Authors: Jeff Abbott
The shrimper was a thin, grizzled Vietnamese man named Minh Nguyen, and he was unusually calm, considering the catch in his
illegal nets – the partial remains of Heather Farrell. The corpse, gutted and slashed, had been collected for autopsy.
‘I can tell you the cause of death. A freaking nutcase,’ the mortuary service driver told Claudia as he and his partner loaded
the body bag into the transport, in the bright gleam of the harbor’s mercury lights. After one good look at Heather’s sad
remnants Claudia vomited, leaning against a pier piling and spewing into the greenish gray water. She had never seen such
butchery.
You looked for her, you didn’t find her. You should have made her stay in a cell, you failed that poor girl. Please let her
not have suffered.
Claudia staggered away from the pier’s end, wiping her mouth, hoping the others wouldn’t say a word to her. Two other cops
had puked, but they were both rookies.
Mr Nguyen, the shrimper, smoked a bummed cigarette while he repeated the story to the four officers ringed around the table.
He was unflappable and precise about his account, and Claudia wondered if he had seen far worse in his life. The man was in
his fifties, certainly old enough to have witnessed the horrors of war in his native land. Besides Claudia and Delford there
was an investigator from the Encina County Sheriff’s Department and a ranger from Parks and Wildlife, both of whom would be
interested in any possible crime committed on the waters of St Leo Bay.
Mr Nguyen was trawling on the edge of the bay when
his net tangled. Night shrimping was against the law, but no one was debating with him about this at this point. A heaviness
caught in one of the sleds had kept the netted shrimp from tumbling free, and when he inspected it he had found the girl’s
body, her eyes staring up at him from beneath a mask of wriggling shrimp.
It was nearly midnight when Claudia went out for a breath of fresh air. From the police station stoop she could see the curving
arc of Port Leo Beach Park aglow in the streetlights, the statue of stern Saint Leo watching over the bay. Autumn moonlight
made the small waves gleam. She watched a family, tourists, amble from one of the restaurants down near the water’s edge toward
the Colonel James House Bed and Breakfast. They seemed uneager to surrender the day. One of the family was a teenage girl,
and she shyly waved at Claudia, sitting on the steps. Claudia waved back.
Jesus, Heather was someone’s daughter just like that girl. She had told Delford she would call the girl’s family in Lubbock
and she had, but there was only an answering machine. The parents, perhaps out late, dining, wining. Not looking for their
daughter, no, sir. What did people do who had runaway children? Did their lives resume with faked normalcy? She would keep
calling. She heard footsteps behind her and Delford appeared.
He still looked gaunt and pale. ‘We’re gonna find this fucker, Claudia. Jesus. You expect shit like this in Houston, not here.’
He mopped his brow and she noticed the dark circles underneath his uniform’s sleeves. He was sweating as though fevered. ‘I
thought you were taking care of this girl.’
Her throat worked. ‘I … she didn’t want help. She didn’t want protection. I tried.’
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Christ. Try harder next time.’
Silence fell between them, the soft sound of the waves,
boats creaking in the harbor a block away. Claudia’s heart hammered in her chest.
‘Marcy Ballew,’ Delford finally said. ‘Maybe this is what happened to her?’
‘I don’t know,’ Claudia said. She told him about her research. ‘I’m still waiting to hear back from Laredo and Brownsville
on their missing-persons cases.’
‘We got a missing girl and we got a butchered girl. And the way Farrell was killed, Jesus. He took out her organs.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ she cautioned. ‘Marcy Ballew could be sitting on a beach in California for all we know.
And I think that this might have more to do with Pete Hubble’s death. For God’s sakes, once it gets out that the girl who
found him is dead herself … it’s an awful stretch for coincidence, Delford. Surely you see that.’
He blanched. ‘She’s a transient. They’re always easy targets. Sure could be a coincidence.’
‘Maybe she saw something she wasn’t supposed to.’
‘Pete Hubble committed suicide. There was nothing for her to see. Hell, she was prone to amble at night. She just might have
walked herself into some new trouble.’
Claudia kept her voice low. ‘I’m not going to argue with you, because it seems pointless. But this is not like you, Delford.
Bullying me. Sticking your hand in the middle of investigations. Just wait until the press learns the girl who found Pete
Hubble is gutted and sliced up in the bay. You tell people there’s no connection, you’re gonna be looking for a new job. Why
are you fighting me every step of the way?’ She felt sick, breathless.
