Chapter 21
Dylan sat for a while, staring through the windshield. Rain was beating on the roof of the pickup, but at least it relieved the silence between them. Mitch had laid a lot on her and respected her need to think it through.
Eventually she said, “You told me that two people were responsible for Angela’s death.”
“I can’t get to the second one until I have Malone.”
“You don’t even know that he was involved.”
“Yes, I do.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“I, I, I. You always talk about this in first person. Whose authority are you working under?”
When he didn’t respond, she huffed a sound of disbelief. “No one’s? No agency? This is a personal crusade?” She laughed softly but without mirth. “Considering your actions tonight, why should that amaze me?”
“I’m not working in a vacuum. I have some help.”
“But this is your fight.”
“It’s my war. These are evil men. I’m going to put them out of commission.”
She frowned with apparent concern. “What if you’re caught doing something illegal and sent to prison? What if you’re caught in a crossfire and injured more seriously than you were tonight? Or killed? Think about what that would mean to Andrew.”
“I’ve got that covered.”
“With your in-laws?”
“I’ve got it covered, all right?” he said testily. “That’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Because I obviously struck a nerve.”
“No, because the less you know, the better. For your own protection.”
“From what?”
“From Malone, Dylan. From Malone.”
“Why would I need protection from him?”
“Think about it. Why else would he have urged you to come to his restaurant, first time ever and on short notice, except that he found out I was seeing you, and that bothered him.”
She bit her lower lip. “I’m not conceding the point, but I can see why you might jump to that conclusion. As a detective, it’s your job to look for possible motives. That doesn’t mean you’re always right.”
“True, but let’s say that this time I’m spot on. He must be at least a little nervous that you, being an upstanding citizen, might relax your professional code of confidentiality, and, in the name of justice, share with me at least some of what he’s unloaded to you.”
“I wouldn’t. I won’t. I’ve told you that. I’ve told him that.”
“Yeah, but guys like Malone live with a chronic case of paranoia. What I think, Dr. Reede? Your patient is shitting bricks right about now.” He motioned toward her phone. “Open it and check for texts. Several came in while you were in the drugstore.”
“And you’re just now telling me?”
“There hasn’t been time. You’re the one who insisted on rendering first aid.” Ignoring her censorious look, he said, “I’m betting that you have at least one from Malone.”
Looking resentful, she tapped in her passcode. “There are three from the driver who was picking me up. I’m sure he’s wondering what happened to me.”
“Cancel.”
“I will, but only because he’s probably already headed back to Auclair.” She glanced toward his midsection. “And because you’re bleeding. Also because you’re deranged, a danger to yourself and others, and shouldn’t be left unsupervised. I’m licensed to make that determination, you know.”
“Unlicensed people have determined that, too.”
“Don’t you dare joke,” she admonished crossly.
“Wasn’t joking.”
She quickly sent the text canceling the car and using Venmo to pay. Then she cast a cautious glance toward Mitch. “There is a text from Roland.”
He leaned over and looked at the screen. “No name ID, but you obviously recognized the number. How often do you two correspond?”
She didn’t reply to that but opened the text and scanned it.
“He apologized for abandoning me, asked if I am all right.” Looking at Mitch, she said, “I left during the dust-up in the median without an explanation or a goodbye. Doesn’t it stand to reason that he would be concerned enough to text me? ”
“It does stand to reason, so text him back. Tell him you made it home without incident and that you’re looking forward to a quiet, relaxing weekend. Thank him for the dinner. Sign off.”
“I would do that without you instructing me to.”
“Exactly. He would expect it. So, not to arouse his ingrained paranoia, make nice.”
“I’m not acknowledging that he’s paranoid,” she said as she typed the text.
Before she sent it, he said, “May I see?”
He took the phone from her, read the text, said, “Very good,” and sent it. But when she reached out to retrieve her phone, he held on to it, deftly took the back off, and removed the battery.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He dropped both her phone and the battery into a pocket of the windbreaker. “What does it look like?”
“Like you’re rendering my phone useless.”
“Good guess. Mine’s already disabled. For the rest of the night, we’re off the grid.”
“Are you insane?”
“Just deranged.”
“Mitch!”
“You won’t be missed for a day or two.”
“Missed for a day or two? I have patients.”
