Don't Cry (34 page)

 

J.D. slowed down when he saw the silver Lotus turn off on the winding road that led to the Chaney farmhouse and beyond to the next farm and then looped back and around to rejoin the county road. He waited a few minutes before he turned and followed. He had to be careful not to alert Porter that he was being tailed.

No streetlights illuminated the old country lane, only the three-quarter moon. A dense, pervasive darkness surrounded him, turning the fields and wooded areas on either side of the road into black, shadowy blurs. The vibratory murmur of the Impala's engine and the whirl of tires on the rutted pavement droned in his ears as he managed to keep the Lotus in sight and still remain a discreet distance behind the sports car. Adrenaline pumped through J.D.'s system, preparing him for whatever lay ahead, as he reminded himself that Somer Ellis's life might well depend on what he did tonight.

When he saw the entrance to the old Chaney farm, he expected Porter to turn off, and when he didn't, J.D. slowed the Impala to a crawl. Where was Porter going? J.D. had been so sure that Corey Bennett would be returning home, that somewhere on that hundred-acre tract, he was keeping his victims near wherever Regina Bennett had stored the Baby Blue toddlers' bodies.

“He's gone past the farm,” J.D. informed the unit as he crept along a safe distance behind the Lotus. “He's turning off onto what looks like a dirt road going into an open field.”

Farmland always had dirt pathways for equipment and workers. But there were no hiding places out in the open.

“I'm turning off my headlights and following him.”

 

Porter parked the Lotus at the edge of the open field, a cluster of high grass and wild shrubs hiding it from the view of passersby. He picked up a flashlight from the floorboard, got out, locked the car, and hiked into the woods, taking the gravel path that led up and into the hills. Within minutes, the crumbling old church came into view. Moonlight reflected off the broken windowpanes. Taking his time, mentally preparing himself for the monumental task facing him, he made his way to the back of the building. As he passed by the old Lincoln, he stopped and opened the trunk. After stuffing the small bright blue flashlight into his pocket, he removed the folded quilt near the extra tire and jack and spread it out inside the trunk, preparing a bed for Regina and Cody.

Leaving the trunk open, he entered the church and crept down the wooden stairs into the basement. The stairs creaked with each step he took. After tonight, he wouldn't come back to this church ever again. Like Regina and Cody, it, too, would become nothing more than a part of his past. And after tonight, he would have no need for the old Lincoln. He knew exactly what to do with it. Less than half a mile behind the church, there was a deep ravine, a fitting burial place for Luther Chaney's car.

 

J.D. parked the Impala just off the road, and notified the others that he would be on foot from here on out as he followed the suspect into the woods. Surprised to find a gravel path wide enough to accommodate a vehicle, he veered off onto the grassy shoulder to prevent his footsteps from crunching on the rocks. In the distance, he caught a glimpse of Porter as he disappeared behind the hulk of an old wooden building. What the hell was it? Why hadn't the FBI discovered this place twenty-three years ago when they had searched the Chaney farm and the surrounding area?

As J.D. drew closer and was able to see the structure more clearly in the moonlight, he realized that it was the ruins of a church.

Maybe the FBI had discovered the church years ago and found nothing suspicious inside the building. Or maybe they had somehow missed it. He couldn't recall any mention of a church in the old files about the Baby Blue toddlers.

His voice little more than a whisper, he gave the others directions. He told them he was going into the building to investigate and ordered them to approach the area silently.

Somer heard his footsteps.

She had suspected for a while now that she was underground, possibly in a basement or a storm shelter. He was coming down creaky stairs, which meant she had only a few precious moments to prepare herself. There was no reason to think that this time would be any different than the other times, no reason to believe that her life might end tonight.

Why hadn't she paid more attention to the news on TV and in the
Chattanooga Times Free Press
about the Rocking Chair Killer? If only she could remember the timeline between when he abducted his victims and when they were found dead, their bodies sitting in a rocking chair, a toddler's skeleton in their lap. Had it been a week? Ten days? Two weeks? God, why couldn't she remember?

