Ninety-Five
HELENE KEEPS THE lights flashing and has the siren back on all the way to Taylor’s house.
We see the damage when we come screeching and skidding into her driveway. The windows on either side of her front door are gone, front lawn littered with glass reflecting the light from the front porch.
Taylor is standing on the top step, SIG Sauer in her hand.
“Don’t shoot,” I say.
When we’re inside, all of us sitting around her living room, I tell her my story first. When I finish, Taylor says, “Oh my God, Silas. And I thought I was the one in danger.”
“You were,” I say. “Helene’s right. It’s a shooting war now.”
Then she says, “You really think it was him, Silas? The one who killed Burt?”
I’ve already told her about the tip, about the tattoos, all of it. Helene says her people are doing a ballistic check on the gun they had collected as we speak.
“Helene and I believe it has to be the same guy.”
“And I believe ballistics will back us up,” Helene says. “Arrogant and stupid in this case turned out to be quite beneficial for the good guys.”
“Do you have a name?” Taylor asks in a quiet voice.
“No ID on him,” I tell her.
“No worries,” Taylor says. “He won’t need one in hell.”
Helene then asks Taylor to take her through everything that had happened here. When Tay finishes her version of events, completely calm and organized in her telling, no extraneous details, no editorializing, Helene says, “How long has it been, ballpark, from when you heard the shots?”
Taylor tells her.
“That means it must have happened around the time they came for you, Silas,” Helene says.
“But if they were sent to kill Silas,” Taylor asks her, “why would they need to send a message by shooting at me?”
Helene says, “Maybe it would have been more than just a message if you hadn’t started shooting back.”
By now Taylor has poured us all shots of whiskey. I drink mine.
“You think Briar is behind this?” Taylor asks.
“I think this is the Southern Mafia doing what it does,” Helene answers.
She looks to Taylor, then me, and throws down her own whiskey.
“And what’s that?” Taylor asks.
“Not giving two shits that we know it’s them or know they’re coming right at us now,” Helene says.
“They killed a cop. They did it from a flashy car. They put a hit on the most famous person in the history of this town and then, just for kicks, they shot up the house of the cop they just killed.” She pauses.
“You add it all up, they actually give less than two shits right now.”
“So where do we go from here?” I ask.
“We show them they’ve got it wrong,” Helene says, “that we’re the ones coming for them.”
I tell Taylor that she’s coming to the farm to live with EJ and me, no questions asked, the subject is not open to debate.
To my great surprise, there is no pushback at all from her, not after what’s happened to both of us tonight. All she does is finish her own shot of whiskey, smile at me, then tell me that at least she can pack for herself this time.
Then she looks down at her gun on the coffee table in front of her.
“Even though I’ve got everything I need right there,” she says.
While Taylor goes upstairs to pack her bag, Helene steps outside, saying she needs to make a phone call.
When Taylor is back downstairs a few minutes later, she says she can drive the two of us to the farm if that’s all right with Helene.
Helene says that’s fine with her, she’ll follow us back in her own car, there’s still some housekeeping she’d like to do back at the scene.
We’re nearly back to the farm when I look down at my phone and see it’s Helene Mayes calling me from her car.
“We found another body.”
“Who?”
“Abby Wells,” she says.