If my grandpa was still alive, he would be able to help you, but I don’t know anything about him,” Bubba said. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more.”

Abraham glanced at me to see if I had any questions, but I shook my head. “You’ve been a big help, Mr. Wisinger,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

When he had ended the call, I wheeled back to my cubicle and began researching Omar Billiot’s name. I knew Abraham would begin doing the same, so I told him I would check the name and address database while he ran the name through the NCIC computer and the state databases. That way, we wouldn’t duplicate our efforts.

I immediately got a hit on an Omar Billiot that was around the right age and who was from Magnolia Parish. Thankfully, he didn’t have a common first or last name, and the fact that he seemed to still be alive helped, because his information would’ve probably been scrubbed had he died many years earlier.

“Wow, he still has a valid driver’s license,” Abraham called from across the room. “I hope I’m still driving around, pissing people off at ninety-six. I’ll get on the road every day and drive seven miles an hour to nowhere.”

I sat back in my chair and scowled as I studied the screen in front of me. “Are you seeing the address on the DL?”

“Yeah, it’s in Broadmoore,” he said. “Right off of Highway Three. Isn’t that right around where the Snipes were trying to sell their family property?”

“It certainly is.” I didn’t know if it was related to our case or not, but I didn’t believe in coincidences. I did a quick check to see who his relatives were, and I discovered another coincidence when I found that he had two daughters, one named Beth and the other named Holly.

“Let’s go check it out,” I said. “I don’t know if it’s related to our case, and if so, how, but there’s got to be something there.”

Abraham followed me to my truck. Payneville was just to the north of Broadmoore, and we were leaving the southern end of the town and entering the unincorporated community in no time. We talked about the case as I drove, but neither of us could fathom how on earth a man who survived World War II might be related to our murder. I was almost certain he hadn’t summoned up a buddy and gone after Austin for some reason, but I couldn’t be positive.

“What if Mr. Whitney Hebert served with Mr. Billiot, and Mr. Billiot was mad at Austin for taking over Mr. Hebert’s property?” Abraham suggested. “My great-grandpa said he was close to the men he served with, and I can see them going after someone for their friends.”

I couldn’t argue the point, so I didn’t. Instead, I started to try to fit the pieces together so they would make sense. As I worked through it, another thought came to me. I grabbed up my cell phone and called the realtor, Kristine Foret. When she answered, I offered a quick greeting and then got right to the point.

“Hey, did a neighbor named Omar Billiot make an offer on the property Austin was trying to sell off of Highway Three?”

“Is that the old man from World War II?” she asked, her voice growing sweet.

“It sure is.”

“I love him so much!” she said, and then was quiet for a second. “Let’s see, he never made an official offer, but I do remember him asking if I knew who would be buying it. He lives next door with his elderly wife, and he wanted to make sure they got some good neighbors. Why? Is something wrong? Did that evil man cause them problems?”

I knew she was referring to Francis Boyd. “No, nothing like that,” I explained. “I’m just trying to figure out if he was opposed to Austin selling the property.”

“He didn’t say anything like that,” she said. “He was just a little concerned about who his new neighbors might be. He said he knew if Mr. Whitney were still alive, he wouldn’t have sold any of it. He did say that Mr. Whitney was probably turning over in his grave, but didn’t say it with animus. He was very matter-of-fact, but sweet as could be. I could just hug him all day long!”

I sighed. She seemed to be a good judge of character, and if she thought so highly of Mr. Billiot, who was I to think differently? I thanked her and was about to end the call when she asked if we had arrested anyone for committing the murders yet. She seemed to shudder when I told her we hadn’t.

“Do you think they’ll get away with it?” she asked in a concerned voice.

“Not if I have anything to do about it,” I said with more confidence than I felt.

After ending the call, I went back to wondering about the possibilities of a ninety-something-year-old man getting with a buddy and going on the warpath to help a neighbor. It would’ve been like old times for him and a buddy to take up the M1 carbines they’d brought back from the war and kick down a door. Only, I didn’t for a second think the men who had lived through that war would be capable of cold-blooded murder. Sure, they were all individuals and there must’ve been some bad apples in the barrel, but most people from that generation were hard-working, God-fearing, and honest folks.

CHAPTER 45

Mr. Omar Billiot was a spry man who didn’t look a day over eighty. He was about five-nine and had a wiry build. He wore navy blue slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, dark-rimmed glasses, and a fedora. He was sitting on a front porch swing facing the highway when Abraham and I pulled into the driveway that separated his house from Mr. Whitney’s former property.

I smiled a greeting as we approached, and he nodded an acknowledgement.

“Mr. Billiot?” I asked, extending a hand when I reached him. He took it and I was surprised by how firm his grip was. “I’m London Carter and this is Abraham Wilson. We’re detectives with the Magnolia Parish Sheriff’s Office.”

“How are y’all?” he asked pleasantly.

“We’re good,” I said.

He scooted to one side. “Have a seat.”

I wasn’t about to insult him by turning down his request, so I sat on one end, leaving the middle for Abraham. He smiled his declination and squatted near one of the columns. I chuckled inwardly, and then turned back to Mr. Billiot.

“I spoke with the realtor who was selling Mr. Whitney Hebert’s property,” I began. “She told me you knew him.”

“Oh, yeah, I knew Whitney.” He nodded to emphasize the point. “A good man, that one. But you’re wrong. That wasn’t his property anymore. That son-in-law of his came in and swooped it right out from underneath him. It was a sad thing to see. You work your whole life to build something you can leave to your kids, and when you do, a few bad years is all it takes for a greedy son-in-law to swoop in, steal it away, and then sell it to the highest bidder. He was going to carve up this land piece by piece until there was nothing left, and all because he wanted to fatten his bank account.”

I studied Mr. Billiot carefully. He clearly didn’t like Austin Snipes, but did he dislike him enough to kick down his door and shoot him and his innocent son full of holes? If so, who would’ve been close enough to go along with his plot? His buddy from the war, Julius Matherne, was dead, so he was out of the equation. Maybe he had a son? And whatever had become of his rifle?

“So, I take it you knew Whitney because y’all were neighbors?” I offered, hoping to learn more about his relationship with the family. That might give some insight into why he might’ve wanted to kill Austin.

“I knew his wife, Sandra, better than I knew him.” With his foot, Mr. Billiot made the swing move lazily back and forth as he stared off into the distance. “I came back from the war with her dad. He was my best friend. He saved my bacon more times than I could remember. If he were still alive, he would tell you it was me who saved his bacon, but I never did see it that way. One night, after we’d taken heavy enemy fire for hours, he said if he made it out alive, he would buy a big piece of property in Louisiana and become a sugarcane farmer. It sounded good to me, so I said I’d buy a piece of land right next to him.”

At some point during the course of our investigation, I remembered seeing a form that had mentioned a Whitney and Sandra Hebert, but I’d never seen the woman’s maiden name.

“Who was Sandra’s dad?” I asked.

“Julius Matherne,” answered Mr. Billiot. “He was my very best friend. I felt lost when he died.”

I was a bit confused as I turned and glanced toward Mr. Whitney’s property. Julius Matherne had been holding two M1 carbines in the picture we’d seen, and I’d had this crazy idea that they might’ve been passed down to someone who’d used them to murder Austin and Logan Snipes. After all, I didn’t believe in coincidences, so the rifles must’ve been tied to the case in some manner. The question, though, was how? And it was a question that I hoped to find out before we left Mr. Billiot’s porch.

“Did Mr. Matherne have a son?” I finally asked.

“No, he only had the one daughter, Sandra.” He chuckled. “And wouldn’t you know it? I only had one daughter also. Her name was Beth, and she and Sandra became good friends, just like their dads.”

“Um, if you don’t mind me saying so,” I began slowly, “we saw a picture of you and Mr. Matherne when y’all had just got back from the war. You were holding an M1 carbine and Mr. Matherne was holding a pair of them.”

Mr. Billiot nodded, a somber expression spreading across his face. “That was all we had left of our buddies. The five of us had been ambushed one night by eleven enemy soldiers. To this day, I don’t know how Julius and I survived, but we did. We…we lost our buddies. We avenged their deaths, and we did it in unspeakable ways, but it didn’t help bring them back.”

“Do you know what happened to the M1 carbines Mr. Matherne brought back with him?”

The elderly man was thoughtful. “You know what? I don’t rightly know. We never talked about them after we got back. We never intended to shoot them, out of respect for our friends, so he probably picked it up like I picked up mine.”

“Do you still have the one you brought back?” I asked.

His face instantly clouded over. He lowered his head and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Back when I was in my late sixties, I had a heart attack. I didn’t think I had long left to live, so I started distributing my possessions. I didn’t want anyone fighting over my things when I was gone, so I decided to do it on my own, where there could be no mistakes. I only had one daughter by my first wife, so I gave her the M1 carbine. I had two other children with my second wife, and I gave them some of my other possessions.”

He paused to let out a grunt. “But I don’t guess y’all want to hear about those, right? I take it y’all only care about the rifle.”

“Sir, I could sit here all day and listen to you talk about whatever it is you want to talk about,” I said. “But you’re right, we’re interested in the rifle, and not the other personal effects.”

He let out a long sigh. “Beth was three years old when I enlisted in the Marines. It was right after the attack on Pearl Harbor. My wife wanted me to wait to see if I would be drafted. She was hoping I wouldn’t be selected, but I wasn’t waiting. They had attacked our country, and I was going to get some. I ended up in Guadalcanal with a few of my buddies, Julius included. We never thought we’d make it out of that hellhole.”

Mr. Billiot was staring straight ahead, but I knew he wasn’t seeing the sunlight reflecting off of the bright green leaves or feeling the gentle breeze rolling in from the south. No, he was back in the jungles of the Solomon Islands, dodging bullets and bombs. Abraham and I only stared, not daring to say a word.

After a moment, he blinked and continued. “Anyway, I made it back with Julius, only to find out that my first wife had moved on. I stayed in close contact with Beth. She got pregnant when she was eighteen, and the fellow—a Blanchard boy—did right by her. He married her and made her an honest woman.”

A chill reverberated up and down my spine when he mentioned the name Blanchard.

“Like I said, when I was in my late sixties, I went ahead and gave my M1 carbine to Beth, and she gave it to her son, Mark.” He grimaced. “God, had I only known what would happen, I would’ve never let go of that rifle.”

I sat stunned. “Sir, did your great grandson kill himself with the rifle you brought back from the war?”

He didn’t look over at me and he hadn’t blinked in at least a minute. Finally, he nodded, but he still didn’t blink. “I blame myself for what happened. I think Beth blames me, too. And I deserve it, I guess. We still don’t know why he did it.”

I couldn’t believe what was happening. I felt a little dizzy with the motion of the swing. “Mr. Billiot, we think we know why your great grandson did what he did.”

The man blinked and turned his sorrowful eyes in my direction. “But…what? How could you know?”

Without wasting another second and not caring what I was revealing, I told him everything that Dawn had uncovered about the suicide of Mark, Jr.

He sank against the backrest of the swing. “Are you saying he killed himself because he had something to do with that missing girl?”

I nodded. “That’s what it seems.”

“And y’all came out here just to tell me that?”

“No, sir,” I admitted. “We had no clue you were related to the Blanchards. We came out here to find out who got Julius Matherne’s rifles after he passed, because we thought they might have been used to kill Austin and Logan Snipes.”

“Why, I imagine they would’ve gone to his only daughter after he died, and she’s passed away already,” he explained. “From there, I have no idea where they went.”

I was thoughtful, thinking the rifles must’ve been sold outside the family somewhere along the way, otherwise...

“Other than Deborah, didn’t Whitney and Sandra have two more sons and another daughter?” I asked.

Mr. Billiot nodded. “That’s right.”

“The information we received was that one brother was in Oregon, the other in Alabama, and her sister was in California,” I offered. “Do you know if that’s correct?”

“It is correct that they live there,” Mr. Billiot began, “but the brothers are here in Louisiana.”

“They’re here already?” I asked, cursing under my breath. “We heard they were coming down for revenge, but I didn’t know they’d get here this fast.”

