Waking Evil 02 (10 page)
Authors: Kylie Brant
“Shee-it.” Banty spat again and rolled his shoulders. “You couldn’t kick the ass end of a fly. You always was a . . .” His fist swung out, nearly connected, its speed surprising. But Dev was ready for him.
His foot hooked around Banty’s ankle at the same moment he sent a vicious right jab to the man’s jaw. Banty’s head snapped back and the momentum had him tumbling backward off the porch, landing on his backside in Benjamin Gorder’s azalea bushes.
“What seems to be the problem, fellas?” Mark Rollins strolled up the walk, looking sternly from one man to the other.
Whipple scrambled to his feet, wiggling his jaw gingerly. “I come here to tell Stryker to stay the hell away from my kid, and he went crazy and started swingin’.”
“Now, Banty, I stood right here and watched you throw the first punch,” the sheriff said reasonably. “You really want to stick to that story?”
The man’s face flushed an ugly shade of red. “I want him to keep away from my kid. A man’s got a right to protect his own son from Stryker’s type. He’s got bad blood. That’s probably what made him some weirded out haint chaser.” He scrambled to his feet and took a step in Dev’s direction.
“You said your piece. Now it’s time to move on.” Rollins inserted himself between Banty and Dev. “Go on with you now,” he said, when Banty showed no signs of obeying. “I’ve already run you in once this year on assault charges. The judge won’t be so lenient second time ’round.”
Whipple finally brushed himself off and turned to go. “I’m leavin’. But don’t you ferget what I told you, neither, Stryker. Keep away from my kid.”
Both men watched as Banty climbed into his souped-up dually truck and roared away. When Mark looked back at Dev, a small smile was playing around his mouth. “You always did have a way of stirrin’ things up.”
Dev lifted a shoulder. “He was just blowin’ off. Beat up the screen door some, but no harm done.” Easy enough to see now why Robbie Joe had tried so hard to convince them both there was a rational explanation for the red mist and the lights he saw. Banty had seemed much more comfortable about his son finding a dead body than witnessing a possible psychic phenomena, but Dev was in no mood to appreciate the irony. “Hell, I talked to all the other kids with no problem.”
Mark pushed his hat back and wiped at his forehead. “Well there was never any love lost ’tween you and Banty, so you shoulda known he’d call you out if you gave him the least reason.”
No, there had never been any love lost between the two of them. And the man’s words about Dev’s daddy were the main reason. He’d heard them before, or others much like them, from the guy for two decades.
They weren’t any easier to hear now than they’d been when he was twelve.
“Kendra May’s been houndin’ me somethin’ fierce ’bout you comin’ over to dinner soon. Says she hasn’t seen near ’nough of you since you got to town.”
“Sure.” Dev strove for a lighter tone he was far from feeling. “Tell her to give me a call. We can sit ’round and talk over old times again. Bet she’s never heard the one ’bout you gettin’ caught top down and pecker up with Carolyn Grimes in your mama’s convertible near Tackett’s woods.”
The man looked pained. “Just remember, if I land in the doghouse with her, I might end up bunkin’ here with you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
They parted on a friendly wave, and Dev went back into the house. But it failed to seem as welcoming as it usually did. The echoes of Banty’s words rang in its empty rooms. Rattled around in Dev’s mind even when he tried to shake them free.
Yer daddy’s a killer . . . I ain’t the only one thinks that way, neither.
No, Banty hadn’t been the only one to utter those words to him over the years, although he imagined they were whispered behind his back far more often. This town had passed judgment on his father nearly thirty years ago.
Dev swung the front door shut behind him with a decisive bang.
It was high time to figure out once and for all if the town had been right.
Chapter 5
“I faxed the vic’s picture to headquarters earlier today.” Not finding either of the agents back at the motel room, Ramsey was checking in with Powell by cell phone. “It shouldn’t take more than twenty-four hours to get an artist’s sketch back. We can make copies and have them distributed to law enforcement and nail salons in a fifty-mile area.”
“Good catch on the nails. If we can get the ID done quietly without havin’ to involve the media, I know Jeffries will be much happier.”
And the governor would be happier still, Ramsey thought cynically, but the comment remained unvoiced. “I talked to the sheriff and suggested he have the ME clip the victim’s fingernails and bag them as evidence. You never know, maybe we’ll get lucky enough to come up with a match on the polish. Has the TBI lab come up with anything yet on the footprints or fibers?”
“Nothin’ yet. I planned to call and give them another nudge today.”
“What about ViCAP? Has a report been submitted?” The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program’s national database would spit out any crimes with similar elements.
There was a moment of silence. “Check with Rollins on that. I thought he was goin’ to take care of it. If he hasn’t, you could submit the form from his office.”
“I’ll do that.” Hearing the crunch of gravel under tires, she lifted the shade and looked out. Felt a jolt of satisfaction. “The mobile forensics lab is here that Raiker promised. You’ve got evidence at the sheriff’s office, right?” Running the tests from the mobile lab would mean the results would be available in hours rather than days or weeks, moving the investigation into a much faster pace.
“Everythin’s there except the latents, casts of footprints, and fibers. Rollins will probably want to have a deputy deliver it all, but you can put the request in when you stop by his office.” Switching topics, Powell went on, “Matthews is out makin’ a second pass on the interviews of the kids. I’m door knockin’ on the properties fringin’ the woods to see if anyone claims to have seen anythin’ that night.”
From the disgust in his voice, his lack of progress was clear. But Ramsey asked anyway. “Getting anywhere?”
