A Killing Rain (24 page)

The swamp buggy was about a hundred yards ahead, careening down the road, its heavy tires spitting gravel and dirt. Suddenly, it straightened and shot off, heading down the scenic drive toward the quarry.

Joe punched the accelerator.

Louis could see there was only one man in the open front seat of the buggy. Dark hair. Had to be Ellis.

“There’s no other way out
,” he said.

“And no way can he
outrun us in that thing.”

They were gaining on
the buggy. Suddenly, the Bronco took a hard jolt and Louis threw out a hand to brace himself against the dash.

“Shit!” Joe said.

The hard-packed gravel was gone, the road turning rough and rutted, pitted from the hard rains. Louis caught sight of a sign marking the entrance of the Fakahatchee Strand. The Bronco hit a deep hole, and Joe had to jerk the wheel hard to keep it on the narrowing road. Louis felt the shock penetrate the still tender bruise on his chest.

Joe was silent
, gripping the wheel, trying to steer the Bronco around the holes and ruts, keeping it from spinning off into the cypress trees and swamps bordering the road. Louis gritted his teeth at every swerve and jolt.

The Bronco bounced into a deep hole, sending up a spray of mud. The windshield went opaque brown.

“Damn it!” Joe yelled. She had to ease off as she flipped on the wipers. It was a couple of seconds before the washers cleared enough for them to see again.

The buggy was pulling away. With its giant tires and open windowless carriage, it now had the advantage. Joe hit the gas heavy
again but with every bone-jarring slam, she had to back off.

“You’re losing him!” Louis yelled, squinting through the mud-smeared windshield.

“I know, damn it!”

Suddenly, there was a spin of mud ahead of them. The buggy had come to a stop. A second later, it took a sharp veer to the left.

“It’s the turn south,” Louis said. “I remember it from the drop. There’s a stretch of good road ahead. Stay with him.”

J
oe followed, hitting the turn at a reckless speed, but then maneuvering out of a spin. A few seconds later, Louis felt the road smooth out some and the Bronco’s tires found their grip. The swamp buggy was maybe fifty yards ahead now, and the Bronco was closing in.

Louis pulled his
Glock out of his holster and looked down for a split second as he chambered a round.

“Shit!” Joe yelled.

Louis looked up to see the buggy disappear off the road.

“He went into
the fucking trees!”

Joe hit the gas and the Bronco bounced up to the spot where the buggy had gone off the road. Joe slammed on the brakes, throwing Louis into the dashboard. The Bronco spun to a stop at the edge of the brush.

Louis couldn’t see anything through the muddy windows. He pushed open the door and jumped out, gun raised.

Nothing. Just a stand of squat palms and reeds and two deep tracks running off through
the mud into the far brush. He could hear the growl of the buggy moving away.

Joe was at his side, gun drawn,
breath coming hard and fast. She saw the tracks and swung back to Louis.

“We’ll never make it in there! Shit! He
’s --”

“Joe, quiet!” Louis
said.

She stared at him.

“Turn off the engine!”

“What?”

“Just do it! Now!”

She ran back and switched off the engine.

Louis raised the Glock, turning his head.

Joe came up, gun raised.

“Wait. Listen,” Louis said.

Joe didn’t move. Louis strained to hear.

“What?” she said.

“No engine.” He was staring into the brush in the direction of the tire tracks. “I swear I heard something, like water, like a splash.”

He darted into the trees, his feet hitting hard mud, the broken trees and branches scraping at his ankles. With each step, the ground grew soggier, and he could feel water seeping into his shoes.

He smelled gasoline. A thin cloud of steam rose from beyond the bushes ahead of him. He moved closer, feeling water swirl up around his ankles, then to his knees. He parted the bushes cautiously.

The buggy was nose-down in the inky black water, the back wheels still spinning slowly. He couldn’t see the seats, couldn’t see the man. But he could see the metal box on the back of the buggy, locked with a pad lock.

On the other side of the
buggy he heard movement. A thrashing in the water. Branches snapping. His eyes swung back to the locked box.

He heard panting behind him. He knew it was Joe.

“Go, go,” she said. “I’ll check out the buggy.”

Louis moved around
the buggy, mud sucking at his shoes. The water was cold and black, with sharp broken cypress stumps breaking the surface like spikes.

