Deadly Catch (27 page)

I picked up the shot of Lamar and Brett, where the camera had captured what appeared to be an argument of some kind. “Looks to me like Lamar is threatening Brett here, or at least they’re having a disagreement over something. What do you think?”

Kate picked up the photo and examined it again. “I agree, but what about?”

“Who does Marilyn Harper despise most in this world?”

Kate thought a moment. “Nora Barfield . . . and Brett.”

I took another swig of beer. “I think Marilyn was getting Lamar to lean on Brett, probably to get him and Maddie to stop seeing each other.”

Kate’s eyes widened. “She was paying him to break them up?”

“That’s my guess, but not with money. Lamar had been carrying a torch for Mare for years. She knew it, and started romancing Lamar to persuade him to be her lap dog.”

Kate took a sip of beer and lightly massaged her forehead. “But where does the money fit in, and all that anger toward Lamar?”

“Okay, think back. When did Lamar hurt his eye?”

“A couple of months ago, I think.”

“Around the same time that Brett and Maddie supposedly eloped, wasn’t it?”

Kate took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, it was. Wait, you don’t think—”

The Marines’ Hymn cut off Kate’s words. I grabbed the cell phone and answered.

“McClellan?” It was Sheriff Bo Pickron.

“Go.”

“I need to see you this evening.”

“What for?”

“Brett Barfield turned up this afternoon.”

Barfield? This could answer a lot of questions. “Where?”

“In the national forest, at the bottom of a sinkhole. Dead.”

That evening at dusk I was on my way to Parkersville to see Sheriff Pickron when an older-model white Ford sedan pulled onto the highway just in front of me about a block from Canal Park. I had to hit the brakes, even though I was observing the seasonal city speed limit of 35 mph. The driver’s head barely cleared the top of the seat. He was wearing a straw fedora like many of the older male tourists in these parts, but with my headlights practically on his bumper I noticed right away the car bore a Florida license plate.

I muttered a few choice words and backed off. Just outside the city limits he sped up gradually, but he was still doing well under the posted limit of 60. I closed the gap a couple of times as an incentive for him to speed up, but each time the old geezer tapped his brakes.

It was after what passed for rush hour around the St. George-Parkersville metropolis area, and there was very little traffic, but I didn’t want to risk passing yet because there always seemed to be some fool driving without lights in this twilight between day and night. The highway between the two towns passed through a few miles of paper company land planted in slash pines, which made visibility that much poorer. A long stretch of straight highway was coming up in another half mile, so I decided to play it safe and wait.

The road finally straightened out. I eased over near the center line and squinted past the slow-moving Ford ahead. Satisfied it was clear, I turned on my left blinker and pulled into the other lane. Damned if the car didn’t speed up when I did, not an uncommon occurrence with some assholes who think they own the road. I gave the Silverado a little more gas and then floored it. Just as the passing gear kicked in, the passenger-side window exploded, peppering my right cheek with glass shards and blasting a hole through the driver-side window.

At first I didn’t know what the hell had happened, but when the second round buzzed past my head and took out the rest of my window I pretty much had it figured out. I ducked as low as I could while still maintaining control and cut the wheel left, at the same time lifting off the gas and braking as quickly as I dared. The truck ran off the shoulder of the road, jolted across a shallow grassy ditch, and plowed into the forest. Luckily, the Silverado came to rest between two rows of pines planted just far enough apart to accommodate it.

Keeping low, I grabbed the shotgun off the floorboard where I’d kept it whenever driving since the goons from up north had made their late-night visit. I jacked a shell into the chamber, then slipped the transmission into park, killed the engine, and pulled the key out of the ignition. I left the headlights shining into the woods, hoping the ambushers would think I was injured or dead. Reaching up, I flicked the dome light switch to “off” so it wouldn’t come on automatically. I unbuckled my seat belt, then, easing the door open just enough to get the job done, I slipped outside.

I crawled to the back tire. Using it as a shield, I peeked under the truck bed. Down the road, headlights flashed in a half circle and headed back my way, then went out. I heard the Ford swishing through the high grass growing in the shallow ditch. I kept my eyes away from the glow of the taillights and hoped like hell my eyes would adjust to the darkness in time. The Ford’s motor died; a car door creaked open and then closed with little noise. Whoever it was had been wise enough to turn off their interior light, too.