“Not tomorrow. Your office is closed. Three-day weekend. I know because I called to make an appointment. Ellie told me she had to go out of town to see her sick sister, so you decided to take a long weekend, too, and didn’t book any appointments for Friday.
” He gave her a look that dared her to contradict him.
She didn’t, but she was vexed. “You’re taking me home, Mitch. Right now!”
“Not tonight. Not until I learn how Malone reacted to the incident in the median.”
“He had nothing to do with that.”
“We’ll see,” he said in a doubtful tone. “But until I’m sure of that, you stay within my sight. No more argument. Buckle up.”
He started the truck and executed a jerky three-point turn that pulled at the knife wound and caused it to hurt. Securing the steering wheel with his right hand, he pressed his left against his side. His palm came away wet with fresh blood. “Shit.”
Having seen the problem, Dylan said, “Mitch, please be sensible. Find the nearest emergency center and get stitches.”
“We’ll put some of those clips on it when we get there.”
“Get where?”
He looked at her and grinned. “You’re in for a treat.”
An hour and a half later, Dylan wouldn’t use the word “treat” to describe the environment in which she found herself.
The large, cluttered room was dominated by the stuffed head of a snarling razorback. The boar shared the faded-wallpaper walls with other hunting and fishing trophies, yellowed and curled Mardi Gras posters from years gone by, and photographs and artifacts representing aspects of the Cajun culture.
If everything collected here had been displayed in glass cases inside a modern building surrounded by civilization, it would qualify as a museum.
But there hadn’t been any signs of civilization for the last few miles Mitch had driven in order to get here.
There hadn’t been a signpost on the narrow state highway to indicate a turnoff, but Mitch had known where it was and had taken it at an indiscriminate speed, plunging them into a forest as eerie as any in a Grimm brothers’ fairy tale.
The darkness was unrelieved by any light source save for the pickup’s headlights. The beams bounced off low-hanging tree branches draped in Spanish moss, and once caught the shiny, agate eyes of some species of wildlife.
The rutted track they’d taken off the highway led to a building that was barely detectible. Mitch boasted that he and John Bowie had painted it in camouflage themselves. He’d gone through a tedious process to unlock and open an overhead garage door. Inside the structure was a compact car.
He’d steered his pickup in alongside it and helped her to squeeze out. He’d gathered up all the bloody clothing and used gauze pads from the floorboard and bundled everything into the jacket he’d worn to look homeless.
He’d asked her to grab the bag of first aid items, then had reversed the process to secure the garage. To Dylan, its near invisibility made the security measures seem superfluous.
Taking her hand, he’d said, “Don’t let go, or you might never be found,” and had struck off on foot through the woods.
“Couldn’t we use a flashlight?”
“Definitely not. They attract the gators.”
She stopped in her tracks. “What?”
“Kidding.” Tugging on her hand, he’d claimed not to need a light. “I know my way.”
Contributing to the creepiness was a thick fog, which had made it impossible for her to see anything clearly, and the falling mist was so fine, it had felt like a sheer veil drifting across her face.
She’d tried to keep from tripping over exposed tree roots, or getting bogged down in the spongy ground, or stumbling over the natural debris that littered it.
Mitch’s surefooted tread had been soundless.
They hadn’t gone all that far before she saw the blurry outline of a structure. It gradually had taken the shape of a house built in the Acadian style with a sloping roof and wide front porch.
When they reached the front steps, Mitch had cautioned her to be careful of the second one. “It rocks, but that’s on purpose.”
“Why?”
“To alert anyone inside of an unexpected approach.”
The explanation had an ominous ring, but she’d let it pass.
Mitch had produced a key from under a porch floorboard, used it to open the door, then had ushered her inside and flipped a wall switch to turn on a bright overhead light.
Noticing that she’d blinked against the sudden glare, he’d gone around the room turning on lamps, then had extinguished the overhead fixture. He’d also switched on a wall-mounted AC unit that coughed and sputtered but produced a stream of cool air that relieved the stuffiness.
Now he was facing her, apparently amused by her stupefaction. “John told me Beth had the same reaction the first time she was here. Kinda dumbfounded.”
“I don’t quite know what to make of it.”
“It’s a fishing camp, handed down through generations of John’s family, his father’s, I think. It now belongs to him by default. Nobody else wanted it.”
“Well, it is rather hard to get to.”