Delford Spires sank onto the steps next to her. All the bluster from before was gone, and she saw his hands tremble as he
slowly rubbed his jawline.
‘Whit Mosley believes – and I’m not sure how, since I
can’t get in touch with him – Pete Hubble got half a million in cash from Junior Deloache. The money’s gone. There’s no trace
of it in Pete’s account. Pete’s dead. Now Heather’s dead. I think this missing money is at the heart of this, Delford.’
He blinked at her. ‘Jesus Christ, this’ll kill Lucinda.’
Claudia cared very little for Lucinda Hubble’s feelings at the moment. ‘It’s already killed Pete and Heather.’
‘You think the mob cut up that little girl and dumped her?’
‘Yes, I do. At least based on what I know now. We need to find Deloache.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll talk to him.’
‘You talk to Eddie yet?’
‘Eddie’s not answering my calls,’ Delford said. ‘I’m gonna go over to his house and see what’s up.’ He turned and headed back
toward the station.
Claudia went back inside to the interrogation room. A slip of paper from the girl’s jeans was there, secure in an evidence
bag. Claudia stared at the phone number that had been tucked in the girl’s wallet. It was blurred from the water but still
readable. Faith Hubble’s home phone. Maybe Faith had offered to help the girl, given that she’d had the trauma of finding
Pete’s body. Right. Faith Hubble, good Samaritan.
She turned to the worn, grass-stained duffel. After Heather’s body had been found. Patrolman Fox and another officer immediately
combed her hangout. Little Mischief Beach, for information. A couple of girls puffing cigs on the beach, transients, knew
Heather and when told of her fate, shattered into tears. One produced a duffel bag within ten minutes. They thought Heather
had just blown town and you know, they could sure use her stuff if she didn’t need it. They’d last seen her on Wednesday night.
Claudia sorted through the contents. A pair of jeans, crusty with sand. A pair of panties. She examined the manufacturer and
the size: on both counts, the same as the panties found at Pete’s death scene. Claudia let out a long breath. She’d had Heather
show that she had underwear on, but she’d been given a bathroom break before and had her duffel with her. She could have changed
into a pair of fresh panties before Claudia asked. Maybe she was messing around with Pete Hubble and suddenly had to get dressed
in a hurry.
Yeah, if she killed Pete. Or if she was with Pete when he was killed.
She called the crime lab in Corpus and asked them to compare any pubic hairs found in the panties in Pete’s case with Heather
Farrell’s pubic hairs, once they had processed her body. She had a sick feeling that there would be a match.
She pawed, through the duffel bag. Two sweaters, threadbare, a couple of T-shirts with Port Leo themes, one for the Port Leo
varsity swim team. A small stash of cash: thirty dollars. A couple of bus tickets to go as far as Houston, unused – the ones
the constable had mentioned at the inquest. Who was going with her? A notebook, full of stiff but accurate pencil drawings
of whooping cranes, Caspian terns, egrets, and roseate spoonbills. Boats, people walking on the beach. She hadn’t been kidding
about being an artist. With instruction she might have been quite good. Another page, full of hopeful scribbling.
Heather Hubble. Mrs Heather Hubble. Heather Farrell-Hubble. Heather and Sam,
the H and the S ornately drawn together to form a lopsided heart.
Holy God.
The drive to Lucinda Hubble’s house took three minutes. Lights were on, both upstairs and downstairs, even at the late hour.
Lucinda answered the door, in silk
pajamas and robe. The skin under Lucinda’s eyes was dark, like a pale bruise.
She tore open the door quickly after Claudia’s knock, her eyes wide. Seeing Claudia seemed to make her breath freeze.
‘Hello, Senator. I’m afraid I’m the bearer of bad news. Is Faith here?’
‘Bad news,’ she repeated dully. But she led Claudia into the main den, where Faith was speaking softly into a telephone. Faith
clicked off the moment she saw Claudia, not even bothering with a good-bye.
‘What’s going on?’ Faith asked without preamble.
‘The young woman who found Pete’s body. Heather Farrell, is dead. A shrimper’s net caught her body out in the bay a couple
of hours ago.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Lucinda said, paling. The women exchanged glances.
‘Was it an accident?’ Faith asked. ‘Did she drown?’
‘Hardly. Stabbed, disemboweled, throat slashed.’
Claudia let the silence hang. Lucinda sank into a chair.
