Going to the Bad (33 page)

I also started driving. After several failed attempts to reach him, I left a long message on his voice mail. I even called Handsome, who also didn't pick up, and left a similar message. As a last resort, I called 911.

Despite all that effort, I was alone when I reached the Kings' land. I followed the road along the refinery's electric fence. The van shook as the speedometer climbed to ninety. After what felt like an eternity, I slowed at the asphalt driveway and turned in. I approached the mobile homes with dread. When I didn't see the Escalade, my dread turned to fear.

I stopped and got out without turning the engine off. The overcast day cast a depressing tint over the unkempt flower beds and crooked shutters. Even the Christmas lights looked cheap and sad.

No one answered at Sally and Brandon's house. I ran across the drive and pounded on Mida's door. If she'd been there, I would
have thrown her in the van. Saving at least her would have been enough of an excuse to run away and let the police handle the rest.

But she wasn't there.

I listened for sirens in the distance, but no cavalry was charging in. The only sound on the lonely property came from the wind beating through the dead grasses. I had no choice. I was going to have to drive to the farmhouse.

I returned to the van and drove forward past the mobile homes. The asphalt ended and spit me out onto the dirt road. A trail of dust and earth blossomed behind me as I sped farther and farther into the property.

I honestly didn't know what I'd do when I did eventually reach the farmhouse. Should I park some distance away and try to sneak up on it? Should I charge in? I might be wrong. I didn't have proof, just some circumstantial evidence and an understanding of what might be driving Bud's shooter.

A formation of odd black streaks and sharp angles appeared on the horizon. I'd never visited from this direction, and it took me a few moments to identify the collapsed barn.

Time to decide. The farmhouse appeared and I decided on a direct approach. If it turned out the worst was true, I'd stall until the police arrived. It might not be too late.

I slowed. Four vehicles were parked in the dirt clearing at the rear of the house: three pickups and Sally's Escalade. I parked a short distance back and shut off my engine. Through the windshield I eyed the trucks.

The duct tape on the front bumper identified one of them as belonging to Kincaid. The second was much older and looked like the one Brandon had been driving the previous day. The third was easily the biggest and most expensive. I recognized it as part of Warner's fleet of vehicles. Erabelle had given me a ride in a similar one the previous day.

Not all of the trucks were empty. Someone's head cast a shadow on the back window of his or her vehicle. The head didn't turn at
the sound of my van. It didn't glance down to read or examine something. The shadow didn't move at all.

I had a bad feeling, but took the bat and got out of the van. Outside, the air reeked of diesel fuel from the rumbling generator.

I walked slowly, partly from caution and partly from dread. I stopped one last time at the rear of the pickup. I tapped the
CHEVY
lettering with the baseball bat. The wood hit the metal with a loud thud, but the figure didn't move.

This dead stillness implied that the individual was past being a danger to me or anyone else, but I still approached with care. The driver's-side window was rolled down. I didn't want to look, but forced myself.

My stomach lurched and I had to fight my gag reflex.

Frank had been shot. There wasn't much blood where the bullet had entered just above his ear. His skin was still warm and I didn't think he'd been dead for long. The money, the second half of Warner's lump-sum payment to the Kings, wasn't in the truck with him. Neither was the diamond brooch he was supposed to obtain in the trade.

I pictured Frank arriving in the souped-up pickup. Doing yet another dirty errand for the family he'd spent decades serving. He probably hadn't even got out of the truck. The killer could have stood in the same spot as me, smiling and making conversation. Frank probably hadn't known what hit him.

I'd got here too late to save Frank's life, but I might not be too late to save the others.

I stepped up and crept through the kitchen. The plastic sheeting had been lowered over the doorway into Brandon's lab. I cautiously looked inside. With all the windows boarded, the work light on the stand still provided the only illumination. The leftover tools of meth production were still in place, but the room was empty.

