Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9) (25 page)

“Black Chevy pickup.”

Ingram looked at her. “Wolfe drives a truck like that.”

Joe shook his head. “No, this one was black head to toe. Nothing shiny anywhere, even the wheel caps.”

Tara watched him, soaking up the details. Cops called that kind of paint job murdered out. It was flat and black and dead-looking.

“When was this?” Tara asked. Her fingers itched to start taking notes, but she worried he’d clam up.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. “First time . . . it was back before that last blue norther. When was that?”

Ingram frowned. “Early October, maybe?”

Tara leaned closer, getting excited. “You saw it more than once?” she asked.

“Couple times. In November, too. Few times lately.” He picked up a coffee can and spit tobacco juice into it. “He was through here the other morning. Thursday. I was checking my traps.”

“Thursday morning? You’re sure?” Tara asked.

“I remember ’cause it was right around sunup. Most folks ain’t out yet.”

Tara glanced at Ingram.

“And you’re sure it was a Chevy?” he asked.

“Two thousand five or thereabouts. Regular cab.”

“You get a look at the driver?” Tara asked.

“Nope.”

“How about the folks around here, up and down Tupelo Road?” Ingram asked. “Anyone drive a truck like that?”

“Nope.”

Tara looked at the sheriff, and she could tell he was excited, too. The timing fit.

Ingram leaned closer. “Listen, Joe, this truck may be important. If you see him again, you give us a call.”

Joe spit into the coffee can. “Sure would if I had a phone.”

INGRAM GOT BACK
on the road but turned in the opposite direction from the route they’d taken before.

“Keep going down this way, you’ll get to the fork,” he said. “That’s where they found the tire tracks off-road, by the path leading to the dump site.”

Tara stared out the window, taking in details. Dense tree cover obscured much of the sun. She rested her elbow on the door.

Ingram looked at her. “What’d you think of Joe?”

“His memory seems a little spotty, but it might be a good lead.”

“Maybe. Black pickups are a dime a dozen, but a paint job like that narrows it down some.”

Tara looked at the mailboxes along the road. They were starting to get to a more inhabited area. Through the trees she saw a few double-wide trailers. They passed a house with several battered-looking pickups out front. Tin foil covered the windows. The place was surrounded by a chain-link fence with a sign tacked to it:
BEWARE OF DOG
.

“Here’s the turn,” Ingram said, tapping the brakes.

“Pull over where they found the tire track.”

Ingram shot her a look.

“Please.”

He turned off the road and drove a short distance, then stopped and shifted into park. Tara climbed out. She’d been here once before, but it was during the dead of night. She and M.J. had stood in the drizzle and watched a pair of CSIs crouched beneath a tarp, hurrying to get a plaster cast of the tire impression.

“It’s gone now,” Tara observed.

“What’s that?”

“The tire track.”

“Well, we’ve had some good rain.”

Tara walked off the road into the nearby trees. She glanced up at the leafy green canopy. The air smelled of pinesap, and the staccato tap of a woodpecker echoed through the forest.

“It’s pretty here.”

Ingram frowned.

She picked her way deeper into the woods. Her gaze caught on something white flapping in the breeze. “Is that—”

“Just a clothesline.”

Tara looked at him. “There’s a house back here?”

“Jason was there already.”

“That wasn’t in his report.”

“She said she didn’t see anything.”

“She?”

He sighed heavily. “It’s a woman and her kid. Becky Lee Bower. She’s been in and out of the system, not the most reliable witness you ever come across.”

“Why was she in the system?”

“She was in a meth house we raided back last fall. We collared up six people. The judge let her off with probation so she could keep her kid.”

Tara walked through the trees until the structure came into view. It was a small shotgun house, pier-and-beam foundation, chipping white paint.

“Where you going?” Ingram called after her.

Tara ducked under the clothesline, and barks erupted inside the house. The screen door rattled as a big black dog scraped frantically with his paws.

“Earl! Get back here!”

A woman dragged the dog away. She looked gray behind the screen.

“Can I help you?” she called out. The friendly words didn’t match her blatantly suspicious tone.