Mr. Billiot’s brow furrowed as he stared at me. “No, they’ve been here all week.”

I blinked. “What?”

He shot a thumb over his shoulder toward the rear of the property as Abraham and I got to our feet.

“Yeah,” he continued. “They’ve been staying in an old hunting camp at the back of the property since two Saturdays ago.”

“Are you sure?” I pressed, trying to quickly run through the implications of what he was saying.

“I’m positive.” He nodded for emphasis. “I would know those boys anywhere, and the truck they’re driving has an Alabama license plate. It’s definitely them.”

CHAPTER 46

Abraham and I hurried off of Mr. Billiot’s porch and headed for my truck. We had barely reached it when I received a call from Dawn.

“I’m glad you called,” I said, opening the door with one hand and holding the phone to my ear with the other. “I need to tell you something.”

“Me first,” she insisted. “In one of the photographs that Sarah’s best friend took, Melvin and I saw a man watching her in the background. He looked wicked, like he wanted to devour her. Anyway, we were able to identify him from one of the yearbooks, and when we began running name inquiries, we were able to link him to a previous address in Broadmoore. It was Mr. Whitney Hebert’s address. The man’s name is Gary Hebert and he’s Whitney Hebert’s son. He’s Deborah Snipes’ brother.”

I stopped walking when I reached my truck. “So, wait a minute—are you saying Deborah’s brothers are involved in Sarah Schofield’s disappearance, too?”

“It seems that way,” she said. “I called Rachael and she verified with Deborah that her brother who lives in Alabama is named Gary Hebert.”

“We think Gary and Clay were involved with murdering Austin and Logan,” I said, trying to wrap my head around all of the information I was receiving. “How is it that they also had something to do with Sarah’s case?”

“It’s just a hunch at this point,” Dawn acknowledged. “I could be wrong, but Gary sure was looking at her in an eerie manner.” She paused for a breath. “What makes you say they were responsible for the murders of Austin and Logan?”

“Because they’ve been here since two Saturdays ago,” I explained. “They’re hiding out in an old hunting camp in the back of the property. If they didn’t have the intent to murder Austin, wouldn’t they have been staying at Deborah’s house or in their mom and dad’s old place? The fact that Deborah didn’t know they were here speaks volumes.”

“Oh, no,” Dawn said. “How on earth will she take the news that her brothers killed her husband and son? That’ll crush her.”

I nodded, trying to imagine how it might feel for her. It was similar to another case I’d worked where one of my sniper’s sons had murdered him, and we’d had to tell his daughter, Lily Pierce, that her brother had murdered their father. It had been extremely difficult for the young girl.

“I don’t think they meant to kill Logan, though,” I continued. “I think they meant to kill Austin and Deborah. Logan doesn’t live with his parents, and he wasn’t supposed to be visiting them anyway, so there’s no way they could’ve been targeting him. No, they were after Austin and Deborah.”

“What’s their motive?” Dawn challenged.

“They wanted to keep the land in the family,” I said simply. “What other reason could there be? Like Mr. Billiot said, Austin swooped in and stole the property right out from under their dad. They had to stand by and watch the land go to some random dude who had been lucky enough to have married their sister. Austin never worked the land. He wasn’t blood-related to the founders of the property. He simply showed up with money and suddenly, with the snap of a finger, Gary and Clay no longer had an inheritance. To add insult to injury, Austin was starting to sell it off piece by piece. The only way to reclaim ownership of what they felt was rightfully theirs was to kill off Austin and Deborah.”

“Wouldn’t the land naturally go to Logan next?”

I frowned. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe they did mean to kill him, after all. They might’ve killed Deborah too if she hadn’t come out of her bedroom with guns blazing.”

Dawn was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, “What if there’s more to it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Our cases are obviously connected, right?”

“They have to be,” I said, and then explained how Mark Blanchard, Jr. had been Mr. Billiot’s great grandson, and how he had killed himself with his great grandpa’s rifle, while Gary and Clay had most likely killed Austin and Logan with their grandfather’s rifles.

“Omar Billiot was best friends with Deborah Snipes’ grandpa,” I continued. “So, they all knew each other. It’s no coincidence that Gary Hebert was in that picture. Gary, Clay, and Mark were probably all there together.”

“I agree,” Dawn said. “Not only did they know each other, but I believe they were working together to take Sarah. I didn’t see Clay in any of the pictures from Beacher, so I don’t know if he was involved, but I’d put money on Gary being all up in it.”

“I know everything has to be connected,” I said thoughtfully, “but something’s missing. How do we make the pieces fit so we can explain this to a jury in a year from now? What’re we missing?”

“I know what it is,” Dawn said. “We’re missing the motive.”

“You don’t think Austin was killed to stop him from selling the property?” I asked. “I thought that was the motive we were working with.”

“It is,” Dawn agreed, “but the missing link is the motive behind the motive—it’s the reason they wanted to stop him from selling the property. It wasn’t because they were worried about losing their inheritance.”

“No?”

“No,” she said. “I believe the land holds the secret to what happened to Sarah Schofield. Gary and Clay had to kill Austin and Deborah to keep a lid on that secret. If the Snipes sold the property, the boys would lose control of their secret. It would only be a matter of time before someone decided to dig a drainage ditch or plow a garden, and everything would be exposed.”

What Dawn had said was the best scenario I’d heard since the God-awful investigation had begun. I stood on the running board of my truck and gazed out toward the west. The sun was blinding me, so I put a hand up to shield my eyes, trying to see all the way to the back side of the property. It had to be a little more than a mile to the tree line, but I was unable to pick out the barn or the camp against the dark background.

“You think Sarah’s body is buried out here somewhere, don’t you?” I finally asked.

“I do,” Dawn said. “What does it look like out there? Would you have any idea where to start looking?”

“Yep,” I said. “It’ll be on the five acres they’re trying to sell. We’re heading back there now. I’ll call you when I know more.”

CHAPTER 47

While I had been on the phone with Dawn, Abraham had grabbed my binoculars from the back seat and had been peering through them, scanning the back of the old Whitney Hebert property.

“Anything?” I asked, silencing my cell phone and shoving it in my front pocket.

“I see the barn, but there aren’t any vehicles around, so they must be in the garage,” he said. “If there’s a camp, it’s hidden in the trees, because the rest of the property is nothing but cow pastures and a few animal shelters.”

“Do you see any movement at all?”

“There’s no sign of life except for several dozen Herefords scattered around,” he said. “The barn windows seem to have something covering them—curtains or shades, probably—and the garage door is down.”

I considered what he said. Normally, if I was going after a murder suspect, I would just go after him. However, if they were the men who had killed Austin and Logan, they weren’t normal killers. They were possibly heavily armed, and definitely motivated. They were also hiding out somewhere in the sticks, and I needed to contain the area before we went traipsing around blindly trying to find them. I wasn’t sure if there were any back roads that circled around and led back to the highway, so we’d need people in place before making our approach.

I drove my truck about a hundred yards down the dirt road and then parked it sideways, blocking off any ingress/egress. I didn’t want to be trapped inside the vehicle if they decided to make an appearance, so I exited. Abraham followed suit.

“I’ll grab my sniper rifle and you can have my AR-10,” I said to Abraham, opening the back driver’s side door and lifting the rear seat to expose a gun case that was mounted there. While Abraham quickly removed the semi-automatic rifle from the standup rack between the front seats, I unstrapped my Accuracy International Model AE sniper rifle and moved it to the back of my truck. I dropped the tailgate and rested it there on its bipod with the muzzle facing the back of the property.

I then grabbed an extra ballistics vest from the gun case and tossed it to Abraham. He caught it with one hand and began shouldering into it while I slipped into my sniper vest. I pointed to the corner of the gun case, where a dozen 20-round magazines for the AR-10 nestled in the corner.

“Grab a few of those,” I said, “just in case we get into trouble. The bad guys fired forty-three rounds on two kills, so it sounds like they’ve got more ammo than sense.”

Abraham nodded and shoved two magazines into each back pocket. The mags were loaded with the same ammunition I fed my sniper rifle—Federal Gold Medal Sierra MatchKing, 168-grain boat-tail hollow-point bullets. In my experience, they were the most accurate factory ammo on the market, and they were well-suited to law enforcement work because of the way the projectile behaved upon impact. While I owned a number of AR-15s and they had their purpose in law enforcement work, I loved the simplicity and practicality of packing one type of ammo for two rifles, and I loved the heavier round.

Once we were geared up and positioned beside my truck, I got on the police radio and informed Headquarters that we had a possible location on our suspects in the murder investigation. I requested backup in the form of several SWAT operators and another sniper. Next, I shoved the ear pod for my cell phone into my right ear and called the sheriff while I knelt on the ground beside my tailgate and studied the distant tree line through my scope. When he answered, I told him that I thought we had the suspects cornered in an old hunting camp, and that backup was on the way.

“How much evidence do you have that these are our guys?” he asked, his voice betraying his skepticism. I didn’t blame him one bit for doubting what we had.

“It’s not much,” I admitted. “At best, we’ve got a weak circumstantial case. At worst, it’ll be a hunch that didn’t pan out.”

“You’re bringing the tactical team down on these men over a hunch?” Sheriff Chiasson sounded exasperated.

“That’s the worst case scenario,” I explained, “but I think this is a lot stronger than a hunch. Between Dawn, Rachael, Abraham and me, we were able to determine that the Hebert brothers possibly had access to a couple of M1 carbines, and that they live out of state, but have secretly been in town for more than a week. We were able to show that the Hebert family had ties to the Blanchard family.”

“The Blanchard family—wasn’t it their boatshed that almost smashed Dawn like a mosquito?” he asked, trying to keep up with the many moving parts of our investigation.

“Right,” I said. “The boy, Mark, Jr., was photographed with Sarah Schofield, the girl who went missing twenty-one years ago from Beacher. Dawn found Sarah’s wallet in Mark’s boat, and she also found Gary Hebert in the background of a photo of Sarah from around the time she went missing.”

“No shit? Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“We told you some of this yesterday at the hospital,” I reminded him. “We’ll know more when we come face-to-face with them. We don’t have enough for a warrant, so we’ll have to approach them peacefully and to talk. At that point, it’ll be up to them.”

“Dawn’s not out there with you, is she?”

“Nope.” I sighed. “I have a feeling she’s en route, so I’m hoping to make contact before she gets here. She’s banged up enough and we don’t need to put her in—”

I bit off my words and shifted my scope to the left, where I saw a dark pickup truck come barreling through an opening in the trees. It was speeding much too fast for the terrain, and the men inside were bouncing roughly up and down in the cab.

“I have to go, Sheriff,” I said quickly. “We’ve got company.”

CHAPTER 48

I felt more than saw Abraham Wilson move away from me to the left and set up a shooting position on the hood of my unit. The truck was still coming fast, and I could see the passenger leaning forward to stare through the windshield. It was obvious he could see that my truck was blocking their path, but it looked like he and the driver were arguing about something.

“They know we’re here,” I called out to Abraham. “Be ready to get the hell out of the way. I don’t think they’ll ram my truck, but you can never tell.”

He grunted his acknowledgment, and I knew he was focused on aiming down the barrel of the AR-10. The truck was a little less than a mile away, much too far for our .308 bullets to be effective against a moving vehicle. Even if they would’ve been within range, we didn’t have the right to shoot at them. They were merely suspects—barely that—and even if we did have warrants for their arrest, we were only allowed to use deadly force if they were endangering our lives or the lives of other individuals.

“They’re stopping,” Abraham said after they’d gotten to within 1,000 yards.

I didn’t respond. I was calculating my ever-changing bullet drop data, as well as watching the dust that had been kicked up by their tires to determine the direction and speed of the wind. I made my mental calculations and determined what holdover to use, but it was only valid at that precise distance. If they moved forward or backward, everything would change.

“Can you see anything?” Abraham asked.