He heard a groan and another splash and he swung the
Glock to his left. He saw the man trudging through the water, arms flailing for balance.

Louis tried to run, but couldn’t
. The water pulled at his thighs, his shoes stuck in the mucky bottom. His chest felt ready to explode. But he was getting closer and could hear the man gasping for breath.

“Stop!” Louis yelled.

The man glanced over his shoulder but kept going.

Louis got his first good look at him. He was covered with mud but Louis could tell it was Byron Ellis.

Louis pushed through the water, almost close enough to take him down. Ellis came to a stop, and started to look back again as Louis lunged at him, wrapping his arms around Ellis’s shoulders.

They crashed sideways into the water. Ellis started throwing wild punches and it was all Louis could do to hold his head above water and keep hold of Ellis’s
shirt. Louis tried to hit him with the butt of the Glock.

A fist landed, hard and solid, into Louis’s chest sending an explosion of pain through his upper body so strong he stumbled backward, grabbing his right shoulder. He couldn’t back
pedal fast enough to keep his balance.

The muddy water rushed over his face. And for a second, he was under, Ellis a blur coming back to him.

As his head came out of the water, he saw Ellis’s arm stretch out at him, saw something black glistening in his hand.

A gun.

Louis tried to bring his Glock from under the water, but it was heavy, caked with mud.

A shot cracked above his head. Then another.

It took Louis a second to realize it was not Ellis who was shooting. The shots had come from somewhere else.

Louis turned and saw Joe standing a few feet away, knee-deep in water, her gun leveled.

Ellis let out a moan and staggered, falling face first into the water. Louis struggled to his feet and stumbled to him, turning him over.

Ellis’s eyes were open and moving, but he was limp, his hands empty. Louis grabbed him under the arms and started dragging him to dry ground.

Louis collapsed onto the dirt, letting go of Ellis as he tried to catch his breath. Ellis was just lying there, his shoulders and head resting against a cypress stump.

“Louis!” Joe called out
.

“Ben! Was he in the buggy?” Louis yelled back to her.

“No. The box was empty.”

Louis grabbed Ellis’s shirt. “Where is he?”

Ellis moaned, his eyes rolling backward. He was dying. Louis knew it.

“Where’s Benjamin?” Louis shouted, shaking him. “Talk to
me, you son of a bitch! Where’s Benjamin?”

Ellis
’s gaze moved from Louis to Joe, now standing over Louis’s shoulder. Then his eyes fell shut. His breath was coming raspy and wet. The wound in his chest was oozing blood.

“Answer me!” Louis shouted.

“He’s dead,” Ellis wheezed.

With a cry, Louis flung Ellis into the mud. Ellis sputtered, struggled to sit up, but fell back against the tree.

Louis struggled to his feet, wiping his face. Joe was just a blur in front of him. His chest burned and he couldn’t pull in a full breath.

Ellis coughed. “You killed him,” he said.

Louis turned back.

“What?”

Ellis looked up at Louis.

“You...you cops. The night you brought the money.”

Louis dropped down next to Ellis in the mud. “What are you talking about?”

Ellis spat out blood. “We didn’t kill the kid. You did. You cops shot him. We took him out of there but he died later.”

Louis went numb, his mind racing backward.

Setting Austin’s purse down in the dirt.

The first shot hitting him in the chest, spinning him around. Then his own gun going off, jarred from his hand by the recoil. And a second shot slamming into his back. Then Jewell spraying the darkness with his bullets.

Louis grabbed Ellis’s shirt, shaking him. “Where did you leave him?”

Ellis didn’t answer.

“Where did you leave his body?” Louis yelled.

Joe was suddenly next to him, trying to get his attention, her hands on his chest.

“Louis,
Ellis is dead,” she said.

Louis looked down at Ellis’s mud-streaked face and empty brown eyes. He felt Joe’s hands, gently prying
his fingers off Ellis’s shirt. Finally, he sat back, his breath coming in hard, painful spurts.

Joe knelt next to him in the mud. He felt her arms come around him. He buried his head in her shoulder.

They had gone back
in, guns drawn, but Louis had known the trailer would be empty.

He had walked the narrow hall, pushed in
the paper-thin bedroom doors and jerked open closets, but there had been no one there. Then he had started upending the few pieces of furniture, looking for that one little thing he was sure Ben would leave. A shoe string. A toy. A small dirty hand print placed deliberately on a wall.