My relief proved short-lived. A faint noise beckoned from farther inside the house. The long, low sounds reminded me of water sloshing in a bucket.

I stepped softly on the plastic covering the floor. I reached a large archway on the opposite side of the room and pulled back the sheeting.

A chemical odor filled the dark room. Faint light, as well as the sloshing sounds, came from a hallway. As I crossed what used to be the living room, I recognized the dim outlines of the front door. It was good to know I could get out without running all the way back through the house.

That's when I tripped. I found the Mini Maglite in my coat pocket and shone it down.

This time my stomach didn't lurch. It was as though my overwhelmed brain had shut off certain reflexes.

Kincaid lay splayed on the floor. His open eyes stared straight up at the ceiling. He'd been dead longer than Frank, and it appeared his death had been much more painful.

Christmas Day, 2:54 p.m.

K
incaid had been shot in the stomach and bled out.
The swell of dark liquid had reached a particularly wide space between the wood planks and fallen straight down under the house.

I swallowed, despite my mouth's feeling like a dry sponge, and reached down to check for a pulse. I didn't doubt that Kincaid was dead, but it seemed the proper thing to do. Touching him, I realized that he'd been covered in some kind of liquid. The wood floor glistened with it too, without actually feeling wet.

Judging from the smell, some kind of flammable chemical or accelerant had been poured on the body and around the room. I stifled my panic by reasoning that the killer was unlikely to ignite the house while still inside.

A lot of people would have walked back to their car and waited for the police. Even more people wouldn't have ventured past the public road in the first place. That I'd driven all the way here, continued past Frank's body, and now found myself inside a firebox standing over yet another body placed me in a select group.

Despite the danger, I continued toward the hallway and the odd sloshing sounds. If I ran away now and more people died, I'd always have that weight on me. I'd know I'd been selfish and left others in danger with disastrous consequences. Isn't that the weight Bud had lived with for fifty years? I had no desire to emulate him.

I killed the flashlight and entered the dark hallway. The chemical smell increased the closer I got to the sounds. Its sharp odor burned my nostrils and I had to cover my face. My foot slipped,
which was unusual in my boots, and I guessed the accelerant had been poured here only moments earlier.

I had an odd realization that this was the place where my father had been hurt. Within these walls he'd been unable to defend himself against a predator. I wanted it to burn. I wanted the match to be struck. That the wood still stood and that I could stand inside this place all these years later was an abomination.

I stopped at an open bedroom doorway. A flashlight sat on the floor pointing straight up. The light it blasted on the ceiling reflected downward and cast the room in a soft glow. Two figures lay on the floor. A down comforter spread under them protected them from the dirt and coarse wood planks. Pillows had even been placed under their heads.

At first I feared I was too late to save them, but then I saw the rise and fall of their chests and guessed they'd been drugged.

The third person in the room was not drugged. Brandon turned from pouring turpentine on one of the walls. He saw me and froze.

“You don't have to do this,” I said. “You've got all the money, the jewelry, and the meth. Take it and run. I won't stop you.”

He looked more annoyed than surprised to see me. “You're the lady from KJAY, right? Warner's security guy promised you wouldn't come back. He said you were taken care of.”

“It's a good thing I did come because maybe I can stop you from doing something that you'll regret.”

He shook his head. “The only regret I have is that I didn't do this sooner.”

The window to try to talk Brandon out of harming anyone else was closing. Instead of lying to him or tricking him, I decided to speak honestly. “I understand you can't do this anymore. Your mother is a drug addict and your grandmother needs round-the-clock care, and each is getting worse. Anyone would think about leaving, and a lot of people would actually do it.”

I stepped into the room. “I understand that you're desperate,
and I know one way or the other you're going, but you don't have to kill your mother and grandmother. You can walk out of here right now without hurting anyone else.”

He still hadn't moved. “How did you even know I was leaving?”