“They’re arguing and pointing this way,” I said slowly, not moving anything but my lower jaw, and only minimally. My entire body was focused, relaxed, and ready for action. If they decided to stick their rifles out of the windows and start shooting, I would be forced to make a windshield shot, and the Federal Gold Medal Sierra MatchKing was not reliable when shooting through glass. Sure, it could be done, but the bullet was designed for accuracy, and it wouldn’t remain intact after punching through various mediums. Not only would the bullet lose much of its energy once it penetrated the glass, but it would also become inaccurate. To better ensure a chance of a stoppage, I usually employed two snipers and had them take a synchronized shot using Federal’s tactical bonded tip bullet, which was designed for such occasions.

Without taking my right eye from my scope, I quickly moved my left hand to the left breast pocket of my sniper vest and retrieved an extra magazine that had been secured there. It was loaded with ten bonded bullets. Reaching under the rifle, I replaced the original magazine with the one outfitted with the tactical rounds, and then quickly worked the bolt to move one into the chamber. Just as the live round flickered from the chamber, I shot my hand out like a snake and snatched it from the air, tucked it into my stock pack, and gripped my rifle once more. The entire ordeal had taken a mere second or two, thanks to performing a million such repetitions in training.

Of course, the two men hadn’t noticed what I’d done, because they were too far away. Had I been in a situation where I needed to remain undetected, I would’ve performed the motions much slower, and I wouldn’t have allowed my ejected round to go spinning through the air.

“What’s the holdover from this distance?” Abraham asked. He had been involved in a shooting a few months earlier where he had been attacked from 1,000 yards out. Although he had aimed high when returning fire with his AR-15 chambered in .223, he hadn’t been successful in taking out the threat.

“It’s roughly 421 inches,” I explained. “They’re driving a GMC Sierra 1500 with no upgrades. The average pickup stands about 76.5” tall, so all you have to do is imagine six of those trucks stacked on top of each other and aim dead center at the top one.”

“Does the one I see count as one?”

“Yep.”

“Do I have to worry about wind?”

“Nope,” I said. “It’s three miles per hour and blowing right in our faces, so there’s no value.”

He didn’t ask how I knew what the average height of a pickup truck was or how I knew the wind was blowing at three miles per hour. He would’ve known it had to do with my sniper work, and he trusted that I knew what I was talking about. I’d met other officers who would’ve pestered me with questions even at a time like that, but not Abraham. He knew what questions to ask and he knew when to ask them. That was rare for a young man who hadn’t reached his twentieth birthday yet.

As I continued to watch, I could see that the men were still sitting there arguing. I shot a quick glance to my left and right.

“Abraham,” I said when I put my right eye back to the scope, “do you see that old tractor to your left?”

“Yep.”

“And do you see that tall post up ahead that’s leaning into the roadway?”

“Yep.”

“That’s 100 yards away,” I explained. “If they start charging at us and reach that post, I want you to run behind that tractor like your ass is on fire and it’s a bucket of water. I don’t give a shit what’s happening. You get behind that tractor as fast as you can. Do you hear?”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got a ditch on my side,” I said. “The fastest they can go on this road without losing control will be about fifty miles per hour, so that’ll give us roughly four seconds to get the hell out of the way. They reach that post, you run—no questions, no hesitations, and no looking back.”

“Got it.”

Suddenly, through my scope, I saw the passenger twist around and lean through the gap between the front seats on the truck. From what I could see, he wore combat pants and a black T-shirt. When he turned back around to take his seat, I rubbed the trigger guard with the first pad of my index finger in anticipation. I’d only seen the weapon for a split second, but there was no mistaking the M1 carbine he had grabbed from the back. He sat bent over in the seat, and I was sure he was readying it for action.

“The passenger just armed himself with an M1 carbine,” I said coolly, relaxing every muscle in my body. “These are definitely our guys. Shit’s about to get real.”

“Say when,” Abraham muttered. I imagined him leaning across the hood of my truck with his cheek pressed snugly against the stock of the AR-10.

After a few more seconds, the passenger looked up and said something to the driver. In that instance, I saw dust kick up behind the truck and it lurched forward. The passenger then leaned out of the window and began firing the rifle. It took about a second for me to see the first tiny plume of dust appear about 300 yards in front of the truck, and another two seconds to hear that first shot. Afterward, the shots began blending into each other and the plumes appeared in rapid fashion, moving closer and closer to us.

“Hold your fire,” I said calmly to Abraham. “When I tell you to shoot, imagine there’s one truck above that one and aim for the top of the windshield, on the left side.”

“Ten-four.”

I was pleased to hear that Abraham’s voice was as calm as mine. As I watched the truck draw nearer, I saw the passenger toss his rifle aside and reach for the floorboard. When he straightened in his seat, I realized that he had the second M1 carbine in his hands. When he’d turned around in the seat, it had been to gather both rifles in his lap. Switching rifles was a slight bit faster than reloading, and he now had a fresh rifle with twenty more rounds to blast in our direction.

I saw the truck swerve slightly and kick up dirt on the edge of the road. When I glanced at the driver, I saw that he was busying himself with reloading the first rifle as he drove. Right then, they reached the 500-yard mark, and I called out to Abraham to fire.

Just as Abraham’s rifle boomed to my left, I pulled the trigger and sent a bullet through the windshield, right where the suspect’s head was supposed to be. I immediately bolted another round and was back on target in a flash. I saw the bullet hole in the glass. It was a little high and to the left. I had no emotion when I saw that the suspect’s head was still intact and that the truck was still barreling toward us, picking up speed as it traveled. The passenger was still firing his rifle furiously. He and Abraham were locked in an intense firefight. There was a quick break in the action as Abraham reloaded and the passenger reached for the original rifle.

I sent a second round through the windshield and automatically bolted another round. The truck swayed just a little as the driver slumped forward, but the truck was still on a deadly course, heading straight for my truck. Through the clear spots amidst the dozen or so bullet holes in the windshield from Abraham’s rifle, I saw the passenger reach over to take the steering wheel. They were approaching the 200-yard mark and closing at blinding speed. We had less than ten seconds to stop them, or we would be crushed.

“Aim dead on!” I said to Abraham, and fired my third shot at the driver’s side front tire. Our shots were fired in perfect synchronicity. As I bolted another round, I saw rubber fly and the rim make rough contact with the dirt. The truck jerked violently to the left and entered a shallow ditch. It followed the ditch for about twenty feet and then stopped so abruptly when it hit a culvert that the back of the pickup left the ground. At that same instance, the front windshield exploded and two limp bodies flew into the air and landed some distance away, each of them bouncing once before coming to a sliding halt several yards from their truck, one on our side of the ditch and one on the other.

Their bodies were quickly followed through the air by one of the M1 carbines, and I winced painfully as it struck the ground with enough force to leave an indentation in the dirt. Clay and Gary Hebert, if they were, indeed, who we suspected them to be, deserved what had happened to them. The rifle had not.

“Damn, that was close!” Abraham said, sighing in relief. “I thought for sure we’d be plowed down. I don’t remember ever being that scared in my life.”

I straightened and turned to see him still leaning over the hood, my AR-10 still gripped tightly in his hands. I smiled as I watched the kid survey the carnage before us. He had hung in the pocket and done his job coolly despite feeling the pressure barreling down on us. We’d had about three more seconds before we would’ve been forced to abandon our position, but he had hung in there. Most men would’ve bolted too early. The more I got to know him, the more impressed I became.

I stepped from behind my truck and studied the two men in the dirt. I then turned and looked at my truck. There were at least half a dozen bullet holes scattered across the side panel, but most of the rounds that the passenger had fired hadn’t even reached our location. Abraham had fired about thirty rounds, and at least half of his bullets had impacted the pickup. Four had struck the passenger in his neck and shoulders, and the coroner would have to answer the question about whether or not he’d gone through the windshield alive.

My first round had missed the driver by a hair, and then my second had found its mark, leaving a jagged hole in his left cheek and taking off most of his lower jaw. Had the bullet hit him in the open, it would’ve left a nice clean hole as an entry wound. However, it had mushroomed after passing through the windshield and was deformed before it had entered his face, doing significant damage on its way in.

The entire shootout had taken less than twenty seconds, and there had been no time to send out a radio transmission. Now that things had settled down and both men were out of commission, I pulled out my radio and made some brief announcements, letting the cavalry know that we had two suspects down and that everything was Code Four.

“Should we bother trying CPR?” Abraham asked as he stood over the lifeless bodies lying in twisted positions on the ground.

“There’s no point,” I said with a shake of my head. “We would only force the last bit of blood from their bodies. Besides, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put those two assholes back together again.”

CHAPTER 49

Dawn and Melvin were the first two officers to arrive on the scene of the shooting, and they drove right up to my truck. I saw Dawn grab the top of her unit to help herself out, and she still walked with a slight limp, but she seemed more concerned about me than herself.

“What happened?” she asked, staring first at the two dead bodies on the ground and then at the wrecked truck, which appeared much too close to my own truck for her tastes.

I saw her frown as I explained what had happened. When I was done, she pointed to the single carbine that lay on the ground.

“I bet that’ll match some of the casings that were recovered from the Snipes home,” she said. “Is the other rifle still in the truck?”

“I believe so.” I hadn’t approached the truck in the ditch until that moment. When I did so, I saw another M1 carbine jammed under the dash on the passenger’s side of the cab. “Yep, it’s there.”

Dawn turned from the truck and walked closer to the bodies. She pointed to the one who had been on the passenger’s side. “That’s Gary Hebert and the other one is Clay. Deborah’s gonna die when she finds out it was them.”

I nodded my agreement, but didn’t say anything. Not only would Deborah receive the devastating news that her brothers had murdered her husband and son, but she would also find out that her only surviving family member was a sister in California.

Dawn stared toward the back of the property. She raised a hand to her forehead and shaded her eyes. “How far back there did you go?”

“No further than this.” I indicated the position of my truck with a nod of my head, and frowned when I saw the bullet holes again. We had been luckier than I’d first realized. Gary Hebert had apparently noticed that his bullets weren’t reaching us, so he’d aimed higher at some point.

“I want to head back there and start looking for Sarah’s body,” Dawn said. “I’ll need a team with shovels and some cadaver dogs.”

I nodded and pulled out my cell phone. I backed away from the bodies and called the sheriff to let him know what had happened.

“Are you and Abraham alright?” he asked, his voice betraying the worry he felt. “Dispatch received several reports of gunfire. One lady described it as a warzone and a man described it as opening day of duck hunting.”

I’d heard what opening day sounded like, and I wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Dawn thinks her missing girl, Sarah Schofield, is out here,” I said, switching topics. “Gary and Clay Hebert killed Austin and Logan to keep the land under their control, so there’s definitely something important back there—something worth protecting. I don’t know of any place worth protecting more than where a dead body is buried.”

“I agree.”

“We’ll need some trustees with shovels and some cadaver dogs,” I said. “The more we can get, the better, because we have a lot of ground to cover.”

“Okay, make the calls,” he said. “Tell them I said to give you everything you need.”

I thanked him, ended the call, and began reaching out to the warden at the detention center and the commander of the K-9 unit. Once everything had been arranged, I called Rachael and told her what had happened.

“I was on my way down there,” she said. “Should I keep coming, or should I go make the notification to Deborah?”

“I think you should make the notification,” I suggested. “We don’t want her finding out on social media or in the news. As it is, everyone and his brother knows there was a shootout over here, so it won’t be long before people start connecting the dots and someone reaches out to Deborah.”

“I’m on it,” she said. “I’ll probably have to call an ambulance for her again. I don’t think her heart can take much more pain.”

I frowned and ended the call. I knew how it felt to lose one’s siblings and parents, and she had suffered a much greater loss already. I thought Rachael was right—the most recent news might just send her over the edge.

I settled in for a long afternoon. Internal affairs would want to interview Abraham and me, we’d have to get several other detectives from the bureau to process the scene—unless Sheriff Chiasson called for some outsiders to work the shooting—and we would have to search the property for Sarah’s body.

I, for one, wanted to be involved with the search, so I waved for Dawn to follow me as I walked to her unmarked cruiser. “Drive me to Mr. Billiot’s house,” I said. “I need to ask him something.”