Nothing.

Joe finally had to drag him outside, forcing him to sit in the Bronco and wait until the cops showed up. She had tried to tell him he shouldn’t believe a thing Byron Ellis said. He was a criminal, a killer who had nothing to lose by lying.

But Louis had turned away in anger. Not at her, but at the idea
that Ellis might be telling the truth.

For the last hour, he had been sitting in the Bronco, rewinding that night over and over in his head, trying to remember if he had he
ard Ben’s voice after the shots, trying to remember seeing him fall, trying to remember anything that would prove Ellis wrong.

The cigar ring in the mot
el. He was sure Ben had left it. But when? The drop had been Sunday night. If the ring had been left on Monday, that meant Ben had been alive after the drop. But if it had been left on Sunday...

Louis shut his eyes.

“Nice mess you made in there.”

Louis looked up to see Chief Wainwright standing at the passenger window. There was a fleet of cop cars behind him from both Lee and Collier counties.

“What were you looking for in that trailer?” Wainwright asked.

“Something Ben might have left,” Louis said.

Wainwright let out a sigh.

Louis could tell Wainwright still wasn’t buying this trail of clues thing. But he didn’t care.

Wainwright glanced at the trailer. “You find anything?”

Louis shook his head.

“Collier County is pissed, you know that.”

“We had to go inside,” Louis said. “You know that
.”

Wainwright nodded. “But you didn’t have to contaminate the scene.”

Louis didn’t reply. He didn’t care about that either.

Wainwright glanced down the scenic drive, where they had followed Ellis to the swamp. “Detective Frye told me what Ellis said, that you might’ve shot the kid,” he said.

Louis watched the activity around the trailer. Sheriff Mobley and a man Louis guessed to be the Collier County sheriff were having words near the door. Someone was stringing crime scene tape. A tech pulled open the rear doors of the CSI van and hauled out a large black box.

“You don’t believe him, do you?” Wainwright asked.

Louis looked at him. He wanted to say hell no, I don’t believe him. He’s a lying ex-con who kills for the fun of it. But he couldn’t. A part of him couldn’t get the possibility out of his head because it made some kind of weird sense. Wainwright had said it. I’m not sure they ever wanted to kill Ben. I think they intended to kill Outlaw, take the money, and release him.

And Louis had agreed with him.

“Did they find anything out at the drop scene?” Louis asked. “Can they account for all the shots?”

Wainwright looked away, then back. “No. We pulled two of theirs out of your car, and found one of Jewell’s in a stump. That leaves one of yours and three of Jewell’s unaccounted for.”

There was another noise, something coming from overhead, a
whoop-whoop
noise Louis instantly recognized. He opened the door against Wainwright’s chest and got out, looking up.

It was a helicopter, white with a big red seven on the side. A Fort Myers TV news chopper.

“Damn it,” Louis said.

“What?” Wainwright
asked.

“Susan,” Louis said. “What did you tell her?”

“I haven’t told her anything. I was at the station when Frye called.”

“I need to get back,” Louis said. “Susan can’t see this on TV
. Where’s Joe?”

“Never mind Joe.” Wainwright pointed to his cruiser. “I can get you back
quicker. Let’s go.”

Louis opened the door to Susan’s house and went inside, followed by Wainwright. Susan, Jewell, and Austin were standing in the middle of the room, eyes locked on the TV. A female reporter was standing at the turnoff into Copeland, the police cars and the trailer far in the background.

Jewell looked over at
them. Wainwright motioned for Jewell to follow him back outside. The young man locked eyes with Louis for a moment then walked past him out the door.

Susan was looking at Louis, one hand closed over the other against her chest. Her eyes
flickered between confusion and fear.

He went to her, taking her shoulders.

She pulled away from him. “What’s happened? They said one of the suspects is dead.”

“He is. It was Byron Ellis. Joe had to shoot him.”

She waited, silent, looking up at him.

“We found Ellis in a trailer out near a preserve, but Ben wasn’t there with him.”

“What about the other man?” Susan asked.

Louis shook his head.

“Did you find anything else? Was there any sign he was —-”

“Susan,” Louis said. “Sit down. Please.”

She didn’t move.