I took some deep breaths and let my ears do the work while my eyes got better adjusted to the dark. I was in combat mode now, and I felt that rush I’d experienced during my tours in Iraq. A minute or so passed, then I heard footsteps, barely audible but coming my way. All those long nights on watch as a Marine were paying off.

A hulking shadow with pistol drawn approached the truck and crept toward the passenger-side door. I eased into a catcher’s squat, shotgun at the ready, safety off. Damned if I was going to give the shooter another crack at me. When he was just a few paces from the truck I bolted up, point-aimed the scattergun, and squeezed the trigger, no questions asked. The Maverick roared and bucked, and in the muzzle blast I saw the dark figure tumble backward. I chambered a round, ready in case another shooter might be approaching. Instead, I heard the Ford start up, and then the squeal of tires on pavement as it sped back toward St. George.

I waited a moment, then crept around to the other side of the truck. The shooter lay sprawled on the forest floor, arms outstretched above his head like he was reaching for Heaven. He wasn’t moving, but I kept the barrel trained on him as I approached to check for a pulse. I gave the body a light kick in the ribs, then bent down and placed my fingertips on his neck. Nothing.

I tried to feel something inside, but all I came up with was numb. This wasn’t the first life I’d taken, but after Fallujah I’d hoped to never face this kind of situation again. But life is that way. We don’t always get what we hope for.

And there was no mistaking who it was lying at my feet. The King was dead.

While I caught my breath a few vehicles passed by in either direction, but I had already doused the truck lights and was far enough off the road and in the woods that none of them even slowed.

I figured Blondie must’ve been driving, wearing the hat and slumped low in the seat while Elvis had kept out of sight in the back. But how the hell had they tailed me from Kate’s house? Then it struck me. Somebody, and my money was on Merritt, must’ve known I was there and somehow tipped them off that I was heading out on Highway 98. The no-good bastard.

When I’d calmed down enough, I called Pickron on his cell phone and told him where I was and what had happened. He came out right away by himself, listened to my spiel, and checked out the scene.

Long story short: Bocephus warned me not to mention a word to anybody about what had gone down. His department would keep things under wraps as long as possible while they ran a make on the guy. Meanwhile, if any reporters came snooping around, a John Doe had been found in the woods, cause of death as of yet undetermined.

Not a problem. I sure as hell didn’t want Kate knowing how close I’d come to buying the farm. Luckily, there were no bullet holes or other damage to my Silverado that I could see, other than the shattered glass. A vandal or would-be thief had busted out the windows while my truck was parked on the street during my meeting with the sheriff, and I’d nicked myself in a couple of places while shaving above my beard.

I figured Kate would buy it, especially if I kept busy for a couple of days getting the glass replaced and giving my peppered cheek time to heal before seeing her again.

Before he left, Pickron filled me in on what he knew about Brett Barfield’s untimely demise. A group of archaeological students from FSU had been exploring sinkholes for artifacts and other evidence of Native American culture in an area of the national forest only a couple of miles from the Grand Gator Bay Wilderness Area. Rappelling to a wide ledge in one sinkhole that led to a cavern, a student had spotted a body floating in the water twenty feet below. The U.S. Forest Service and local sheriff’s department were called in and the body recovered. Brett’s wallet was still in his pocket, his ID, a few dollars in cash, and credit cards intact.

So much for my theory that Brett Barfield was alive and on the lam.

Pickron’s parting words: “Watch your ass, McClellan. I doubt this character will hang around, but you never know.”

A week later, the autopsy results revealed that Brett Barfield had suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen at point-blank range. The bullet had passed through the body and wasn’t recovered. His lungs contained fresh water, indicating the wound had not been instantly fatal. A rope was found around the body. Someone had shot Brett, tied a rock or some other weight to his body, and dumped him into the sinkhole. Somehow over time, the weight had worked loose and the body floated to the surface. Though the medical examiner estimated Brett had been dead two to three months, the body was in much better condition than Maddie’s due to the cold, mineral-laden water and lack of scavengers.

More telling, limestone samples taken from the sinkhole matched those found imbedded in the scalp of Madison Lynn Harper. It was likely that Maddie had met her fate in the same location.

Kate had been right all along; Clayton Barfield and Chief Ben Merritt had been arguing, not laughing, the night we’d seen them in the alley beside the bank in Parkersville. That was evident at Brett’s funeral. Clayton seemed as distraught as his wife, Nora, and something told me it was no act.

Damn fine detective I was turning out to be.