She did so, and we found the elderly man still sitting on the swing where Abraham and I had left him. He looked me up and down.

“I guess you know how to handle yourself, young man,” he said. “That was a lot of gun play back there. I thought for sure the four of y’all had gone and killed each other off. In that kind of action, there are usually no survivors.”

“We got lucky,” I explained, and then asked, “Sir, do you have a UTV we could rent? I could pay you by the hour.”

“Oh, nonsense!” He waved his hand dismissively. “You think I’d take money from someone who’s out here doing God’s work?”

Scoffing, he pulled himself to his feet and walked into his house. He returned later with a ring of keys. He held up one with a black rubber cover on it. “This is the key to the Retriever,” he explained, pointing to the garage beside the house. “It’s parked next to my truck. Don’t get any scratches on it.”

I promised we wouldn’t and took the keys from him. Before turning away, I asked if he knew exactly where the camp was located behind the property.

“No,” he said with a shake of his head. “It’s in the trees somewhere. It was built sometime after Julius died. I…I’ve gone back there once or twice while my friend was still alive, but once he was gone, I never did go on his property again. I just didn’t feel right doing it.”

I nodded and we hurried off. Once I’d cranked up the engine on the UTV and backed it out of the garage, we returned to my truck, where Abraham and Melvin were waiting for us. I secured my sniper rifle in my drag bag, and then placed it in the bed of the Retriever. I tucked it into a corner where it wouldn’t slide around as much. Abraham climbed in the back beside my drag bag, still cradling the AR-10, and told me he’d watch it. As far as we knew, Gary and Clay had acted alone, but we weren’t taking any chances.

“I’ll hang out here and help out with the scene,” Melvin said. “It’s pretty cut and dried, so I don’t think the sheriff will call in any outsiders.”

I tended to agree with him.

Dawn hadn’t gotten off the UTV when we’d stopped, and that fact wasn’t lost on me. Once we were all mounted up, I drove past the crash scene and headed for the tree line in the distance.

The road grew rougher as we got closer to the back of the property, and we encountered a number of muddy patches. I had to switch to four-wheel-drive when we came to an especially long and deep mud hole.

“We definitely would’ve gotten stuck in my Charger,” Dawn said after we jostled through an even deeper hole later down the road. I could hear the strain in her voice and knew she was in pain. “It’s a good thing this UTV is four-by-four.”

I nodded but didn’t say anything. My truck or another department vehicle would’ve provided a smoother ride for her, but my truck was blocking the road and it was evidence, so we couldn’t move it. For Dawn’s benefit, I tried to inch through the holes, allowing the vehicle to rock gently as we rolled forward, rather than bouncing roughly.

Finally, after what seemed like thirty minutes of painstaking travel, we reached the tree line. The road led directly to the break in the trees from which I’d first seen Clay and Gary’s truck appear, but I didn’t go blindly into it. I stopped for a second and studied the ground. There were fresh tracks where their truck had traveled, but there was more than the one set. It appeared they had come and gone a number of times recently, and that would be consistent with them being here for a week or more.

Rather than drive in the same ruts that Clay and Gary’s truck had created, I moved over as much as I could to preserve their patterns in the dirt. I didn’t think we would need them later, but it was better to be overly cautious than careless. The route was a lot rougher once we entered the trees, thanks to the gnarly roots snaking through the path and the cypress knees jutting out from the ground. Thankfully, we didn’t have to go far.

About fifty yards into the woods, we came upon a clearing near a giant live oak tree, and that’s where the tire tracks ended. Dawn let out an audible sigh when I braked to a stop.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m good,” she said. “I just want to find Sarah.”

I shut off the UTV and studied the area for a few seconds, just to make sure there wouldn’t be any surprises. Finally, we dismounted and spread out to look around. I cast a subtle glance at Dawn to see if she was okay to walk on her own. I’d seen the muscles in her arm ripple when she’d helped herself out of the seat, and I knew she was favoring her injuries.

“Dawn, do you want to stay with the UTV to make sure no one shows up and steals it?” I asked hesitantly. She was strong-willed and I loved that about her, but I was worried. I didn’t want her to do something that would cause one of her cracked ribs to shift and maybe puncture a lung.

Surprisingly, she nodded. “I’ll walk around a little, but I’ll stay close enough to see the Retriever.”

Abraham grabbed the AR-10 and headed down a narrow and worn path that led off to the north. Me, I turned toward the oak tree. I looked up and searched the umbrella of branches overhead for danger. Not looking up could be a fatal mistake for a cop to make, and I usually tried to avoid mistakes that could get me killed. There would always be risks associated with law enforcement work, but I wasn’t trying to add to them.

After ensuring that there were no ninjas hiding among the branches, I turned to the west, where the trees didn’t grow as thick. Beyond the massive trunk, about twenty yards through the thin woods, I noticed a field of tall grass. It looked like an old garden, but there was something on the nearest edge that caught my eye. As I drew closer, I realized it was the remnants of a wooden fence. Most of the cross boards had fallen down and two of the four corner posts had toppled over.

I scowled as I stepped through a break in the fence. Could it be that those fools had marked the spot where they’d buried Sarah in such a manner? I scoffed at the idea and was ready to dismiss the thought outright when my heart leapt in my throat. I blinked and stepped a little closer, trying to be sure about what I was seeing. Sure enough, jutting up out of the tall grass was an old and weathered cross.

CHAPTER 50

I searched the ground between me and the cross, but the area hadn’t been disturbed in a very long time, so I knew the Hebert brothers hadn’t been tampering with the ground.

“What do you see?” Dawn asked from somewhere behind me.

I didn’t respond right away. Instead, I picked my way through the grass and approached the aged marker. My heart was racing. I was starting to think I had certainly found Sarah Schofield’s final resting place. I could hear Dawn approaching through the grass. I figured her curiosity was aroused, but I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.

And then I saw the eight simple words etched into the flat surface of the splintered crosspiece: Here lies Spot. He was a good dog. The sign’s creator had carved his initials into the upright post: JM.

“Shit!”

“What?” Dawn asked, coming up beside me. “Oh, shit, it’s a grave!”

“It’s Julius Matherne’s dog.” I felt deflated. “And here I was thinking these assholes had given her a proper burial.”

“There’s nothing proper about those pricks.” Dawn let out a grunt and turned to walk away. I took a good, long look around the area before following her back to the oak tree. There were no other markers and no sign that anyone had been there recently.

“London! Dawn!” Abraham called from the dense woods to the north. “I found their camp!”

I stopped at the UTV and shouldered my drag bag before trudging down the narrow path through the woods. The Hebert brothers had only been in town for about a week, so I knew they hadn’t been the ones to maintain the trail with their foot traffic. My idea was confirmed when we came upon deer tracks in the dirt. The ground was dry in that area, so the tracks were faint.

“Animals use this trail, too,” I said to Dawn, pointing down to the barely visible hoof marks. I also pointed to a scuff mark on a patch of solid dirt. “That’s from one of our suspect’s boots.”

The trail narrowed up ahead, so I slowed to let Dawn take the lead. I noticed that she rocked a little to relieve some of the pain, but I couldn’t tell what hurt worse, so I asked.

“Believe it or not, my ass hurts more than all of it.” She ducked under a low-lying branch and then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never knew how much I used my ass muscles.”

I chuckled and glanced down at her backside. I loved the way it moved in her jeans, and I told her so.

“Hush!” she hissed. “Abe will hear you!”

I laughed. “I’m sure he’s heard worse.”

Finally, we broke out into a clearing and found Abraham taking pictures of the old hunting camp with his cell phone.

“Damn, this is a shithole,” Dawn muttered, stopping at the edge of the camp’s clearing to take it all in.

The bones of the camp appeared to be old creosote posts, while the walls and roof were simply made of corrugated, galvanized roofing panels nailed to the posts. There were a few openings in the wall where old windows had been set, but all of the panes of glass had long since been busted out. There were three fifty-gallon drums resting on their sides and two others stood upright near one of the walls to the camp. A large plastic bin sat upon one of the barrels, and a gutter had been set up to catch the rainwater from the roof and send it into the bin. Boards, crates, and other bins littered the area in the small clearing.

I grounded my drag bag and walked closer, wondering if we had stumbled upon the scene of a violent crime that had taken place twenty-one years earlier. I knew that finding evidence after so many years would be next to impossible, but if we could at least find Sarah’s body, we could begin to offer answers to the Schofield family.

“Do you think this is where they killed Sarah?” Dawn asked once she had walked closer. Her eyes were narrow, and I knew she was angry. “Do you think they dragged her out here in the middle of nowhere and ended her life?”

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out once the dogs get here.”

“God, I wish Gary and Clay were still alive,” she said.

“Yeah,” Abraham agreed. “We might never know for sure what happened to the girl without them here to tell us.”

“Nah, I was thinking I wanted to watch them die for what they did,” she said. “I’d want them to feel the fear that Sarah felt when she ended up in this dump, knowing that the end was probably near for her.”

Abraham pursed his lips, nodding to me. “We watched them die, and if it’s any consolation, they suffered before they were done.”

“Not enough,” Dawn said with a grunt.

I followed Abraham to the doorway of the camp. It had long ago fallen off its hinges, but someone—probably Clay or Gary—had propped it up against the opening. When we peered inside, we saw that a lot of the debris had been pushed to one side to clear a sleeping area on the floor.

“That’s recent,” I said, pointing to the sheets that had been draped across the damp ground. “That’s where Gary and Clay slept.”

“And this is where they cooked,” Dawn called, having wandered to the back of the camp. “They set up some cinder blocks for a makeshift pit. There’re some small bones in a pile here. They look fresh.”

“What do you think they are?” I asked as I exited the camp and headed to her location.

“Rabbit or squirrel,” she said. “I guess they were forced to live off the land during the time they were here.”

I saw the small pile of bones she was talking about, and agreed that it was either rabbit or squirrel. Patches of sunlight broke through the trees above us and lit up sections of the forest floor. I began walking around and testing the ground, searching for the slightest clue that would tell me the ground had been disturbed at some point.

I hadn’t realized that I had wandered a dozen yards from the camp until I heard Abraham announce that someone was coming.

“It’s probably the K-9 team,” he called. “I’ll meet them and guide them here.”

I headed back for the camp and found Dawn sitting on the bed of the UTV. She had lowered the rear gate so she could take a load off, and she scooted over when I walked up.

“London, I sure hope we find her,” she said. “I couldn’t imagine her family going this long without hearing anything from her or about her. I mean, how do they even function day to day knowing she’s out here somewhere, either living in captivity or dead?”

“Oh, she’s dead,” I said. “I’d put everything I own on it.”

“Me, too, but I’m sure her family is still hoping for a positive outcome.”

I knew she was right. They would not want to give up on their daughter, and I didn’t blame them. I was thoughtful. “Say, Dawn, do you think we ever would’ve solved Austin and Logan’s murder if Sarah’s mom hadn’t called you?”

She considered my question for a long moment. “Well, Abraham’s dad’s friend led y’all to Mr. Billiot, who led y’all back here, so I guess so. The only thing the Schofield connection did was help establish a motive for why Gary and Clay wanted to kill Austin.”

I nodded. “Well, I’m sorry you got hurt, but I’m sure glad you took that call from Mrs. Schofield and then started working on the case.”

“It was luck, for sure,” she said.

“Nah, it was good instincts.” I put an arm around her shoulders. “I love how good you are at your job.”

“Stop, you’ll make me blush,” she said, “and that might make my ass hurt.”

I burst out laughing, which made her start laughing, and she grimaced in pain.

Before either of us could say anything more, we heard voices approaching through the trees, and that’s right around the time I received a phone call from Rachael to tell me that all hell had broken loose at Deborah’s friend’s house.

CHAPTER 51

“Mrs. Snipes went completely berserk when I told her it was her brothers who’d killed her son and husband,” Rachael told me over the phone, her voice sounding slightly out of breath. “I didn’t want to restrain her, but she jumped out of bed and started destroying the room, screaming that she was gonna kill them. She was grabbing anything she could get her hands on and smashing it on the floor and walls, and then she locked herself in the closet. I was afraid she’d hurt herself.”

