He marched towards me. I set my feet, ready to fight – but he stopped just short. ‘It damn sure is. Teddy won’t leave a man alive for Masters to put on the stand.’ He wiped the sweat from his face with his palm. ‘Speak now, Yates. There’s enough died on account of this already.’
A jolt ran through me – my last words to Ella Borland, telling her to go to Masters if she didn’t hear from me. Three women dead already and no one cared; a crushing certainty that Coughlin wouldn’t hesitate to have her killed too.
My eyes must have betrayed my anxiety. ‘I can help,’ he said. ‘I can get you out – you and whoever.’ He stepped closer. ‘But we need to leave right now. I’ll drive you, just tell me who knows and we’ll go get him.’
He stood in front of me, his eyes locked on mine, no trace of deception that I could discern. They’d been a step ahead the whole time; suddenly it felt like Coughlin’s men were all around me, moving through the trees, closing the net. I blinked, my guts churning, Maddened by my own inertia.
I glanced over my shoulder and found a measure of calm in the stillness of the water below. He was right in what he’d said – but it didn’t mean he could be trusted.
I turned towards the car. ‘Find some other way to ease your conscience.’
Ten miles back to town. Too far, too long, to leave Ella Borland twisting in the wind without a warning. If Barrett had any inkling about her and Robinson, he’d put it together quick enough.
I remembered seeing a filling station a mile or two before the turnoff. I drove to it as fast as I dared on the country roads, skidding on mud every time I took a bend too fine.
Barrett’s expression flitted through my mind, the desperation that was evident on his face as we were talking. I believed him when he said he hadn’t killed Glover. What I couldn’t stomach was his self-pity, as if he’d had no choice but to take the actions he did, and that somehow absolved him of blame. I’d made decisions I wasn’t proud of, same as every man – worse, even – but I carried them with me, and I bore their consequences. Barrett was too weak to do the same.
I came to the gas station and pulled up on the forecourt. I ran inside and asked for a payphone. The man behind the counter shook his head, but when I dug two dollars in change from my pocket and stacked it on the counter, he showed me through to a small office and pointed to a dilapidated hand-cranked model, partially buried by papers and a dirty rag.
The operator made the connection, but the man who answered said Ella wasn’t there.
‘I need to speak to her urgently. She’s in danger. Where can I find her?’
He hesitated. ‘You want me to pass a message to her—’
‘There isn’t time. I need her home number. Or her address.’
‘At a guess, if she wanted you to have it, she’d have given it to you.’
‘Goddammit, she doesn’t know the danger she’s in. Wait – call her. Tell her it’s Charlie Yates and give her this number.’ I read the payphone dial code out to him. ‘Tell her to call me now.’
He was silent a minute, then he exhaled. ‘All right, hang up so I can try her.’
I stood by the phone, knocking on the wall with my knuckle as I waited for her to call, praying I wasn’t too late. I jumped when the line buzzed.
‘Ella?’
‘Mr Yates? What—’
‘I need to speak with you.’
‘Where are you? You sound out of breath. Is something wrong?’
‘What we spoke about before . . .’ I glanced behind me, feeling as though the owner was listening in on me, everyone a potential spy for Coughlin now. But when I looked, he’d retaken his seat behind the counter, out of earshot. ‘Have you told anyone else what you told me?’
‘No, of course not.’
I closed my eyes and allowed myself a breath. ‘I think it would be safest if you left town anyway. Just for now.’
‘Why? What’s going on?’
‘I should have said it before. I was wrong not to.’
‘What are you— Am I in danger? What’s happened?’
I scrabbled for an answer that would reassure. ‘I don’t know. I think this would be for best.’
The pitch of her voice rose a notch. ‘I can’t just leave. I have to work at midnight, and—’
‘Ella, listen to me: I went to Barrett, he admitted it, exactly like you said. But it goes deeper, much deeper, and there are men who will harm you if they find out what you know.’
‘Do you think I don’t realise that? Why do you think I held my tongue for so long?’
‘Please. The men behind this are not in the business of leaving loose ends.’
She said nothing.
‘It doesn’t have to be for ever,’ I said. ‘Just buy me enough time to get to them.’
‘You’re not leaving?’
‘I can’t. Not yet.’
She drew a sharp breath. ‘Did Cole Barrett kill Jeannie?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Did he tell you who did?’
‘No. But I mean to find the man.’