‘There are those who might be tempted to treat this as a coincidence – Heather finds Pete dead and ends up dead herself in
a matter of days. I don’t believe in coincidence. I don’t care how Judge Mosley ruled.’ She glared at Faith Hubble, then turned
to Lucinda. ‘I never thought your son committed suicide. Senator, and I think so even less now. You have anything you want
to tell me?’
Lucinda folded her hands in her lap. ‘I can think of nothing that could help you. I’m horrified beyond belief that such a
crime could happen here.’
Faith said, ‘Let’s call Delford,’ as though Claudia were not sitting there.
That boiled Claudia’s blood. ‘We have another young woman missing, and if Heather’s death is not related to
Pete’s, I think it’s related to this other case. Have either of you heard of Marcy Ballew?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘She vanished from Deshay, in western Louisiana. She worked at a nursing home there.’
Faith shook her head, but Lucinda’s mouth worked and she made a noise in her throat.
‘Senator?’ Claudia asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t know her. Or of her.’
‘In Heather’s jeans we found a piece of paper that had your home phone number on it. Had either of you been in contact with
her?’
Faith looked stunned. ‘Lord, no.’
‘I gave the girl that number,’ Lucinda said quickly. Faith looked over at her, surprised.
‘When did you see Heather Farrell?’ Claudia asked.
Lucinda folded her hands in her lap. ‘I ran into her. On the street on Wednesday, I think it was. I gave her our number in
case she needed any help. You know, a place to stay, food, perhaps some clothes or money. I – felt sorry for her.’
How did you even know what she looked like?
Claudia wondered, but she decided to play this out. She turned to Faith. ‘Did Heather Farrell ever call you?’
‘No,’ Faith said. She glanced over at Lucinda, and some unspoken code seemed to hover in the air between them.
‘I’d like to talk with Sam.’
‘Why?’ Faith asked.
Claudia decided to fish a little. ‘Heather Farrell hung out a lot at Little Mischief Beach. If Sam hung out there, he might
have seen who else was around Heather.’
‘I don’t think Sam knew the girl. I mean, I’m sure he would have mentioned it if he had,’ Faith said.
Claudia watched her. ‘I’m quite sure Sam knew her.
She left a notebook in her duffel with hearts drawn around their names. Along with two bus tickets to Houston.’
Both women stared.
‘I think I should call Delford,’ Lucinda finally said.
‘Fine.’ Claudia smiled. She played her trump cards. ‘I suspect the FBI will be interested in talking to Sam even more than
I am. If Farrell’s death is related to Ballew’s disappearance, and Ballew was kidnapped and brought across state lines, the
FBI takes the case. Maybe even before the election.’ She let the cold knife sink and twist. ‘Should I have the agents call
you. Faith, or you. Senator?’
‘You despicable bitch,’ Faith said under her breath.
‘Faith!’ Lucinda gasped.
Faith grasped the arms of her chair. ‘She’s enjoying this. She’s wanted to turn the screws on us for a long time.’
‘You don’t matter one iota to me,’ Claudia said evenly. ‘But I’d like to talk to your son. Now, please.’
Faith closed her eyes and a shudder went through her body. ‘You can’t. We don’t know where Sam is.’
A minute later Claudia called Delford at the police station.
‘Sam Hubble is missing.’ She told him what she had found in the Farrell girl’s belongings. ‘I just spoke with the senator
and Faith. Sam is gone. No sign of him. He took his own car.’
Delford wheezed. ‘Goddamn it, you had no right to go over there …’
‘That suicide note can’t be for real. Sam Hubble faked it.’
‘You think … that boy killed his daddy and Heather Farrell?’
‘I don’t know, but we need to find him.’ She paused. ‘Did you find Eddie?’
‘No. He’s gone. His car, everything, his apartment’s empty. I … sent Fox over to Junior Deloache’s. I just got a call. They
found Deloache there. Stabbed to death, stabbed like two dozen times. Jesus, what’s happening?’
Claudia leaned against the kitchen counter, Lucinda and Faith watching her. Sam Hubble, Jabez Jones, and Eddie Gardner had
all gone missing. Heather Farrell was dead and her story about Pete Hubble was a lie. Junior Deloache was dead. Welcome to
chaos.
‘What’s happening is that Pete Hubble stirred up the wrong hornet’s nest. He stirred up the past. People are dying because
of what happened to Corey Hubble all those years ago.’ She waited for him to react, to speak, and he said nothing. ‘If there’s
anything else you can tell me you better tell me right now, Delford.’