I rubbed my face as I stepped away from the camp. The K-9 deputies had appeared through the trees with their cadaver dogs, and the supervisor began barking orders, pointing out to each of the three teams where they would be searching.

Dawn and Abraham followed me to the UTV and listened in on my conversation with Rachael.

“Karla and I had to kick open the closet door and take her down and cuff her,” Rachael explained. “It probably took us ten minutes to get her under control, because we were trying not to hurt her. An ambulance finally arrived and the medics gave her a shot to calm her down. We’re following them to the hospital as we speak. We might’ve hurt one of her shoulders, so they’ll send her to X-ray before moving her to the third floor.”

A wing of the third floor at Magnolia General Hospital was reserved for people suffering from a mental health crisis. The staff there would stabilize her and have a mental health professional assess her situation. At most, she would be in the hospital for seventy-two hours, but probably much less. She was extremely distraught and not experiencing a psychotic episode, so they could probably get her calmed down with medication.

I shook my head. I felt terrible for the woman, and said so.

Rachael agreed. “It was hard to take her down. I didn’t want to, but you should’ve seen her. It was like the devil jumped right in her and took over. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Does she know her brothers are dead?” I asked.

“Shit, I wasn’t about to tell her that,” Rachael said with a grunt. “I was afraid she’d climb the walls and crawl across the ceiling.”

“Well, it’s best you didn’t.” I went on to fill her in on everything that had taken place since we’d last talked, and I asked her to let me know once Mrs. Snipes was alert and coherent.

“That might be a while,” she said. “When I tell you she went nuts, I’m not exaggerating. They’re gonna have to give her some strong shit to calm her down, so it might be a while before she knows her own name again.”

“As soon as she’s halfway coherent, tell her that her brothers were killed in a shootout with us,” I said. “I think it’s better she finds out while she’s in the hospital with an IV in her arm.”

“I agree,” she said. “I’ll have a doctor nearby when we break the news to her.”

No sooner had I ended the call with Rachael than I received a call from the sheriff asking if the threat was over.

“Yeah,” I said. “The camp back here is empty. It looks like the only ones involved were Gary and Clay Hebert, and they’re no longer walking the earth.”

“I’m glad no one was hurt.” He took a deep breath and blew it out. “But judging by the holes in your truck, it was a close call.”

“We’re fine. We were never in any real danger.”

“That’s good,” he said, and then he got to the point of his call. “Whenever you’ve got a break back there, get your guns to Chuck. He’s made arrangements with the lab in New Orleans to test fire them while he waits. You’ll have them back by the end of the day. He’ll also take some of the spent casings and the rifles from the suspects to test against the casings y’all have already sent up there from the murder scene.”

I glanced at the K-9 teams. While two of the police dogs were German shepherds, one was a genuine bloodhound. They had spread out and were methodically searching the area around the camp. They would be busy for a while and there was nothing I could do to help out, so I told the sheriff we would be heading to the front of the property right away.

Dawn said she wanted to stay behind to keep up with the progress of the search, so Abraham and I mounted the UTV and left. We met up with Detective Warren Lafont along the dirt road. He was marking the spent .30 carbine shell casings he was finding along the way. We stopped briefly to exchange information with him, and then continued the ride to where the shooting had come to an end.

Sheriff Chiasson and Captain Wayne were standing on the opposite side of my truck talking. The sheriff waved us over when he saw us dropping from the UTV. I emptied my sniper rifle while Abraham did the same with the AR-10. We then approached the sheriff and captain of internal affairs and surrendered them.

“Y’all are lucky to be alive,” Captain Wayne said while he filled out chain of custody forms for us to sign. “Had one of you not blown out the tire on that truck, it would’ve crashed right into your unit and…well, there’s no telling what would’ve happened after that point, but it wouldn’t have been pretty.”

I only shrugged and waited to sign the form. Once we’d done so, he asked that we each submit a report detailing everything that had happened by the end of the day. Since we couldn’t investigate the scene of our own shooting and we couldn’t contribute anything to the search for Sarah Schofield’s body, we each grabbed a laptop and headed for the sheriff’s unit to get the paperwork done.

Once I was settled into the back seat of the cool unit and staring down at the laptop’s keyboard, I was reminded of a painting I’d seen early in my law enforcement career. It had depicted a baby holding a toy while sitting on the potty. A roll of toilet paper hung from a dispenser in front of the baby, and a caption read: No job is finished until the paperwork is done.

It hadn’t taken me but a few weeks back then to learn just how true that statement was.

CHAPTER 52

Once Abraham and I had finished our reports and forwarded them electronically to Captain Wayne, we exited Sheriff Chiasson’s unit and joined him, Detective Warren Lafont, and Detective Melvin Ford near the bodies of Gary and Clay Hebert. They had located a fixed reference point, established a reference line, and taken all of the necessary measurements of the bodies and other evidence relative to the shootout that had occurred earlier.

“We’re about done here.” Melvin shoved his notepad in his waistband and pointed toward the back of the Snipes/Hebert property. “Doug’s running the metal detector up and down the road a last time to make sure we didn’t miss anything. We picked up 78 spent shell casings. I can’t believe your truck was only hit seven times.”

“They didn’t know shit about bullet drop,” I explained, looking where he was pointing to see Detective Doug Cheramie walking in our direction. He was waving the search coil of the metal detector back and forth about two inches above the ground. Even from where we stood I could hear the occasional beep as it detected something in the dirt. Every now and then, Doug would stop, squat, and take a closer look at a certain spot on the ground. He would almost always stand, shake his head, and continue. Once, he lifted something from the ground, pulled it close to his face, pocketed it, and then continued onward.

“Did y’all find any evidence in the truck?” I asked.

“Other than the one carbine, about a thousand rounds of ammo, and some spent casings?” Melvin shook his head. “Not a thing. The truck’s registered to Clay Hebert. Both men had their driver’s licenses and credit cards in their pockets, and it confirms they’re Clay and Gary Hebert. Also, they each had several thousand dollars in their wallets and pockets, so they were no doubt trying not to leave a digital footprint.”

“What about cell phones?” I asked.

Again, Melvin shook his head. “Nothing.”

I pursed my lips. “Do you think they left their cell phones back home so their locations couldn’t be tracked?”

“That’s my guess,” Melvin said. “It looks like they were playing it safe.”

“But why hang around?” I asked. “Were they gonna try to finish off the job?”

“London,” Abraham cut in, “didn’t Mrs. Snipes speak with her brothers at some point? I remember Rachael saying the brother from Oregon was pissed off and wanted revenge. If she spoke with him, he must have a phone.”

“Hmm, that’s true,” I acknowledged, glancing toward the dead bodies of our suspects. “Did y’all search the grass really good? They might’ve lost the phone when they flew through the windshield.”

Melvin and Warren traded glances.

“That’s an excellent idea,” Melvin said. “Why didn’t you think of that, Warren?”

Warren only shook his head and started for the bodies. I chuckled and turned toward the sheriff.

“Have you heard from Dawn?” I asked. “Do you know how the search is going?”

He shook his head and glanced at his wristwatch. “They’ve got about three hours of daylight left. If they don’t find something soon, I’ll have to make arrangements to get some lights back there.”

He was right. I turned back to Melvin. “Are y’all done with my truck? I want to head to the back.”

“Yeah, just don’t go driving through any mud holes,” he said with a grunt. “You’ll get wet.”

“I’m more worried about mosquitoes.”

“Our mosquitoes are too big to fit through those bullet holes,” Melvin retorted. “You know that.”

I nodded, but frowned as I took in the exit holes on the driver’s side of my truck. Four of the seven bullets had gone clean through. A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Did y’all find any of the projectiles?”

“Yeah, we found all of them,” Warren said. “Two of them were just resting on the ground about fifty yards from here, one had struck a light pole and dropped there, and the other was sticking out of the vinyl siding on the back of that shed over there.”

I looked where he pointed and saw that it was Mr. Billiot’s small shed. I was grateful that none of the projectiles had injured any innocent bystanders, and I was also happy that none of them had struck Abraham or me. If I were being honest with myself, I’d have to admit that it had been a close call—too close.

After bidding farewell to the sheriff and Melvin, I asked Abraham if he wanted to ride with me.

“If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay here and help look for the phone,” he said.

I nodded and jumped in my truck. Taking a last glance in my side mirror at Gary and Clay, I headed for the back of the property. Although I couldn’t see inside the gun case beneath the rear seat, I knew it was empty and I felt naked without my sniper rifle. If Captain Wayne didn’t return from New Orleans in a hurry, I would have to go home and grab one of my spares.

When I parked my truck behind the other vehicles near the tree line, I was in time to see Dawn limping through the woods with the K-9 teams in tow.

“Nothing?” I asked, disappointment washing over me.

She shook her head. “Not a damned thing.”

“Did they search everything?”

“They went over every inch of that clearing, plus a lot more.” She sighed. “I don’t know what else to do.”

I muttered a few curse words under my breath as I watched the K-9 handlers tend to their dogs. “Is it possible she’s been underground too long for them to detect?”

Dawn shook her head and shot a thumb over her shoulder. “That big German shepherd over there is Geronimo. He once found a body that had been buried for twenty-five years. Nah, they did their best. Unfortunately, Sarah’s simply not—”

“Hold up,” I said, interrupting her. I’d suddenly had an idea. “The K-9 handler with Geronimo—isn’t she Deputy Gretchen Verdin?”

Dawn nodded. “Why?”

I smiled, hurrying toward the K-9 officers. I’d heard of Gretchen Verdin. She was from Chateau Parish and was three-quarters Chitimacha Indian. Stories of Gretchen and Geronimo doing impossible things had traveled up and down the bayous of Southeast Louisiana, and I was about to find out if they were for real or not.

“Deputy Verdin?” I called when I reached her.

Gretchen glanced up from where she’d been bent over offering Geronimo some water. She smiled and her olive complexion seemed to shine. “Yes, sir, I’m Gretchen.”

I looked down admiringly at Geronimo. He was a saddleback with a dark mask, and his coat was thick. He had to be close to 100 pounds. While his appearance was intimidating and impressive, I was only interested in one thing—his nose.

“Can he distinguish a dead dog from a dead human?” I asked.

“Sure.” She straightened to her full height and studied me curiously. “What do you have in mind?”

I pointed through the trees toward where we’d earlier found the faded cross. “There’s a fence and a cross where it looks like someone buried a dog years ago,” I said. “I was wondering if you might run Geronimo over that area to see if someone planted that girl’s body in the same space.”

Her eyes lit up. “Absolutely!”

I turned to wave Dawn over, but it was too late. She was already standing right behind me. I could see the excitement in her expression, and I winced inwardly. If it was another dead end, it was be a huge letdown for her, but we had to try.

After telling the other K-9 officers where we were heading, Dawn and I led the way through the woods until we reached the giant oak tree. I pointed to the field beyond it and the dilapidated board fence.

“You see that cross over there?” I asked.

Gretchen nodded.

“That’s where the dog’s supposed to be buried,” I explained. “According to the sign, his name was Spot.”

“Okay, I’ll see what we can do.” Gretchen studied the area ahead of them, and then they picked their way forward. She spoke softly to Geronimo and he kept his nose to the ground as they advanced on the area of the grave.

I felt Dawn sidle up next to me. She even reached for my hand, and I took it in mine. I could feel her trembling a little.

“God, I hope this is it, London,” she said in a low voice. “If not, I don’t know what to do or where to turn. I’m out of options.”

I only nodded. I’d figured out that there were times when a woman just wanted to say what was on her mind, and she didn’t need a man trying to fix her problems. I figured the moment before me was one of those times, and I resisted the urge to offer a suggestion.

I was smart enough to admit that I didn’t know a lot about women, but I was learning a little more with every passing day that Dawn and I spent together. Truth be told, I was hoping I would never fully figure her out. I loved that there was still some mystery to her. It kept things exciting and interesting. As for me, I was certain she could read me like a picture book.