Was she destined to share the same fate as those other three women, women whose names she couldn't recall?

Of course she was.

Tonight?

Please, God, please, give me more time. I don't want to die. I want to go home to Quint. I want that vacation in Hawaii. I want to be a mother. I want to grow old with Quint and live to see our grandchildren.

Suddenly, a dim light flickered softly behind her.

He came up behind the rocking chair.

Every muscle in her body tensed.

“I'm back, Mommy. I'll bring Cody to you. He needs your arms around him. He's missed you. We've both missed you.”

He reached out and untied her raw, bloody wrists. Even knowing her attempts to escape were futile, she still occasionally struggled against the ropes that bound her to the chair.

“Don't try to get up. Sit still and I'll put Cody in your arms.”

No, no, not yet.
This wasn't the usual sequence of events. He hadn't allowed her to use the slop jar. He hadn't asked her if she was hungry, hadn't offered to let her wash herself.

“Didn't you bring me something to eat?” she asked.

“You don't need to eat tonight,” he told her. “Cody must come first. That's what you always told me. Cody needs you. Can't you hear him crying?”

“Please, let me wash off—”

“No!” He screamed the word.

“Just my hands. Please.” She rose halfway up in the chair. “You don't want—”

“Hush now. You mustn't upset yourself.” He clutched her shoulders and forced her down into the rocker. “Everything is as it should be. You can trust me to keep my promise. I'm a good boy, aren't I, Mommy? Isn't that what you've always told me? ‘You're such a good boy, Corey. You know Mommy loves you, but Cody has to come first because he's very sick.'”

Tell him what he wants to hear, what he desperately needs to hear. Buy yourself some time. Don't give up. Don't you dare give up.

“I—I do love you…just as much as I love Cody.”

When he stroked her hair, she shivered involuntarily, knowing the gentle hands touching her belonged to a killer. “And I love you, too,” he told her. “That's why I'm going to keep my promise.”

“What—what promise?”

He leaned down behind her and kissed her forehead. She gasped. He had never kissed her before tonight. There was nothing sensual in his touch, only a tender affection.

“Do you want me to promise you again?” he asked. “Do you want to hear me say the words, to swear to you that I will fulfill my promise?”

She nodded. “Yes, please…Corey…”

He moved away from the chair.

She held her breath.

She had tried getting away from him in the past and only wound up flat on her face on the floor and then dragged back and tied to the chair. There was no point in trying again, was there?

Tonight was the night. He was going to kill her. She knew it as surely as she knew he was insane.

“Open your arms,” he instructed. Coming from behind the chair, he lifted the blanket-wrapped bundle over her head and placed it in her arms.

Don't look down.

She accepted the dead child, cradled it gently, and without any prompting, she began singing softly, crooning to a toddler who had been dead for many years.

He stood beside the chair as he always did and listened to her sing.

“He's still crying. He won't stop because he's in so much pain.” Her captor bent and picked up something from the floor and then handed it to her. “Do what you have to do, Mommy. Do what's best for Cody so he won't suffer anymore.”

She grasped the small baby pillow he had placed in her hand, but she couldn't move, could barely breathe. Her entire body stiffened. He reached down, took her hand holding the pillow, and laid it over the skeleton's little face.

“You know it's the right thing to do, the only thing that will end Cody's pain and suffering.”

Her hand moved of its own volition. She pressed the pillow down on the skull and held it there.

In her mind, she was screaming. Screaming loud enough to be heard for miles away.

 

J.D. followed the sound of voices. A man talking. A woman singing. The open door to the basement hung precariously on rusted hinges. He paused at the top of the stairs and shone his flashlight over the rickety wooden steps.

Will Brannock stood behind J.D. in the church's vestibule, his Glock drawn and ready. J.D. motioned to him, letting Will know that he was going down into the basement, and then signaled for him to wait there. Will nodded agreement. Knowing instinctively that the steps would moan under his weight, J.D. placed his foot on the first rung. Only a soft, barely audible moan followed. One by one, slowly and cautiously, he began his descent. Halfway down, the steps creaked. He stopped. Waited. He could hear Porter talking, apparently still unaware that he and his captive were not alone. The woman kept singing, her voice actually growing louder.

