Last Light (9 page)

“Are you trapped here as well?” asked the mother, a pretty woman in her twenties with Asian features. She moved to join Lucy. Lucy suppressed a sigh. So much for some alone time.

“It’s been almost a week for us.” She eyed Lucy’s laptop. “The police let you keep that?” Her tone was colored with suspicion. “How’d you work that out?”

Lucy chewed on her bite of steak as she pieced together what the woman was asking. The boys weren’t in swimming trunks, just regular shorts, and the woman’s capris and blouse appeared rumpled as if she’d worn them for more than a day. But it was the abject despair rimming her eyes that said it all.

Forfeiture.

“Lucky,” Lucy answered. “What did they take from you?”

“Everything. The station wagon, all our stuff, traveler’s checks, phones, even the kids’ Gameboys. I don’t care what their damn radar said, we weren’t speeding. And they lied, no one resisted arrest. All Paul did was ask why we were pulled over. How’s that resisting?”

“Is he in jail?”

She nodded, glancing at the boys and dropping her voice. “Until my folks can bring us the money to get him out. The police said they’d drop the charges once we pay the fine, but I don’t know what we’re going to do without a car. We were on our way to Dallas to start his new job, but now they’ll probably fire him and get someone else.” Her voice broke and she covered her face.

Lucy left her dinner and closed her laptop, then moved to sit beside the woman on the chaise lounge. She positioned herself between the mother and her sons, hoping the boys wouldn’t see their mother’s breakdown. She wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders and let her sob it out. Finally, the woman looked up, wiping her face on the sleeve of her blouse. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name.”

“Lucy.”

“Hi. I’m Augusta. Those are my boys, Henry and Philip.” Augusta beamed proudly at her sons.

“Nice to meet you, Augusta. A week is a long time to be cooped up here, no one to talk to, worrying.”

“Nothing like this has ever happened to us before. Paul is so ashamed—I can only visit him once a day and he won’t let me bring the boys, says he doesn’t want them to see their father like that, behind bars. I don’t know how he’ll ever face my parents. He hates owing money to anyone. But without a job—”

“When was he supposed to start?”

“Next week.”

“You’ll be there by then. You said your parents are coming to get you?”

She nodded. “My father. He should be here tomorrow—had to drive all the way from Florida.”

Lucy hugged her. “See? It will work out. When’s the last time you and the boys had a decent meal?”

Augusta flushed and looked away. “They get breakfast here and I take them to the place down the street for lunch—kids eat free for lunch—then I bring home a doggie bag for their dinner.”

Translation: she was feeding her sons but not herself.

“No leftovers tonight,” Lucy declared. “How about if you do me a favor and finish my steak—it’s way overcooked for my taste—while I go get us all a pizza? I hate to see food go to waste and I’m starving. Would you do me the favor of keeping me company? It’s hard being so far from home.”

At first Augusta looked as if she’d refuse but Lucy kept on talking until the younger woman finally nodded.

“Good. I’ll be back in a jiff.” Lucy grabbed her laptop while the mother called her boys over to attack the huge rib-eye.

As she drove out of town to the fast food establishments that lined the highway, she wondered about Sheriff Blackwell and his forfeiture policy. It was a legal gray area that many local jurisdictions had turned to their favor, but it sounded as if Caleb Blackwell might have edged into the realm of extortion. Maybe even a RICO enterprise if others teamed up with him in his profit-making scheme.

After she returned with an armful of food for Augusta and her family, Lucy retreated to her room. She emailed Wash and asked him to compile a list of all the forfeiture auction items since Blackwell became sheriff as well as a list of their original owners. If Blackwell was extorting people traveling through his county, they’d need affidavits. How many had been arrested and had their property seized unjustly? And where was the money going? She had a friend who was a former IRS investigator and now worked for the FBI. Maybe he could help.

Not her job, not any more, but still, it might give her some leverage on the sheriff. At least that was how she’d justify it to Valencia if need be. And if they did find that Blackwell was corrupt, it would be a coup for the Beacon Group, facilitating the FBI or IRS investigation that would be sure to follow.