Gretchen and Geronimo finally reached the broken gate. Geronimo hadn’t so much as lifted an ear in interest. I licked my dry lips and began to feel myself trembling in anticipation. So far, we didn’t have a shred of direct evidence to link Gary or Clay Hebert to the disappearance of Sarah Schofield. I was pretty positive they had killed Austin and Logan Snipes, but their motive had been all guesswork based upon a single moment captured in an old photograph. What if we were wrong?

I shuddered to think about it.

“What is it?” Dawn asked.

I only shook my head, not wanting to project my worries onto her. Besides, Gretchen and Geronimo were mere feet away from the cross and I didn’t want to say anything that might distract them. I was hoping for a bark or a yelp or some scratching, but none of that happened. Instead, Geronimo sniffed the ground beneath the cross, and then just plopped down on his belly, looking up at Gretchen as though to say he was tired and wanted to go home.

I let out a groan, and probably a few choice words, but changed my tune when I heard Gretchen say, “Good boy!”

“Wait…is that a good sign?” Dawn asked.

Gretchen’s expression was somber. “Good for us, but bad for whoever’s buried down there.”

CHAPTER 53

Wednesday, April 20

Dawn and I woke up at noon the next day. We got dressed, ate a quick breakfast, kissed, and headed in different directions. She was off to meet with a forensic anthropologist at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge, while I was heading to our department’s motor pool to figure out why our suspect’s truck was beeping. Ross White, the commander of the motor pool, had feared it was about to explode, so he’d evacuated his employees. Even from my kitchen where I stood to take the call, I knew that was an unnecessary action, and had told him so. He’d said they would wait in the front of the building until I could arrive and explain the noises.

On the previous evening, Deputy Gretchen Verdin’s announcement had prompted the sheriff to deploy the entire tactical team, but rather than arming ourselves with automatic AR-15s and bolt-action sniper rifles, we’d taken up axes and shovels. The fire department had also responded with tools and lights. As was often the case, they’d proven to be a valuable asset, and around midnight they’d helped us locate skeletal remains beneath the exact spot where Geronimo had alerted.

While there were obvious biological differences between male and female skeletons, none of us at the scene were forensic anthropologists, so we couldn’t say for sure if we’d found the skeleton of a man or a woman. However, the yellow bikini and leather bracelet had provided some compelling clues. Just as Sarah’s best friend had described, there were four small marble-looking beads on the bracelet, so we were fairly certain we’d located the remains of Dawn’s missing victim. We’d also discovered a clue as to her cause of death, thanks to a depressed fracture located at the back of her skull. The injury had obviously been a serious one, as several dime-sized pieces of bone had dislodged from the fracture.

It had been a somber moment for all of us involved, and we had all stopped working and remained silent for a long moment to pay our respects to the young woman whose life had been so brutally taken. If there had been just one silver lining to the whole grisly discovery, it had been that the bikini was still intact.

Although she’d been pleased to finally provide closure for Mrs. Schofield, it had been a very disappointing time for Dawn. She had been doing her job long enough to know Sarah was already dead, but she’d been secretly holding out a little hope that the girl might still be alive somewhere. She’d admitted as much to me after we’d gotten home and I’d begun cleaning my sniper rifle.

I had stopped what I’d been doing and listened. Again, I’d been smart enough to know she hadn’t been looking to me to solve all of the world’s problems. She’d simply needed an attentive ear, and I’d provided it.

As for me, I’d been happy to get my rifle back, and I’d cleaned and pampered her, as well as my AR-10, before taking my shower for bed. I’d been able to go to bed knowing that we’d brought closure to the murders of Austin and Logan Snipes. When Captain Wayne had returned my sniper rifle and AR-10, he’d brought word that the spent casings fired from Gary and Clay Hebert’s rifles had matched the spent casings we’d found at the scene of our murder. Additionally, a preliminary examination of Gary’s right boot indicated that he was presumptively the one who had kicked down the door to the Snipes’ home.

The only thing left to do was notify Deborah Snipes and wrap up the murder book, but first I had to deal with a truck that was beeping and striking fear into the feeble heart of the fleet commander.

I called Abraham once I pulled out of my driveway. “Hey, do you want to meet me at the motor pool? They’re saying the suspect’s truck is beeping. They think it’s a bomb.”

“What?” he sounded wide awake, although he had also only had a few hours of sleep. “Why’s it beeping?”

“Who knows?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe one of our bullets hit a sensor or something. I told Ross that he was the mechanic and he would know better than me, but he said it wasn’t normal and he wouldn’t go next to it until I deemed it safe.”

“Why didn’t he call the bomb squad?” Although I couldn’t see him, I knew Abraham was grinning.

“Right?”

“I’ll be there soon.”

I ended the call and then pressed Rachael’s name on my contact list. Beings that she was one of my snipers, she had shown up at the dig site, and Detective Karla Boudreaux had been left alone with Deborah Snipes at the hospital.

“Did you hear from Karla?” I asked.

“Yeah, she went in at two o’clock,” she said. “She should be back at the hospital now. I’m heading that way myself. Are we ready to tell Mrs. Snipes that her brothers are dead?”

“How is she?”

“Karla said she was still sedated when she left, but they were supposed to cut back on her meds this morning,” she explained. “They want to release her later today, but she’ll need to stay with someone. I don’t know if her friend will allow her back, so we’ll either have to find another friend or family member.”

“Has anyone been in contact with her sister?” I asked. “The one who lives in California?”

“I haven’t spoken with her,” said Rachael. “I think Mrs. Snipes called her yesterday before she went berserk, but I’m not positive.”

I was thoughtful as I drove. It was a little cloudy, which kept the temperatures in the mid-seventies, and I was grateful for that. I heard a whistling sound and glanced over at one of the bullet holes in my front passenger door. I wondered briefly if I could get the fleet manager to have a look at it, and then turned my attention back to Rachael’s question.

“Look, why don’t you wait until I come out there to the hospital?” I finally said. “I’m heading to the motor pool right now to look at Clay’s truck. It seems it’s beeping.”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” I chuckled. “They think it’s set to explode or some such nonsense. I’m sure one of our bullets hit a sensor or something. If we can’t figure it out, we’ll have to wait until Warren and Melvin get there to dig out all of the projectiles.”

Rachael was quiet for a long moment.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I wanted to be on that cane road with you battling it out.”

“I know you did, and I appreciate it.” I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit for complaining about her babysitting assignment, but that wasn’t in her nature. “Look, you need to know that you were very instrumental in solving this case. The information you got from Mrs. Snipes pointed us in directions that we wouldn’t have otherwise known to pursue. You helped a lot.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind being there,” she said. “It’s just that I felt like a caged lion when I started hearing calls over the radio about the shootout. If something would’ve happened to y’all while I was sitting on my ass in the hospital, I…I don’t know if I would’ve been able to live with myself.”

Rachael had never shied away from a fight, and I liked that about her. Not only was she meticulous, driven, and patient, she was also perceptive and decisive, and she didn’t have an arrogant bone in her body. All of those qualities were suited for sniper work, but there was so much more to her. Her marksmanship skills were nearly unmatched, and she was an expert in fieldcraft and stalking. Two years and three months earlier, I had sent her to an FBI sniper school and she’d outperformed everyone in attendance. She’d even taken the Top Shooter Award, beating out snipers from the U.S. Marshal’s Special Operation Group, the ATF, the U.S. Marines, and a dozen other police departments and sheriff’s offices from around the country. Her first taste of action had come four months later, when the Vice President of the United States had paid a visit to Beacher, Louisiana. She had been instrumental in saving lives that day, and I knew she would’ve been able to help us end the situation with Gary and Clay Hebert a lot sooner had she been there with her rifle.

“I wish you would’ve been there, too,” I said. “I appreciate everything you do.”

She thanked me, and then we spoke briefly about our next training session before ending the conversation when I arrived at the motor pool. I slipped my cell phone in my pocket and opened my door, wondering what I would find inside.

CHAPTER 54

The massive bay area where the mechanics did their work was usually bustling with activity at that time of the morning, but it was empty when I walked through the large garage door. It looked like a ghost town. I stood there surveying the interior until I located the truck against a far wall.

I was about to head in that direction when a vehicle pulled up behind me. I turned to see Abraham stepping out of his unit.

“Do I need a bomb suit?” he joked, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“Shit, judging by the way they’re acting”—I shot a thumb toward the few employees who were peering out at us from the reinforced glass of the attached office space—“we should be sending in one of those wireless robots.”

I strode across the concrete, taking in the familiar smells of vehicle oil and grease. Abraham wasted no time in catching up to me, and we both approached the damaged truck with reckless abandon, for we both knew that the vehicle posed no danger.

We stopped when we reached the truck and I felt in my back pocket for some latex gloves. I groaned when I realized I’d forgotten to grab some earlier when I’d left the house. I tried to always make it a practice to keep at least a pair or two in my back pocket, because I never knew when I might need them.

“I’ve got you,” Abraham said, handling me a pair of the thick purple gloves we used for crime scenes.

I mumbled a thanks. My ears were still ringing a little from the gunfight of the previous day, so I leaned my head into the open driver’s side window to try and hear better.

After a few long seconds, I glanced over at Abraham, who had made his way to the passenger side door.

“Do you hear anything?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing at all.”

I turned my head so my opposite ear was aimed inside the vehicle and waited a few seconds longer. I was about to say that they were making things up when I suddenly heard a tiny chirping sound.

“There it is!” Abraham said, pointing toward the dash. “It’s coming from somewhere in there.”

I opened the driver’s door and stuck my head and shoulders inside the cab, studying the front floorboard and dash. It was an older model vehicle, from at least twenty years earlier, and it was in rough shape. The rubber surface of the steering wheel was peeled away in places. There were multiple tears in both seats. The cover for the center console was cracked. One of the a/c vents was missing. The fan knob was gone. There was an empty slot where a CD player used to be. The plastic that covered the gauge facing was cracked.

“Damn, this truck is a piece of shit,” I muttered as I strained my ears to hear the chirping sound again. “I’m surprised they were able to get it running.”

Abraham nodded, his head cocked so his ear was pointing toward the dashboard. We both stood motionless for another thirty seconds or so when the chirp sounded again.

Dee, dee, deep!

I touched the instrument panel, pushing and tugging on everything I could get my hands on. “You’re right, Abe,” I said. “It’s definitely coming from in here.”

“Yeah, but where?” He was pulling on things on his side, too. He opened the glove compartment and the ashtray, but they were cluttered with junk, none of which made noise.

While Abraham continued to try to pull the interior apart, I headed for my truck to retrieve my flashlight. The trustees and motor pool personnel still had their curious faces plastered against the window, watching. Stifling a grin, I suddenly gave a frantic wave of my hands for them to back away. I almost choked on my tongue when they whirled around and raced off, nearly trampling each other as they squeezed through the door and deeper into the building.

I was still laughing when I returned to the truck.

“I heard it again,” Abraham said, so intent on his work that he hadn’t noticed the prank I’d pulled on the motor pool staff. “It’s behind the radio somewhere. Hell, maybe it is the radio. Maybe something’s shorted out.”

I nodded as I aimed the beam of the flashlight into each of the vents, under the dash, over the dash, and then, finally, into the slot where the CD player was missing. It was there that I stopped and sucked in my breath.

“Hey, it’s in here!” I tried to reach through the slot to grab the small black object that clearly didn’t belong there, but my hand was too big. Abraham’s hands were a little slimmer, but they wouldn’t fit either. I backed out of the truck and walked to the nearest mechanic’s station. After searching through four or five tool drawers, I finally found a claw tool and hurried back to the truck.

Once there, I asked Abraham to hold the light while I inserted the tool into the opening. Once the claws were around the object, I squeezed the grip and lifted it from the corner where it was resting. It chirped again as I pulled it from the hole, and my suspicions were confirmed once it was out in the opening—it was a flip-top cell phone.

“Now I know why we couldn’t find their phone,” Abraham said with a grunt. He then whistled and pointed to the console. “I bet it was right there when they crashed, and the jolt sent it flying through that hole!”

“Yep,” I said, opening the phone as I talked, “and when the battery began to drain it started chirping.”