She was quiet again, a long pause this time. ‘Where would I go? I’ve got no money and no place to stay.’
‘I can give you money. Enough to pay for a motel someplace.’
‘I’m not in the habit of accepting charity.’
‘Then call it a loan, goddammit. As long as you’re on a bus today.’
I listened to her breathing, thinking. I was about to push again when she said, ‘Could you call by my house?’
‘Give me your address.’
‘One-ten Violet Drive. It’s a half-block off Ouachita.’
‘I’ll find it. Pack a bag, I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’
As it was, I made the journey in twenty, expecting the cops to show up in my rearview all the time I was on the road.
Violet Drive was a narrow street of older houses, pressed up tight against each other along both sides. I found one-ten and parked outside. It was the familiar white frame structure, with a small porch and a faded red front door. The tiny yard in front of it was strewn with leaves, but otherwise bare and untended. As I set the brake, I caught a movement from the corner of my eye – maybe a drape twitching.
I looked inside my wallet. I had forty bucks on me, the last of my cash reserves. Enough to keep a roof over her head for a week or more. What came after that I’d figure out later.
I jumped out, crossed the rundown sidewalk and banged on the door. I waited, Teddy Coughlin on my mind, thinking how to get at him. The word
unassailable
kept circling in my head. The door opened a fraction and Ella peered out. She saw it was me and opened it the rest of the way, her face showing worry. She wore a simple black dress with a tie around the waist. ‘Come in.’
She stepped back for me to enter. It was gloomy inside, the drapes drawn across both windows. The doorway led straight into a lounge that was cramped but homely. There were two worn-looking easy chairs in one corner with an old-model wireless next to them; in another, a small dining table held a pack of Chesterfields, a full ashtray and an empty glass. Through a doorway to my left I could see a pokey kitchen, also shaded. The door on the opposite wall was closed, presumably leading to the bedroom.
Borland crossed to the table. She took a cigarette from the pack and lit it with her back to me, taking two attempts to strike the match. ‘Please, won’t you have a seat?’
I shook my head. ‘Are you ready?’
She sucked on her smoke, exhaling as she spoke. ‘Just a moment.’
She set the cigarette in the ashtray and slipped through the bedroom door. I got a bad feeling something was off. She was nervous, which I expected, but it was as though she was afraid of me.
The bedroom door opened again and Detective Harlan Layfield stepped out of the gloom, pointing his service revolver at me. ‘I thought you’d have sense enough to hand yourself in by now.’
My head sunk into my chest and it felt like someone had attached iron weights to me, everything I’d done now rendered in vain. I looked past him, trying to catch Ella’s eye, but she was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall. I looked at him again. ‘I didn’t kill Clay Tucker.’
‘Turn around and put your hands behind your back.’
‘Layfield, listen to me—’
‘I got no desire to fire my gun today, Yates.’
I turned slowly, keeping my hands in front of me, stole a look at the front door. It was shut, but I couldn’t remember if Borland had locked it.
‘Hands.’
One chance. Make a break or be taken in. I cursed myself for not remembering if the goddamn door was locked or not.
I heard him move towards me. I tensed to run.
Then Ella appeared in front of me, blocking my path to the door. I couldn’t tell if she’d chosen that spot purposely or not – if she’d read my intentions. She held her cigarette in front of her mouth, flicking the butt, and it seemed as though she meant to say something, a look in her eyes I couldn’t fathom.
As I searched her face, Layfield grabbed my right arm and pulled it behind me. I felt the cuff bite into my wrist, and watched as she slinked away again, the moment gone. Layfield took my other arm and jerked it back, closed the cuff on my left wrist. Ella was in the kitchen now, opening the drapes.
I heard Layfield slide his pistol back into its holster. ‘Start walking.’
‘Wait. My wallet’s in my right pocket. There’s forty dollars in there – give it to her.’
He stepped in front of me, looked from me to her and back again. ‘I can’t do that. Procedure.’ He took a grip on my arm and started guiding me towards the door.
I turned my head as far as I could and called out to her. ‘Ella, get out of town. Today.’
Layfield pulled me around by my shirt. ‘You threatening her?’
I ignored him, strained my neck to look at her again. ‘PLEASE. It’s not safe here. Go.’
She didn’t even look over. Layfield bundled me out the door.
My eyes watered coming out into the daylight again. Layfield led me to a black Ford parked a little way down the street. An elderly couple on their porch stared at me as I passed. When he stopped at the car, I said, ‘I want to speak to Sam Masters.’