“Ms. Bower? I’m Tara Rushing.”

“Yes?” she said through the screen.

“I’m with the FBI.” Tara heard footsteps behind her. “Sheriff Ingram and I are investigating the recent deaths that happened not far from here.”

“Yeah?” Her gaze narrowed.

“Would you mind talking to us a minute, please?”

She looked past Tara as Ingram clomped up the stairs, sending the dog into a renewed tizzy. “I already talked to the deputy,” she said over the barks. “Jason Somebody.”

“This won’t take long, ma’am.”

She looked from Ingram to Tara, then down at her dog, which was a large mixed breed. “All right, then, come in.”

Ingram reached around Tara and pulled open the screen. Tara stepped into the house. Far from the inviting smell of bacon, this house smelled like mildew and wet dog. The floor slanted noticeably, and several of the boards had buckled. A brown rug on one side of the room was littered with toys. A little boy in pajamas knelt there, zooming a truck over a cardboard box. All the sofa cushions had been pulled off and made into a fort.

The woman dragged the dog into a back room, where he continued to bark as she shut the door on him. When she returned, Tara looked her over.

Becky Lee Bower was probably twenty-five or thirty based on her son’s age, but she looked fifty. Her cheeks were sunken, her skin sallow, her long hair stringy and dull. Deep lines around her eyes and mouth suggested years of addiction.

Tara glanced around the house. She didn’t detect any of the typical sights and smells of a meth kitchen. On the contrary, the woman looked to be cooking actual food, and Tara caught a whiff of burned toast.

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Tara Rushing.” She slipped a business card from her pocket and handed it to her. “I’m with the FBI.”

The woman darted a look at Ingram, and Tara wasn’t sure what it meant. Clearly, she didn’t welcome visitors, but she seemed to have some particular beef with the sheriff.

“Relax, Becky Lee. This won’t take long. How come your boy’s not in school?”

Whatever “relaxing” effect he’d intended his words to have was instantly erased.

“He’s sick,” she snapped. Then she turned to Tara. “What exactly did you want to ask me?”

Barks and yelps came from the back of the house. Tara forced a smile. “The other night—this would be last Wednesday or early Thursday morning—did you see anyone up and down this road?”

“No.” She shot a look at Ingram. “I already told the deputy.”

“This was the night before we had that big rain,” Ingram said.

“I know what night it was. I didn’t see anybody.”

“You hear anything at all?” Tara asked.

“No.”

Ingram stepped closer. “You sure? Alligator Joe said he saw a truck around sunup that morning.”

Tara darted him a look. Talk about leading the witness.

But Becky Lee simply crossed her bony arms over her chest. “I didn’t see anything.”

“See any tire tracks?” Ingram asked. “Shoe tracks, anything like that?”

She pursed her lips, and Tara could tell he’d hit on something.

“Anything at all you remember might help us out,” Tara said.

“I didn’t
see
anything, but—” She stopped and turned around as the barking reached a fever pitch. “Damn it, Earl!” She stomped down the hall and opened the door. She took the dog by the collar, pulled him to the back door, and nudged him outside.

“You were saying?” Tara asked. “You didn’t see anything,
but
 . . . ?”

She leaned back against her kitchen counter and darted a glance at the living room, where her son was still busy with his toys.

“The night you’re talking about, Earl woke us up, guess it was about four
A.M.
”

“Who’s ‘us’?” Ingram asked.

“Me and Corey.” She nodded at the boy. “We sleep together with Earl at the end of the bed. That morning you’re talking about, he was up barking and carrying on. I don’t know what was wrong with him, but I got out of bed and let him out.”

Tara exchanged a look with the sheriff.

“You recall which direction he went?” Ingram asked.

“He lit out toward the old smokehouse down by the creek. I figured he smelled a possum or something.”

Ingram stepped to the door. He pushed the screen open and looked outside. “That little shed out to the west there?”

“Out behind the septic.”

“Show me.”

She heaved a sigh and went to the door, and the sheriff followed her outside. Tara stepped to the window and watched them disappear around the back of the house.