“It looks like a burner,” Abraham said. “There’s no way that’s their real one. I’ve seen homeless people with better phones than that.”

I nodded my agreement and said a silent prayer that it was not pass-protected. It wasn’t.

“Let’s see what they’ve been up to,” I mumbled, pushing the buttons to access the contacts. Abraham was craning his neck to see the screen, so I tilted it where he could see what I was doing. I frowned. There were no stored numbers, no photos, no apps…nothing. I moved to the call log, but it was empty. “What the hell?”

“Check the text messages,” Abraham suggested. “I arrested this drug dealer once who said he never talks on his cell phone. He believes the government is listening to everything we say, so he communicates by text and he deletes every message right after he sends it.”

That made sense, so I pressed the text icon. “Shit, you’re right! There’s one text thread here. Do you recognize this number?”

I turned the screen so Abraham could see. He only shrugged, so I pressed the link to the thread and scrolled up. There were only seven messages. I scowled when I read the first message, which was sent by one of the brothers to the unidentified number a week earlier. It was a simple, one word message.

The unidentified number didn’t respond until Sunday night, and that one really confused me. The next one chilled me to the bone. I looked up at Abraham. “Do you know what this means?”

His mouth and eyes were wide. He nodded. “I know exactly what it means.”

CHAPTER 55

Two hours later…

I looked at Rachael. “You ready?”

She tucked a lock of dirty blonde hair behind her ear, took a breath, and nodded. She turned and led the way up the hall, with Abraham and me trailing behind her. She stopped outside the door and took another breath. I knew she was trying to keep her anger in check. I’d never seen her like that. Finally, without knocking, she twisted the knob and pushed open the door.

I hit the record button on my digital recorder and was looking over Rachael’s shoulder when we entered. I saw Deborah Snipes look up from the food on her tray and smile when she saw Rachael. “Detective Bowler, how are you—”

“Cut the shit, Deborah,” Rachael said vehemently. “I know what you did.”

Deborah’s eyes widened as she slowly scanned our faces. I didn’t know how perceptive she was, but it wasn’t hard to read the disgust on our faces.

“What…what’s the meaning of this?” she asked, in one last feeble attempt to play ignorant. “Why are you using that language with me? I…I want to see your sheriff.”

Rachael sneered as she pulled out a pair of handcuffs and approached the hospital bed. She jerked Deborah’s left wrist toward the bed railing, pressed one of the single strands against the woman’s wrist, and ratcheted it in place. She then attached the other end to the bed railing.

“Deborah Snipes,” she began in an ominous tone, “you’re under arrest for principal to first degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and solicitation for murder. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have a right not to incriminate yourself. You cannot be required to be—”

“What in the hell is going on here?” Deborah screamed, jerking her arm violently against the handcuff. “Take this thing off of me this instance, or I’ll sue the shit out of you and everyone in your department!”

“Your best chance of coming out of this alive,” Rachael said slowly, “is to show some remorse and explain why you did what you did.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Deborah said, her eyes flashing. “Is this how you assholes treat your victims? You handcuff them and make false accusations about them? Is that how you little backwoods cops work?”

After advising Deborah fully of her Miranda rights, Rachael calmly pulled the evidence bag that contained Clay Hebert’s burner phone from her pocket, and asked, “Do you recognize this?”

“I’ve never seen that thing in my life.”

“That’s probably true,” Rachael said, “but you’ll recognize the number, because you texted it five times in the past week.”

Deborah’s face was blank as Rachael read off the number to the burner phone from the arrest affidavit in her hand, but I saw the color start to fade from her cheeks as Rachael read the messages that had been sent back and forth.

“Saturday, April 9, 12:08 AM, Clay: here

“Saturday, April 9, 12:22 AM, Deborah: Sit tight. I’ll let you know when.

“Sunday, April 17, 9:38 PM, Deborah: I’m upstairs, he’s in his recliner in living room, come now. Make sure to shoot up my recliner too. It needs to look like they wanted both of us gone.

“Monday, April 18, 3:11 AM, Deborah: You bastard! You killed my only child!

“Monday, April 18, 3:13 AM, Clay: you said y’all were alone!!!

“Monday, April 18, 3:14 AM, Deborah: He wasn’t supposed to be there. Oh, my God, what have we done???

“Tuesday, April 19, 11:17 AM, Deborah: The cops know y’all did it! Get the hell out of there now!”

Rachael looked up from the affidavit. “You see how this looks, don’t you, Deborah?”

The woman stammered for a few seconds, but then quickly regained her composure. “You’ve got it all wrong,” she said with a sneer. “I told them to come visit. I had no idea they were planning to kill my son and my husband. They wanted the land and they wanted us out of the way. That’s all there is to it.”

“If that’s true, why would you send a message warning that we were on to them?” Rachael challenged. “You sent this message right after I told you that they were responsible for killing your husband and son. You went crazy so you could lock yourself away in the closet and send the message. In fact, the reason you broke your cell phone while you were in the closet was so we wouldn’t see the message you’d sent. I thought it was odd that you’d destroy the phone you’d been playing on most of the day. It just didn’t make sense.”

“Oh, my lawyer’s gonna have a field day with you,” Deborah said through clenched teeth.

“Are you requesting a lawyer?” Rachael asked.

While I was expressionless on the outside, I was holding my breath on the inside. If Deborah requested a lawyer, the interview would be over, and we would never know what had really happened to Sarah Schofield. I had faith in Rachael. I knew she’d be able to get Deborah to tell what she knew, but that was only if she could keep the woman talking. Once she decided to lawyer up, we were done.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Deborah hissed. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

I silently let out the breath I’d been holding, relieved that she would keep talking.

CHAPTER 56

Continuing her interview of Deborah Snipes, Rachael turned to look at the television hanging on the wall. “Did you see the news from earlier?”

Deborah glanced curiously at the TV and then back at Rachael. “What?”

“Yeah, so, your brothers didn’t make it out of town.” Rachael pulled up a chair and took a seat next to the bed. “What would you say if I told you they got in a shootout with the cops?”

Deborah only blinked.

“Would it surprise you to learn that Gary was just down the hall in the ICU?” Rachael continued. “And would it also surprise you to learn that Clay was at the detective bureau singing his heart out, and putting everything on you?”

“That’s a lie!”

“Is it now?” Rachael turned and extended a hand to me. I dug in the file folder tucked under my arm and removed a printed photo of Sarah Schofield’s skeletal remains. “If it’s all a lie, then how’d we know about the body you buried on your property twenty-one years ago?”

Deborah gasped out loud when she saw the bones wearing the yellow bikini. Had she not been lying down, she surely would’ve fallen to the floor.

“If Clay wasn’t talking to our detectives, then how’d we know that you bashed in this poor girl’s skull?” Rachael pressed. “How would we know that her name was Sarah Schofield and you killed her because you were jealous of her? How would we know that you got your brothers to murder Austin to keep him from selling the property and possibly exposing your murderous secret?”

“That...that’s not true!” Deborah stammered some more. “I…I didn’t kill her!”

I smiled inwardly. Although we were allowed to lie to suspects to illicit confessions, what Rachael had done was something different. She had never said that Clay was talking to our detectives. Instead, she had merely asked Deborah if it would’ve surprised her to learn that Clay was singing his heart out. Truth be told, it would’ve surprised all of us, because we knew for a fact that his mangled body was resting on a slab at the coroner’s office.

“Imagine if you were me and you had Clay Hebert sitting over here”—Rachael lifted her left hand—“cooperating with detectives and leading them to physical evidence, while over here”—she lifted her right hand—“you had Deborah Snipes, who was lying her ass off and not offering up any proof as to what she was saying. Who would you believe?”

Deborah was breathing hard and staring desperately around. “But…but I’m not lying. I didn’t kill that girl.”

“If not you, then who?”

“It was Clay and Gary and…and that boy from down the bayou.” She snapped her fingers. “What’s his name? Oh, he was Mr. Billiot’s grandson. I can’t remember his name.”

“Mark Blanchard, Jr.?” Rachael offered.

“Yes! That’s it!” Deborah’s expression hardened. “If you put me face-to-face with Clay, I’ll make that little prick admit what really happened. I was down from Alaska visiting my parents for the summer and they had gone to the beach for Spring Break. I’d been telling them that they were too old to be hanging with those high school kids, but they never listened. Well, they went and did it that night.”

“I don’t know,” Rachael said skeptically. “I don’t see what reason Clay would have to lie at this point.”

Rather than asking Deborah to continue, Rachael had decided to dismiss what the woman had said in an attempt to compel her to offer more information. It worked like a charm.

“He’s lying to save his own ass!” Deborah yelled. “Clay and Gary got in the boat with Mark and that girl, and they all went for a ride in the Gulf. The girl was sweet on Mark, but Clay made a pass at her and began talking about them having a gangbang or something. The girl wasn’t down like that, and she told Mark to bring her back to her friends. Mark, he turned the boat around and was heading back to land, but Clay wouldn’t be denied. He kept talking shit to the girl and he even grabbed her arm to pull her on his lap, saying they were all gonna have a turn with her. Gary grabbed her other arm and tried to force her between them. Mark tried to intervene, but they slapped him around and told him they’d throw him overboard if he didn’t cut it out.”

Deborah paused for a breath. “Well, they played tug of war, with Clay trying to kiss the girl, but she was a fighter, that’s for sure. She jerked her arms away from both of them. She slipped and fell backward pretty hard. Gary said she hit her head on one of the cleats on the side of the boat, but Clay thought she hit it on the battery. They said she started having a seizure right away, and that she eventually went unconscious. They made Mark bring them to Clay’s truck, and they loaded the girl in the bed.”

Deborah paused for a long moment, and I thought she would stop talking, but she didn’t. Instead, it looked like she was feeling better and better the more she talked, as though she were glad to have the weight lifted off of her chest.

“I was sleeping when they drove up to the house,” she continued. “The damned exhaust on Clay’s truck woke me up. I was trying to go back to sleep when him and Gary came rushing into my room, whispering that there was a dead body in the back of their truck and they didn’t know what to do about it. I…I went outside with them and looked at the girl…”

“Was she dead?” Rachael asked when Deborah let her voice trail off and just lay there staring at the ceiling.

“Yes,” she said. “I mean, I’m pretty sure. She wasn’t moving, and I didn’t see her chest rising and falling. I…look, I didn’t kill her. She was already dead. I just suggested that we bury her in the back of the property, where my dad buried our family dog.”

“Why would you want to bury her with the dog?” Rachael asked.

“There were too many roots in the woods, so we couldn’t dig a grave there,” Deborah explained, “and Spot’s grave was the only place my dad wouldn’t run his plow or tiller. I thought it would be a safe place to hide the body.”

Rachael nodded for her to continue.

“Anyway, I went back there with them in Clay’s truck and I watched them dig up Spot and then put the girl underneath him. When they were done, we cleaned out the back of Clay’s truck, because she had bled a good bit from her head. I told Clay he could never get rid of his truck, because you could never wash blood away, and if he sold it, someone might find the blood and turn him in. After that, I told them to never talk about it again. I told them to just pretend it never happened and go on about their lives.”

I growled under my breath. While Clay’s actions had led to Sarah’s killing and Deborah had gotten involved after the fact, she was no better than her brothers. The cold and calculating manner in which she’d taken charge of that situation revealed a lot about her character.

“Were you worried that Mark would talk?” Rachael asked when Deborah had stopped speaking.

“I was a little worried at first,” Deborah admitted. “Clay and Gary had convinced him that they would deny everything and say that Mark was the one who killed her in his boat. They told him the police would search the boat and find her blood in it, and it would be all over for him. They told him it would be two of them against him and he would lose in court. They also told him that his dad would go to jail because the girl was killed in his dad’s boat.”

Rachael pursed her lips. “You said you were worried at first. Was there a time when you weren’t worried anymore?”

“Yeah,” she said with a nod. “When Mark killed himself. It was only then that I could rest easy.”

I could almost feel Rachael bristle, but she maintained her cool. “So, what was the real reason you and your husband bought your dad’s property from the bank?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Deborah asked with a snort. “I mean, do I have to spell it out for you? Are you that dense?”