Finally, she curled up on her bed with her laptop propped up on a pillow before her. She pulled up the police reports Wash had emailed her—scanned versions of the originals, which had been typed and photocopied. So different from modern policing, where officers could enter notes from the mobile terminals in their vehicles or smartphone apps.

But the language remained the same: sparse, painting a picture without coloring it with emotion, drawing no conclusions, merely presenting the facts. At least that was the idea, but there was an art to writing a good report: it told a story, a story subtly shaped by the reporting officer.

The report on the Martin crime scene had been written by the former Blackwell County sheriff himself, Andrew Saylor. Lucy scanned the terse wording, imagining the actual event.

Second on scene after Deputy Prescott, Sheriff Saylor detailed the deputy to maintain a perimeter then proceeded to secure the scene. Two vehicles were unattended in the driveway (see attached photos and sketch), one a Ford pickup (see attached registration), one a Subaru wagon (see attached registration). Neither had its lights on and the Subaru’s driver’s side rear door was open. Several bags of canned goods were on the drive near the open door (see attached inventory and photos).

Sheriff approached the residence. Lights were visible in all front-facing windows and the front door was noted to be ajar. On entry the body of a Caucasian male was found to be partially obstructing the door’s opening (see photo and sketch attached), victim was subsequently identified as Peter Martin, homeowner.

Living room and dining/kitchen areas appeared undisturbed. Grocery bags were on the kitchen table (see attached photos and inventory) and there was evidence of recent consumption (see attached). All windows and exits were intact with no signs of disturbance.

First bedroom entered revealed the presence of two deceased identified as Glory Martin (age 7 months) and Lily Martin, wife of homeowner and mother of Glory (see attached sketch and photos) along with multiple areas of blood spatter evidence. The scene was left intact once it was determined that no living occupants were present and that both mother and child had expired.

DESPITE THE FACT
that it was barely sunup on a Saturday morning, Sheriff Drew Saylor was already in his office. He’d been elected less than two weeks ago and was still trying to get a handle on the administrative duties that came with the job. When Roscoe Blackwell suggested he run for office, Drew had agreed, eager to leave the boring life of a patrol deputy behind. After all, he knew the job, knew the people, knew the land. Blackwell County was a tight-knit community where the only strangers were the migrant workers and few crimes reached the level of felony offenses.

Turned out, it was also a county where the money going out was far more than the money coming in. Going over the books, Drew wondered how the hell he’d make his payroll, much less budget for badly needed repairs to the station with its small cell block that served as the county jail. Or get the new equipment his men—and one woman—needed.

He was spending his Saturday working the adding machine and highlighting an obscure statute he’d heard about from one of the old-timers over in Abilene. Forfeiture. Allowing his department seize any property used during a commission of a crime—including minor ones like traffic offenses. Even if the defendants were innocent or never went to trial. It was a potential game changer for his underfunded department.

Given how many outsiders passed through the corner of Blackwell County where I-20 ran, many of them wealthy gas-and-oil types headed into Dallas, it might be the answer to their prayers. If he could wrap his head around the legal language. Last thing he needed with his first official act in office was to get them in trouble with the Feds.

His phone rang. Velma in dispatch. “Call just came in. I think you’ll want to handle it, Sheriff.”

Drew straightened, still unused to the thrill of being the top law enforcement officer in the county. “What is it?”

“Carole Blackwell. Says there’s some kind of trouble out at the Martin place. Said her little boy was already there and her husband was heading over, told her to call you and EMS.”

Not a lot of helpful info, but it was enough to get Drew’s adrenaline surging. Roscoe Blackwell handled most anything on that end of the county himself—after all, he owned everything out there except a few scattered homesteads and the strip of federal agriculture study land. Must be serious for him to be calling for help. “EMS rolling?”

“Just sent the page and alerted the guys in the firehouse.” Blackwell County had a volunteer fire department that was as good as any you’d find in a city—they had to be, as it was their own land, families, and livelihoods they protected.