‘We’ll see about all that later.’
He opened the rear door and hustled me into the car. When I sat, the position of the cuffs meant I had to lean on my arms, and my shoulders started to ache. ‘My editor needs to know too. Buck Acheson, in California.’ It would worry Lizzie when word reached her, but I figured the more people knew I was in custody, the less the chance of something bad happening to me.
Layfield climbed in the front and said nothing. We started to drive, crossing Ouachita onto Grand Avenue, and I thought about Ella Borland. I couldn’t figure out why she’d turned me in. She’d given no hint that was on her mind when I’d seen her earlier in the day. The only notion I could come up with was that I’d spooked her by telling her to run. I jammed my head against the window in frustration.
‘Settle down.’
We turned south onto Central Avenue – heading away from the police building. I watched a moment as we drove, seeing the houses and stores thin out as we got further from town, red pines and white-flowered magnolia trees along the side of the road now, glimpses of a body of water in the far distance ahead of us. ‘Where are we going?’
Layfield eyed me in the rearview and said nothing.
I felt a rising tension in my chest. I tugged at the cuffs surreptitiously, but they held firm. I took a breath and waited a minute more, urging myself to be calm.
We kept travelling south, towards the water. The only buildings I could see were farmhouses now, set a long way back from the blacktop. A memory blitzed me, brought on by the landscape – of Texarkana, the empty fields around the town; the abandoned farmhouse I’d fled from in the dead of night. Tension gave way to panic. ‘Where the hell are you taking me?’
‘Shut your mouth.’
I watched the sliver of his face I could see in the rearview; he kept his eyes on the road. My arms started shaking, and I yanked harder at the cuffs, felt them cut into my skin.
I clenched my teeth and waited until I was sure there wouldn’t be a tremor in my voice before I spoke again. ‘You’re making a mistake. Take me back to the station.’
He said nothing and drove on.
We reached the lake, and a bridge carried us out over a wide channel, more land visible up ahead of us. The lake stretched for miles either side of the roadway, the sun catching the flat surface in such a way that the water looked like concrete. Reaching the other side, we passed a pleasure boat dock and small hotel on the shore.
Lake Catherine was east of town, so this had to be Lake Hamilton – the same stretch of water where Ginny Kolkhorst was found.
We followed the road across what turned out to be a small island, then onto another bridge across a narrower channel. At the far side of it, Layfield turned off onto a dirt road.
The land around the track was heavily wooded, and he drove slow. After two or three minutes, the water appeared in front of us again. A small clearing on the shoreline opened up, and he pulled the car around to a stop. A jetty on the bank ran fifteen feet out into the lake.
He climbed out and drew his gun. My heart was hammering so hard I didn’t think it could keep it up for long. I could hear the engine ticking, cooling down, and bird calls coming from the trees. Nothing made sense. He opened my door. ‘On your feet.’
I swung my legs around and levered myself out slowly. ‘What the hell is going on?’
He gestured with his gun hand for me to walk in front of him, towards the pier. I could hear the water lapping against it quietly.
I glanced around, looking for any means of escape. Trees lined the banks either side of me, and I couldn’t see any houses or buildings at all. The opposite shore was just visible across the water, at least a half-mile distant.
Layfield prodded me with his revolver. ‘Move.’
I dragged my feet in the dirt, going as slowly as possible, my mind racing. The lake prompted a question. ‘Did you kill Geneve Kolkhorst? Is this what happened to her?’
He didn’t answer and I couldn’t see his face to read his expression.
‘She didn’t stay down, did she?’ I said, desperate. ‘Think about that. What happens when my carcass washes up somewhere?’
He dug into my back again, and I kept shuffling forward. I thought of Lizzie, my heart about to burst, prayed that she wouldn’t be left wondering. I started yapping quick-fire, anything that came into my head. ‘Did you kill the others too? For Coughlin?’ I stopped when I reached the jetty but he shoved me forward, the mud of the bank giving way to solid planks underfoot. ‘You gutless son of a bitch, tell me. TELL ME.’
‘Enough.’ I felt the cold metal of the gun barrel touch my head. ‘You know it all already, Yates. That’s why we here.’
A shadow crossed my mind’s eye, something reminiscent about the gun and his voice, but I didn’t understand. I heard his shoes scuff on the planks as he stepped back.