“Someone got Mida to sign papers mortgaging the land, but the money's not in her account.” He looked surprised I knew, but didn't interrupt me. “There was also your mother's dog. It didn't run away. The animal shelter has it because the owner turned it in. I thought it was Sally until I saw the pawnshop records. You've been selling things for weeks, probably at other pawnshops too. Appliances, Hummel figurines—anything that's not tied down. You've built a nest egg to take with you.”

“Why do you even care? Didn't Warner give you money to go away?”

I made a split-second decision not to tell him about Bud. I hoped I might still be able to avoid more violence. “I understand why you need to leave. You're under so much pressure here and it's not fair, but you don't need to kill anyone else. You can walk right out of here and drive away.”

“You say you understand, but you're clueless.” He looked down at his mother and grandmother. “When I was a kid, I found a stray cat. Every night I brought her inside to my bedroom so the wild animals couldn't hurt her. One day Mom and Grandma say how we're going to Disneyland for three days. I begged them to let me leave the cat inside, but they thought she'd wreck the house.”

I had a feeling this story wasn't going to end well for the cat.

“When we got back, I looked everywhere. Finally I found her out in the brush. She'd been torn open. Parts of her were even missing.” He looked up at me. “It happened because I wasn't there to protect her.”

“That was a cat. Your mother and grandmother are human beings. They'll survive without you.”

“No, they won't.” He threw the metal can of paint thinner. It crashed into the wall with a bang that sent me jumping back to
the doorway. “When the money stopped last month, I saw how it was. My mother is gone. She doesn't exist anymore. Before she dug up the jewelry, she actually traded sex for meth, that's how desperate she was.” He pointed toward the living room where Kincaid's body still leaked blood. “I'm glad I killed that monster. I did the world a service.”

“But you don't have to kill your mom too. She could still get better.”

“She's been to rehab twice and each time she's gotten worse. This is the only way. If I leave her here, she'll OD in an alley or worse.”

“Then what about Mida? Even with the Alzheimer's, your grandmother still has the capacity to love you. She can experience joy and happiness. You may think this is some kind of euthanasia, that you're being good to her, but trust me, it's not what she'd want.”

“In another year, maybe two, Grandma won't be able to talk or walk. She can't even go to the bathroom now without help. You can't argue that a quick, painless death isn't better than what's coming.”

Despite the weird love in his words, something in his tone sounded a warning. I watched as his hand whipped behind his back and withdrew the gun. I wondered if it was the same one he'd used to shoot Bud.

“In a way,” I said, “maybe it's better that you won't walk out of here peacefully and ride off into the sunset with all that money.”

“Why's that?”

“I'd always feel guilty for letting my uncle's murderer get away.”

He jerked in surprise. “Your uncle?”

“Bud Hawkins. You shot him yesterday in my living room in Oildale.”

“That's your uncle?” Brandon said it as though we'd just
discovered a friend in common, not a murder. “I'm sorry about the old guy, but I couldn't risk him making trouble.”

“And the money you stole?” He frowned and I said, “I know he had fifteen thousand at the house. Isn't that why he wanted to meet you there?”

He nodded. “I told him I'd pawned those things and sold the brooch to Kincaid in order to pay our bills. He offered to give us the money to help until we got things straightened out with Warner again.”

“And you decided you'd kill him and keep the money and both brooches?”

“Mostly, I wanted to shut him up so I could get away clean today. I've been planning this ever since Warner's money stopped coming last month. I couldn't risk your uncle ruining it the day before I was scheduled to go.” Brandon lifted the gun. He actually looked sorry. “I wish you hadn't come here.”

I held up the bat. “You're right to wish that.”

He laughed. “What, are you going to swing at the bullet?”

I'd thought Brandon was pretty smart, but then again I'd thought he was nice too.

I took a step closer. “When a gun fires, there's a small explosion. That's what propels the bullet. If you pull the trigger, the spark could ignite all this accelerant you've spread everywhere. You'll blow all of us up, even yourself.”