“Send the nearest patrol unit—” He hesitated, grabbing his portable radio and clipping it to his belt. “No, cancel that. Send Ortiz, the others can cover her territory.” Ortiz was the only one of them, Drew included, who had completed the state’s crime scene course. “I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.”

A thrill ran through him as he left via his private door and headed to his patrol unit. What could it be? The Martins lived between the Blackwells and the federal land that Ronnie Powell, the county’s main drug dealer—a Vietnam vet who lived rough but never had been arrested for any violent offenses—squatted on. Maybe the Mexicans had finally decided to take over Powell’s tiny drug enterprise? Or an outlaw motorcycle gang? There were several in the area, although they’d never dared to cross into Blackwell County before.

Maybe they were testing the new sheriff? If so, he was up to the task. Drew yanked open the door of his official Jeep Cherokee and climbed into the driver’s seat, automatically adjusting his weapon and radio. He had a pump-action Remington loaded with double-ought and slugs racked and ready, clipped below the dashboard beside him where he could reach it with one hand.

He sped out of the lot, lights and sirens streaking through the empty street, hunched over the steering wheel, ready for a fight.

Prescott, one of the deputies on duty, was already at the scene when Drew arrived. Barfing his brains out in the hydrangeas. He looked up sheepishly when Drew approached. “It’s bad, boss.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Real bad. I ain’t ever—”

“Is the scene cleared?” Drew asked.

“I—I think,” Prescott stuttered. He was Drew’s least experienced deputy, hired a few months ago by the old sheriff. Second cousin’s son or some such thing. “The boy’s who found them. He and his old man are waiting for you.” He nodded to a large black Dodge Power Ram with the Blackwell logo emblazoned on it.

Drew left the deputy and approached the crime scene. Lily Martin’s Subaru sat on the right hand side of the drive. Two bags of groceries were spilled onto the gravel and one of the rear doors was open. Peter Martin’s rusted-out pickup stood beside it.

No signs of any blood out here. Drew crept toward the house, avoiding the main walk in case there was any evidence left behind. The front door was ajar. He drew his weapon—first time he’d ever done that as sheriff. Never had much need for it as deputy either, maybe a handful of times had even thought of taking it from his holster. Never discharged it off the range, certainly never shot at a real living person. But he couldn’t take any chances. Someone needed to clear the scene.

He kicked the door open. It hit something, bounced back. He startled, then tried again, this time easing it open with his foot and peering around it. The first thing that hit him was the smell—there was nothing else like it, not in this world. It raised hackles on the back of his neck as if every fiber of his being was warning him to turn back before it was too late.

Peter Martin lay facedown in front of the door. Most of his skull was blown apart and there was blood on the back of his denim jacket.

Gingerly, he stepped around Peter into the foyer that separated the living room from the dining room and kitchen. It seemed as if every light in the house had been left on. So whatever happened must have happened last night.

The TV was on but the sound was off. He wondered at that but only for as long as it took him to make sure there was no one in the hall closet or behind the couch. Next he cleared the dining room, kitchen, and laundry room. Only thing unusual were the groceries left out on the table and some dishes left soaking. An empty carton of milk and empty box of cookies sat on the counter.

Had whoever killed Peter stopped for a snack? Or was it left over from the son, Alan? The Martins had a baby girl as well. Where were they?

He crept down the hall to the bedrooms. The first was painted pink with a rainbow on the far wall. The baby’s room. But it was Lily Martin he found first. Tied to a rocking chair with clothesline, her face contorted, slashed, gouged, her mouth slit wide in a parody of a clown’s grimace. Blood covered her dress, dozens of slashes and cuts. Her skin was a dusky shade of blue, cold to the touch. She hadn’t gone quickly, that was for sure.

Why here? In the baby’s room? He almost wished he hadn’t thought of the question. First, he cleared the closet. Finally, he turned to the baby’s crib. There was a puddle of blood below it and more sprays of blood on the pink crib bumpers.

One look was all he needed. The baby had fared even worse than the mother. Christ almighty, what kind of sick bastard had done this? He could almost forgive Prescott for losing it.