I pulled at the cuffs again, but there was no give. Numbness was spreading from my shoulders, overtaking the panic I felt – an acceptance that it was always going to end this way. That I’d sealed my fate the minute I came back. Maybe long before that.
He cocked the hammer. I kept my eyes open and took in the beauty around me, my last try at defiance, and whispered a goodbye to Lizzie.
See you the next go-around.
Then there was another noise, somewhere in the trees behind us. A car, coming down the same track we had. I stole a glance over my shoulder, saw Layfield looking around at it too. His gun was still on me, but I couldn’t make a grab for it with my hands cuffed behind my back.
The car came into sight and drew up next to Layfield’s Ford. My neck tensed when I recognised it – Cole Barrett’s grey LaSalle. He climbed out and walked to the edge of the bank, where the jetty started. ‘Hold up a minute, Harlan.’
Layfield took another step back from me, checked I hadn’t moved, then turned his head to Barrett again. His mouth was ajar, his uncertainty obvious. ‘What you doing here, Barrett?’
‘Plan’s changed. Teddy wants him alive for now. Bring him on back up.’ He gestured with his head to walk me back to the bank.
Layfield hesitated. ‘That a fact?’ He glanced at me again, then back. ‘How come?’
Barrett shrugged. ‘He ain’t tell me. I carry the bags, I ain’t ask what’s in them. C’mon.’ He made a half-turn as if to go back to his car.
As he did, Layfield swung his gun around to aim at him. Barrett sensed the movement, grabbing for his weapon. They fired at the same time. I ducked, heard two, three, four shots. Barrett dropped to one knee. Layfield charged him.
I jumped up and gave chase without thinking. Layfield had his gun out in front of him, firing as he pelted along the jetty. Barrett raised his own weapon again and got another shot off, but Layfield didn’t slow. When he got close, Layfield dived and speared him with a football tackle.
The sound of the gunshots echoed around the lake. I was two seconds behind Layfield. He was on top of Barrett, so I dipped my head and rammed my right shoulder into him, sending us sprawling.
My momentum carried me clear of the two men. I landed face down in the mud, no hands to break my fall. I rolled and managed to clamber to my knees, saw Layfield sit up and raise his gun. He trained it on Barrett.
Barrett was on all fours now, panting. There was blood all over his shirt. He looked up at Layfield and smiled, his eyes blazing, then lifted his gun slowly.
Layfield sprang up. He jarred his hand doing it and dropped his gun. He looked to where it lay, saw Barrett take aim, and ran instead. He ducked behind the LaSalle just as Barrett fired, the back passenger window shattering and crumbling. I heard the door of the Ford open and close and the engine start. I staggered to my feet, tried to go after him. The tyres spun and got purchase, and Layfield took off up the track.
The sound of the car faded, muffled by the trees. I looked over to Barrett, still on all fours, his head hung low. Blood was streaming from his torso to the ground, like water from a faucet. I ran over to him. ‘Where’re you hit?’
He grunted. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the mud was slick with his own blood and the effort was too much. He collapsed onto his side. I saw two wounds in his chest, and what looked like a third in his neck; it was hard to be certain because of the blood and dirt caking him.
‘Son of a bitch.’ His voice was weak.
‘I’ll get you out of here.’ I glanced at the car, scrambling to think of a way to help him. ‘My hands. I can’t—’
He winced as he moved his arm, digging into his pocket. He produced a set of keys, and let them fall to the dirt. ‘Cuffs. They all the same.’
I saw a small key on the ring and realised what he meant. I dropped to my knees and managed to scoop them up. Working over my shoulder, I angled the key into the lock and wrenched it until the clasp popped open. I threw the cuffs aside and spun around to face him.
Ripping off a part of my shirttail, I pressed it to one of the wounds. ‘Hold it there.’ I started to tear another piece, but he’d already discarded the first one. ‘Goddammit—’ I moved so I was positioned over his head and grasped him under the armpits, meaning to drag him to the car. ‘Come on.’
He coughed, blood coming up with it, and fought to shrug me off. ‘Let me rest.’
His face was the colour of milk and his shirt was soaked red. I let go of him and went to the water, scooped some up in my hand. I cupped it to his lips and poured a trickle into his mouth. Most of it ran down his cheek. His eyes were half-closed and his breath came short.
‘How did you know?’ I said.
‘Tailed you. Had to do something.’
‘Why?’
‘You was right.’ His face contorted in pain. ‘I ain’t done enough to stop it.’