Tara glanced at the little boy, still playing with his trucks on the rug.

“Hi, Corey.” She walked over, and he glanced up. “I’m Tara.”

He wore green and blue Incredible Hulk pajamas, and his sandy brown hair was tousled from sleep. He didn’t look feverish.

“How you feeling?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“You making a fort?”

He shrugged.

She lowered herself onto the sagging green armchair. “Tell me about your cars.”

He shrugged again.

“What’s your favorite?”

He stopped and looked at his collection. Many were police cars, and she wondered if he was reenacting the scene he’d seen the other night. No doubt all the sirens and strobe lights had captivated his attention.

He plucked a red sports car from the shaggy carpet. “This one.”

“A Corvette. Nice.” She picked up a red fire truck and fiddled with the ladders.

Her presence seemed to make him uncomfortable. He scooted closer to the pillow fort and started playing with action figures.

“You ever notice any pickup trucks around here? Maybe a black one?”

He shrugged. “Just Joe’s, but his is white and blue.”

“You ever see any people around who didn’t belong?”

He picked up two Spider-Man figurines and had them face off on the coffee table.

“Corey?”

“I saw the Hulk down by the creek once. But turned out it was just Joe coming back from his traps.” He looked up at her. “You know Joe killed a alligator?”

“I heard.”

“He showed me the teeth. They’re in a can in his house.”

The screen door squeaked open, and Ingram poked his head in. “You want to come see this.”

Tara went outside and followed him across the yard. Becky Lee was standing by a rickety wooden shed sucking on a cigarette.

“This is where the dog ran to that night.” Ingram pointed back toward the road. “You make a beeline from that tire track we lifted, straight through those trees, you get to the path he took to get to the dump site.”

The term
dump site
annoyed her, but Tara let it go. “Okay. So?”

“So, the dog woke everyone up about four
A.M.
Joe saw the black truck through here when he went to clear his traps. We just whittled our time frame down to two, three hours.”

Becky Lee’s arm dropped to her side, her cigarette dangling between her fingers. “Are you saying he carried that girl right
through
here?”

Ingram looked at her. “That’s what it sounds like to me.”

She looked stricken. “But . . . what if he comes back?”

“We’ll catch him before then.” He gave a confident nod that set Tara’s teeth on edge. “Till then, you better lock your doors.”

AS THEY MADE
their way back to the highway Tara gazed out the window.

“How old is she?”

Ingram looked surprised by the question. “Becky Lee? I’d say twenty-five.” He rolled to a stop at the highway and hung a left. “She’s been clean about three months now. Probably won’t take, though.”

Tara looked out the window again, her chest tightening at the thought of Corey in that house.

“You know, it’s the kids that get me,” Ingram said.

She looked at him.

“Every time we call protective services, it’s the same old same old,” he said. “No place to put ’em and they end up back in the house or with relatives. Half the time the relatives are just as bad.”

Tara looked out the window as a familiar anger gripped her. She thought of Corey in his too-small PJs playing hooky from school. She wondered what his mother was like when she was strung out. And what the men were like, the ones who inevitably came around looking for drugs or sex or maybe even skinny little boys.

Her mind drifted to a crappy little apartment in Nacogdoches. Tara had had her own bedroom and shared a bathroom with her mother and the occasional loser her mom happened to bring home. They were all the same—pseudo-intellectuals with goatees and thrift-shop clothes—and her mom would stay up late with them, drinking Scotch and smoking while Tara lay in bed with acid filling her stomach. Most times she could slip away to school in the morning, but the summers weren’t so easy, and more than once she’d awakened to find her mother had gone out on errands and left Tara with some hairy, hungover man in the next room.

Her mother was book smart but unforgivably stupid when it came to men.

Tara thought of Corey again. Not so different from the girl they’d found under the sink last week. Not so different from anyone.

Ingram drove the rest of the way in silence, and Tara spent the time planning. By the time they got back to the sheriff’s office, she was ready to get to work and in no mood for bullshit. Ingram pulled up alongside her SUV, probably thinking he was about to be rid of her for the day.