“Lot of nothin’ so far. People who don’t like talkin’ to law-enforcement types.” The phone crackled, as if he were traveling farther out of range. “Give me a call when you finish at the sheriff’s office. I could use a hand out here.”
After promising to do so, Ramsey disconnected and went outside, jogging across the parking lot to where two people were standing near the mobile lab and the midsized SUV that had followed it in.
“You two must have really pissed Raiker off to have drawn this duty,” she joked, joining Abbie Phillips and Ryne Robel next to the lab. “Where’s Jonesy?”
“Inside unpacking his baby.” Robel stretched then slipped one arm around his petite wife. “And Raiker sent us because we’re on our way to Lexington.”
A dart of jealousy stabbed her. “Get out.” She gave Abbie a light shove. “You two are working the Lexington child-snatching case?”
Her friend nodded, satisfied. “That’s right.”
“How about you?” Ryne’s faint Boston accent sounded foreign to Ramsey’s ears after only a day of the rural dialect of Buffalo Springs. “How’s the case shaping up?”
She gave them a rundown in a few succinct sentences, welcoming the chance to bounce even a few of the details off her colleagues. Both looked pensive for a moment. “Jeffries is making your job IDing the victim a bit difficult with the media blackout.”
“I’ve got an idea I’ll be following up tomorrow, or as soon as Bledsoe faxes back a likeness to distribute. We’ll keep it out of the press unless we have no choice.”
The other two nodded. They worked with her at Raiker Forensics, Ryne most recently when he quit his job as a Savannah police detective to move closer to Abbie. Both were familiar with the dynamics politics could play on a case.
“Maybe the killer’s a ghost and the red mist is its disappearing act,” Ryne suggested, sober-faced.
“You’re a funny guy. I’m surprised Abbie hasn’t beaten that sense of humor out of you yet.” The other woman was lethal with Muy Thai.
“She’s tried,” Ryne’s grin was wicked. “But I’m a fast runner.”
Abbie checked her watch. “Uh-oh. We need to get moving to make it to Lexington for our case briefing.” She and Ryne moved in tandem to the car.
“Good luck,” Ramsey called as she headed toward the sleek black RV. The pair waved and got in the vehicle.
It still gave her sort of a jolt to see Abbie with Ryne, relaxed and . . . happy was probably the word she was looking for. A few months ago Ramsey would have guessed the woman was destined to remain as solitary as she was herself.
But Abbie’s new relationship, as unexpected as it was, wouldn’t be affecting Ramsey’s lifestyle. She’d long ago learned that a no-strings private life worked out the best for her in the long run.
She climbed the two steps to the lab and pulled the door over. “Jonesy. Ready to go to work?”
“You’re joking, right? Tell me you’re joking.” The most brilliant scientist on the Raiker team—and that was saying something—pulled his head out of a lower cupboard for a minute to glare at her. With his smooth baby face, he looked like a twelve-year-old on the verge of a tantrum. “It’s going to take hours to get organized. And I still have to get hooked up to a water and electrical source. The supply I have on board isn’t going to last long.”
Ramsey returned his stare and wondered what the TBI agents would make of the man. Jonesy—she’d never heard his complete name—was dressed all in black, as was his norm. His hair this week was shaved on the sides, the center worn in a Mohawk, also dyed black. With all the piercings on his face, she’d always half expected him to spring a dozen leaks when he took a drink. He had two sleeves of tattoos, which ran from shoulder to wrist. She’d once heard that Raiker plucked him away from the FBI’s crime lab to come work for him. Since the feds were notoriously uptight, she had a hard time believing Jonesy could have lasted a day with them.
“Talk to Mary Sue Talbot in the office,” she instructed. “Apparently this place is equipped with a couple campsites, and she’ll direct you to one of them.”
Jonesy had returned to his task in the cupboard, so Ramsey was talking to his back. And a wedge of blindingly white skin as his shirt rode up.
It was too early in the day for her to deal with seeing any amount of the man bare. She closed her eyes for a moment to erase the image. “Give me your cell phone.”
After digging around in his pocket, he handed it to her, and Ramsey programmed her number into it. Then she repeated the action, inputting his number on hers.
“So far we only have results on the latents. There were no hits on the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. I’m on my way to the sheriff’s office to get the evidence transferred back here that wasn’t taken to the TBI lab.” And she knew which test she was most anxious to get his take on. “I’d like you to identify something found in the stomach contents. Something the ME defined only as a plant derivative.”
“I’ll run that test. I’ll run any test. As a matter of fact, I will run around the RV naked if you just get out and let me set up here.”
“God knows no one wants that,” she muttered. The scientist could be a bit dictatorial about the order in his lab, but his work would be worth it.
Shutting the door of the RV, a thought brought a smile to her face. It was going to be worth the price of a ticket to see how the people of Buffalo Springs reacted when they got a load of Jonesy.
It was another couple hours before Ramsey finished at the sheriff’s office. Rollins wasn’t there, but she spoke to him by cell about sending a deputy to the mobile lab with the rest of the evidence. She convinced him to do it right away without, she thought, being overly pushy. Then she inputted the necessary information for the ViCAP form and submitted it on the office’s designated machine and called Powell. He gave her directions to the property owners he wanted her to speak to. But it took her another quarter hour to speak with the dispatcher, Letty Carter, who provided her with maps of the area before Ramsey set out.
The roads twisted and climbed without any visible rhyme or reason. She consulted the maps she’d gotten from the dispatcher—with the warning of dire bodily harm if she didn’t return them—and made note of the properties that butted up against the forest engulfing Ashton’s Pond. With Powell working from the northernmost end, she decided to start with the southernmost property owner, a—Ramsey squinted at the small print—Duane Tibbitts.
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