“I want to hear you say it,” Rachael said, ignoring Deborah’s snide remarks.

“We bought it because that was the only way we could keep someone from finding out about Murderfield.”

“Murderfield?” Rachael asked.

Deborah winced. “That’s what the boys called it. I…I don’t call it that.”

Not impressed, Rachael told her to continue.

“Austin promised me he’d never sell the property,” she said, “but after my mom and dad died, he started talking about getting rid of everything piece by piece, and the first section he wanted to sell was Murder—”

She clamped her mouth shut, took a breath, and then continued. “Um, I mean the first section he wanted to sell was the field where Spot was buried. I reminded him that he’d promised to keep it in the family, but he said we needed the money. We argued a lot in the last few weeks about it, but he wouldn’t listen to me. I had no choice. I had to do something to stop him. Otherwise, someone would’ve started digging back there one day and they would’ve found that girl. Our worlds would’ve been destroyed.”

Rachael asked a few more follow-up questions, getting additional details from Deborah about her plan to murder her husband. It seemed that she and her brothers had talked extensively about it on their landline phones. Deborah had insisted that they lie to their wives about where they were going, and that they leave their cell phones at home.

“As long as the cops couldn’t put them here through their cell phones, I thought we could get away with it,” she explained. “I knew about the fights with Francis Boyd, and I thought for sure y’all would arrest him right away.”

“Was it your idea for Clay to get a burner phone?” Rachael asked. “I mean, you planned everything else, so I’m guessing you thought of that, too.”

Deborah nodded.

Rachael asked a few more questions, but didn’t get much more than she already had. She glanced at me and Abraham. We both shook our heads. She was about to end the interview when Deborah cleared her throat and spoke up.

“I knew we would face judgment someday for what we’d done,” she said in a monotone voice, “but I didn’t realize how much I would have to suffer. I didn’t even kill her, and it was my son who got taken. That just doesn’t seem fair, you know? Why couldn’t it be one of Clay’s kids or Gary’s kids who died? I mean, karma should’ve come for them, right?”

I understood her being distraught over her son’s murder, but I couldn’t believe she was cold enough to wish that evil on her brothers’ children. Disgusted, I turned toward the door, where I could see two corrections officers through the glass. Rachael had called the jail after we’d left the judge’s office earlier and requested that they send someone to transport Deborah Snipes to the detention center. Their timing was exceptional.

Rachael started to follow Abraham and me out the door, but suddenly stopped.

“Oh, and Mrs. Snipes,” she said as an afterthought, “I hate to have to inform you of this, but your brothers, Clay and Gary Hebert, they were killed in a gun battle with police yesterday afternoon. Thankfully, no officers were hurt during the exchange of gunfire.”

Deborah Snipes’ head snapped around, her eyes bulged out, and she jerked to a seated position as though a demon had taken possession of her body. She opened her mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream so long and shrill that I was certain she would suffer a brain aneurism and drop dead on the spot.

CHAPTER 57

Saturday, June 25

Riverbend Farms, Tellico Plains, Tennessee

It was the start of a beautiful morning, with the distant mountains just beginning to take shape against the ever brightening sky, as I stood in the soft grass beneath a thick wooden canopy waiting for my bride to appear. Finally, despite making a four-day trip to Oklahoma, spending six weeks preparing a clear, concise, and comprehensive investigative file that spanned twenty-one years and involved two cases and dozens of subjects, partaking in a dozen meetings with the district attorney’s office, and providing lengthy grand jury testimony just days earlier, Dawn and I had managed to show up to our own wedding.

While a district attorney could indict a peanut butter and banana sandwich, Ryder Crawford was truly a man of justice. He’d once walked into the middle of one of his assistant’s trials and dropped the charges on the spot because he’d received information that the defendant was innocent. On more than one occasion he had refused to accept charges against individuals when he discovered that the motivations behind them were political. He didn’t care if someone was dirt poor or stinking rich, everyone received the same treatment in his office. Thus, when the grand jury had returned an indictment against Deborah Snipes for principal to first degree murder and criminal conspiracy in the murders of her husband and son, and accessory after the fact to second degree murder as it related to Sarah Schofield’s death, we knew the chances of her ever walking free again were next to impossible.

The charges against Deborah relating to the murders of Austin and Logan had been straightforward, but the case involving Sarah’s death had been a bit more complicated. First, we’d had to establish that the skeletal remains were in fact those of our victim. So, when Dawn and I had driven to Oklahoma to meet face-to-face with her family and friends and answer all of their questions, we had asked some questions of our own. Namely, what was the name of her dentist, and had she ever broken any bones?

We had gotten lucky on both fronts. Having been a star cheerleader for her middle school and then high school, and with cheerleading being arguably one of the more dangerous of sports, she had suffered more than her share of injuries. During her seven years of cheer, she had suffered a concussion, two sprained ankles, bruised ribs, a broken wrist, a stress fracture to two vertebrae, and a broken finger. Most of her medical records were unattainable, but her mother had kept the film from the last MRI and X-rays that had been taken of her back relating to an injury she’d sustained early in her senior year. Mrs. Schofield had been able to provide them to us for comparison against the skeletal remains we’d found.

“I just felt like they were the last evidence of her existence that I had,” said Mrs. Schofield when she’d handed us the oversized envelope that held the film, “and I couldn’t get rid of them.”

Not wanting to separate the mother from her film for too long, we’d made arrangements with a local hospital to copy the film and forward them to LSU’s anthropology department, and we’d been able to promptly return them to Mrs. Schofield.

In addition to her fractured bones, Sarah had broken a tooth during her sophomore year, and Mrs. Schofield had pointed us in the direction of her childhood dentist, Betsy Moore. Thankfully, Dr. Moore had heard about the disappearance when it had happened, and she’d decided to retain Sarah’s records and film long past the ten-year policy of her office. In addition to the broken tooth, we’d learned that Sarah had also had a root canal and braces, so her mouth was well-documented.

“I was hoping I’d never have to pull these out, because it would mean they had found a body,” Dr. Moore had said somberly before turning the records over to Dawn. “I’ve never met another young woman as polite, respectful, and tough as Sarah. I know she didn’t go down without a fight, and I hope you punish the people responsible for this as severely as you can. She didn’t deserve whatever they did to her.”

Armed with the records, we had left Oklahoma and driven straight to Baton Rouge, turning the dental records over to the anthropologist working on Sarah’s case. We would have to wait a full month to get the news, but it had been worth it—they had been able to positively identify the remains as Sarah Schofield.

The next challenge had been to take the facts and circumstances from our case and compare them to the elements of the various murder statutes in order to determine which charge would be the most appropriate to file against Deborah Snipes. In most cases, one would need to possess a specific intent to kill or inflict great bodily harm to be convicted of second degree murder. However, a separate section defined second degree murder as, “…the killing of a human being when the offender was engaged in the perpetration or attempted perpetration of aggravated rape or forcible rape, and he had no intent to kill or inflict great bodily harm.”

According to Deborah Snipes, her brothers had tried to force themselves on Sarah, and Sarah had died during the struggle. Thus, had the brothers lived, they could’ve been charged with second degree murder. Since Deborah had helped them cover up that crime, we had arrested her for accessory after the fact in relation to her involvement in the cover-up of Sarah’s murder. The district attorney’s office had agreed with our assessment, and so had the grand jury.

Once we’d relayed the results of the grand jury proceedings via conference call to Mrs. Schofield, she had seemed satisfied. The fact that the main perpetrators had been killed during a confrontation with police had pleased her immensely when Dawn had relayed that information to her during our visit to Oklahoma.

We had also located Sarah’s best friend working at a hospital in a small town north of Tulsa, and Dawn had returned the pictures she’d taken so many years earlier. The now-grown woman had cried hysterically when she’d looked through the pictures, and I could tell she had suffered a wound that would never heal, no matter how much time and distance she put between herself and the disappearance.

Although Dawn and I had been able to put the case behind us, we hadn’t been able to put Sarah Schofield out of our minds, and we’d left Louisiana with heavy hearts, even though we were heading for the happiest day of our lives to that point.

We had arrived in Tellico Plains the previous morning and eaten breakfast at a place in town called Tellico Grains Bakery. Our wedding party and family had followed us from Louisiana, and we’d all made it to the mountains without incident, even my pépère and mémère, who had raised me after my mom and dad died, and who had insisted on driving their own vehicle. They’d kept up, and for that I was grateful and relieved.

After sightseeing around town for a couple of hours, we’d headed for the event location, where we’d toured the property and then later had a rehearsal lunch before heading to the two resort cabins we’d rented—one for Dawn’s family and her wedding party, and the other for my family and my wedding party. That was where Dawn and I had separated for the night, and I hadn’t seen her since.

As I stood there waiting for my bride to appear from the darkness of the barn, my heart pounded like it had the first time I’d put my crosshairs on a man’s face. I could feel sweat forming on my palms. Although I didn’t display it outwardly, my insides were fidgety.

“You’ve got this, London,” whispered Jerry Allemand, my best man who stood nearby. “Y’all both want the same thing.”

I nodded and glanced toward the distant mountains. Dawn had wanted a sunrise wedding, and a sunrise wedding was what she would get. At the moment, though, I felt like the sun was taking its sweet old time climbing up out of bed, and for the first time in my life, I was starting to feel unsteady on my feet.

As I studied the dark peaks of the mountains against the cracking dawn, a chill suddenly reverberated up and down my spine. What if a sniper was hiding amongst the trees with the intention of dropping me or someone in my wedding party? Since the sun would be in my eyes, I would be at a disadvantage. I glanced around at all the relaxed and unsuspecting faces of our guests and wedding party, and I felt vulnerable. I was about to lean toward Jerry and tell him I thought it was a bad idea to have the wedding out in the open, but then the music began and that was when I saw her.

Dawn, wearing the most beautiful wedding dress I’d ever seen, glided from the barn and began the long walk toward me, her dad proudly holding on to one of her arms. As my eyes met hers across the distance that separated us, my heart swelled with emotion, and every troubling thought I’d had simply floated on the breeze like the smoke on the faraway mountains.

Next, check out Bourg’s Clint Wolf Mystery Series!

Click here to visit BJ Bourg’s website and join his mailing list.

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But Not Forgotten

But Not Forgiven

But Not Forsaken

But Not Forever

But Not For Naught

But Not Forbidden

But Not Forlorn

But Not Formidable

But Not For Love

But Not Forborne

But Not Forewarned

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But Not For Blood

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But Not Foregathered

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But Not Foretold

But Not Forfeited

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BJ Bourg is a former professional boxer and a lifelong martial artist who hails from the swamps of Louisiana. A thirty-year veteran of law enforcement, he has worked as a patrol cop, a detective, a detective sergeant, a police academy instructor, and the chief investigator for a district attorney’s office. He has successfully investigated all types of felony cases and has trained hundreds of law enforcement officers in self-defense, firearms, criminal operations, and many other areas. He retired in October of 2020 and is now a fulltime writer.

Throughout his career, Bourg has served on many specialized units such as SWAT, Honor Guard, the Explosives Search Team, and the Homicide Response Team. He founded his agency’s sniper program and served as its leader and instructor for nearly a decade. A graduate of seven basic and advanced sniper schools, he deployed as the primary sniper on dozens of call-outs, including barricaded subjects, hostage rescue operations, and fugitive apprehensions. He also served as the sniper instructor for the 2001 Louisiana Tactical Police Officers Association’s Conference.

Bourg has been the recipient of numerous awards, including Top Shooter at an FBI Sniper School, the Distinguished Service Medal, and Certificates of Commendation for his work as a homicide detective. He is a public speaker and has also written dozens of articles for law enforcement magazines, covering a wide range of topics such as defensive tactics, sniper deployment, suspect interrogation, report writing, and more. Above all else, he is a father and a husband, and the highlight of his life is spending time with his beautiful wife, wonderful children, grandson, and German shepherds.

Originally from Mathews, Louisiana, he now proudly calls Tellico Plains, Tennessee his home.