“You, too, Austin,” Louis said. Austin knew what was coming. Louis could see it in his face.

Austin reached out and put a hand on Susan’s shoulder, gently directing her to the sofa. She sat down, rigid, her hands clasped, her knees pressed together.

Louis picked up the remote and switched off the TV
. He sat down on the coffee table so he was level with them. They waited, Austin’s hand sliding over to cover Susan’s. She didn’t seem to notice. She was staring at Louis, her eyes glistening.

“Before Ellis died,” Louis said. “He...”

The words caught in his throat and he looked away, feeling his chest tighten. He could hear Susan’s quickened breathing, smell the lingering smoke of Austin’s last cigar.

Louis forced himself to look at them. Austin’s hand was clenched over Susan’s and they were both leaning forward.

The words came out in a hoarse whisper. “Ellis said Ben is dead.”

Susan let out a wounded cry, jerking her hands away from Austin, drawing them to her chest. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she clenched her eyes shut.

Louis started to reach out for her, but Austin’s hand was there, on her shoulder, on her arm, on her face wiping her tears.

Louis waited. Susan’s sobs were the only sound in the room. Finally, he touched Austin’s arm and nodded toward the door.

“I need to talk to you,” he said quietly.

Austin looked confused, but started to move away from Susan. She grabbed Louis’s wrist.

“What else?" she asked.

“Susan, let me handle this,” Austin said.

Susan tightened her grip. “What else is there? What were you going to tell him that I couldn’t hear?”

Louis looked down at her. “You’ll probably hear a report about this later on tonight and I wanted you to hear it from me first
.”

She stood up, her fingers still curled around his wrist.

“Ellis said something else, too,” Louis said. He could hear himself say it but it didn’t sound like him. The words came out
hollow and flat. “He said Ben was shot the night we tried to deliver the money. By one of us.”

A second passed.

“Us?” she whispered. “Us? You mean...?”

Then, slowly, she shook her head. She let out another cry, this one from deep inside, a low gutt
ural sound that came from rage. She jerked her hand from his wrist and pushed him away.

“No,” she cried. “No, No. Not this way! Not by you!”

She came at him, pushing him backward, her hands pounding against his chest, her cries now like a wounded animal.

“Get out!” she cried.

“Susan --” Austin said.

“Get out! Get out now! All of you!”

Louis tried to catch her flailing arms, but she tore from his grasp, spinning away. Austin grabbed her so she wouldn’t fall. She fought him, until he wrapped his arms around her so tight she couldn’t move. He was holding her up as she sobbed.

Austin looked at Louis over Susan’s head. “Go,” he said.

Louis turned and opened the door, stepping out onto the porch. He closed the door behind him.

The street was dark and quiet. It was sprinkling, small, light drops that pinged on
the cars and windows. Crime scene tape flapped in the breeze at the old folks’ house across the street. A lone Sereno Key cruiser was still parked at the curb. Wainwright’s cruiser was parked in front of the house next door. The chief was sitting in the driver’s seat, head back. Louis knew he was waiting to give him a ride home.

Louis saw someone standing off to the side, in the driveway near Susan’s old Mercedes. It was Jewell. He was just standing there, looking back at Susan’s front door. His black cap was beaded with rain, the brim shadowing his eyes.

Louis went to him.

Jewell looked up. His face was wet, his eyes red-rimmed and weary.

“How you doing?” Louis asked.

Jewell’s voice trembled. “Fine, sir.”

“Look...” Louis began.

“Sir, can I say something?” Jewell interrupted.

Louis nodded.

“It wasn’t you,” he said. “Your shot went into the dirt. It had to have been me.”

Jewell’s blue eyes never wavered from Louis’s face, and his mouth was drawn tight into a line that quivered at the edges.

Louis put a hand on his shoulder, over the
Sereno Key patch on his sleeve.

“Thank you, Jewell,” Louis said.

Jewell glanced at Wainwright’s cruiser sitting at the curb, waiting for Louis. “The chief has relieved me of duty.”

“Then go home,” Louis said.

“I can’t, sir. I can’t —-”

“Jewell, go home.”

Jewell hesitated then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Louis watched him walk down the block and get
in his cruiser. A moment later, it disappeared down the dark street. With a final look back at Susan’s door, Louis started toward Wainwright’s car.