When J.D. reached the end of the stairs and his feet touched the concrete floor of the basement, he found the area totally dark except for a dim glow against the back wall. Light from a lone lantern cast a pale light into the darkness. After turning off his flashlight, he moved toward what appeared to be a door in the wall, a door situated between two shelves that had been pushed aside.

As he made his way across the room, he pulled his Smith & Wesson 9mm from its hip holster before he reached the gaping entrance to what appeared to be a secret room.

“He's at peace now,” the male voice said. Porter Bryant's voice, oddly soft and kind.

J.D. slipped quietly through the doorway and into the large, semidark area, hidden behind the shelving. He paused when he saw Porter standing behind a figure in a rocking chair, her long, dark hair cascading over her shoulders. Porter reached down and lifted something over the woman's head. It took J.D. a few seconds to figure out that the small square object Porter held was a pillow.

The woman continued singing, the words vaguely familiar to J.D. The song was a lullaby, about diamond rings turning brass and mocking birds that wouldn't sing.

“You can stop singing now, Mommy,” Porter said. “Cody can't hear you anymore. He's gone to heaven.”

He had called the woman
Mommy
. Did he actually believe his captive was Regina Bennett? Was Porter that far gone that he couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy?

The woman that J.D. assumed was Somer Ellis stopped singing.

“Now, I'm going to keep my promise. Tonight, you will be with Cody. You will be able to hold him in your arms forever.”

Porter brought the pillow down very slowly over the woman's head. “I love you, Mommy.”

The woman in the rocking chair struggled. She lifted her hands in an effort to fight, her muffled screams filtered through the pillow.

Porter was trying to suffocate her.

J.D. had to act fast.

“Move away from her,” J.D. said.

Porter drew in a sharp, startled breath. His entire body stiffened, but he didn't turn to face J.D.

“Put the pillow down and move away from her,” J.D. told him.

“I can't do that. I have to finish it tonight. I have to keep my promise.”

“I have a gun in my hand, and if you don't drop the pillow and move away from her, I'll be forced to shoot you.” J.D. moved closer, one cautious step at a time. “Do it now.”

Somer continued struggling, her hands clawing at the pillow.

“Damn it, Bryant, don't make me shoot you!”

But he paid no attention to J.D.

Should he just shoot Porter Bryant or should he tackle him?

J.D. wanted to shoot the son of a bitch, wanted him dead. But he holstered his weapon, rushed forward, and jumped the man who was engrossed in smothering the woman in the rocking chair. The moment J.D. grabbed Porter and jerked him backward, Somer Ellis gasped for breath.

Porter dropped the pillow as he scuffled with J.D., trying to free himself from J.D.'s powerful grip. As Porter struggled against being subdued, J.D. wrestled him to the floor. When Porter swung at him, J.D. grabbed both of his wrists and straddled him.

“Need some help?” Will Brannock asked as he entered the secret room.

“Help me get him cuffed,” J.D. said, “before I beat the hell out of him.”

Together Will and J.D. dragged Porter Bryant to his feet, shoved him face forward against the wall, and handcuffed him. “I've got him,” J.D. said. “Go see about her.” He inclined his head toward the woman now weeping hysterically.

“It's all right, Mommy, Don't Cry,” Porter said. “Please, Don't Cry.”

With all the fight gone out of him, a dazed look in his eyes and a peculiar softness to his expression, Porter resembled a pitiful child. A lost, lonely little boy crying out for his mother.

Will dropped to his haunches in front of Somer Ellis. “It's all right, Mrs. Ellis. You're safe now. I'm Special Agent Brannock with the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”

She lifted the bundle in her arms. “Please, take it away. Please…”

Will took the blanket-wrapped skeleton, laid it carefully on the floor, and then reached out and untied Somer's bound ankles. He lifted her to her feet, and when he realized she could barely stand, he picked her up and carried her out of the dark, secret room inside the basement.