Redemption (A Joe Burgess Mystery, Book 3) (43 page)

Kyle and Perry were waiting patiently for direction, Perry not even acting like a restless pain in the ass. Maybe tangling with an angry husband had had a sobering effect. If he wanted them to go, they'd go. And if Clay was injured, like Joey, and not dead, time might matter.

"If he's not there, it's probably time for search and rescue."

Lovering still wasn't hearing anything Burgess said, but Sawyer nodded. "Already called," he said, "but while we're waiting on them, that's as good a place to start as any."

They drove the quarter mile to where they'd left Kyle's car. A sheriff's patrol car idled on the verge. As they pulled up, the driver came to meet them. "All quiet here," he said.

They updated him, shifted their improvised roadblock, and headed down the road. At Joey's car, they stopped. Aside from fast food wrappers, empty coffee cups and soda cans, and crumpled napkins—the detritus of a slob—they saw nothing of interest until Burgess put on his search gloves and popped the trunk.

Coats and hats rustled as five heads leaned forward and five voices, like a grunting frog chorus, responded with surprise. Crammed into Joey's roomy trunk were two bales of hay and several plastic cans of gasoline.

"What the fuck?" Lovering said.

As the odd admixture of gassy fumes and hay rose toward them, Burgess remembered Dugan's file. "Kevin Dugan, or Leonard Josephson, which is apparently his real name, has a sheet which includes convictions for arson. He likes to burn buildings with people in them."

As far as he knew, Dugan was without a car. But he could easily remedy that. He seemed utterly without scruples. Was this meant for Clay and Mary's house or for their tenants, neatly solving the problem of the long-term lease? Had the rain kept someone from meeting a fiery death tonight? He closed the trunk and nodded at Lovering. "You'll want to get a warrant for that car."

They all climbed in the Explorer and headed down the track again, only to run into a bigger roadblock, piles of dirt and debris as well as fallen trees deliberately placed to block the road. Little was breaking in their favor tonight. Stolidly, they turned up their collars and switched on their lights. There was no longer anything of a Boy Scout outing about this. Just the grim trudge of weary cops.

It didn't take five people to do this. It was neither efficient nor effective, but he had no authority over Sawyer and Lovering. If he took Kyle, Perry would get aggrieved, and he didn't want to send either of them off alone, either to find Mary or search Claire's cottage. Too many people out there with bad intentions and guns. And
this
business needed to get finished. Then they could circle up and figure out what to do next.

A lot depended on what they found. His gut said they'd find Clay but not whether Clay would be dead or alive. The same gut that said they'd find Clay said they wouldn't find Dugan. But cop guts were both reliable and uncertain barometers. Right now, his gut ached. His gut. His knee. And his heart. He didn't want to find Clay dead, another stark, cold Libby face with the light gone out. He wanted something in this mess to end well, and finding Joey, despite the surprising remorse, didn't count.

Research shows that people walking in the woods in the dark always think they've gone much farther than they actually have. You could sure prove it by him. The track was rutted and muddy, full of rocks to stumble over and deep puddles to slog through. He thought they'd gone about thirty cold, miserable, knee-stabbing miles by the time they reached the clearing surrounding the cabin. It was probably less than two.

Like Mary had said, it was a ramshackle place, half-shingled, stickers still on the grimy windows. Gut or not, they had to assume Dugan was there and that he was armed. To an armed bad guy waiting in the dark, a flashlight beam was as good as a sign saying 'Shoot me.' They stopped well away from the cabin and switched off their lights.

"Okay," Sawyer said, as they circled up and leaned in, "what's the plan?"

"I've got the door," Lovering said. "Pete, you back me. The rest of you take the rear and the sides."

Burgess suppressed a "no way in hell," resisting the temptation to ask if Lovering was wearing his vest. It would sound too much like Mom wanting to know if her kid had mittens. Too much like jockeying for position. He'd rather have Pete Sawyer's cool head on the door. Or one of his guys. He knew they were ready. He was relieved when Sawyer said, "I've got the door."

Waiting in the noisy darkness felt like forever. The storm still hadn't blown itself out. Wind whipped branches overhead and periodically a tree creaked ominously or a heavy branch thudded. Behind him, the rustle of oak leaves was like a giant shaking a shower curtain. No one could hear them coming.

He barely heard the bang of the door as they crashed into the cabin, but through the windows he saw their stabbing lights and then, over the storm's roar, a shouted "all clear." He snapped on his light and approached.

There were gnaw marks on the door where porcupines had tried to chew their way in and the cold, dead air rushing at him stank of mildew and rodents. An eviscerated old sofa bled stuffing, and the two upholstered chairs were slick with blackish-green mildew. There was just one room. Primitive kitchen in the corner. A rusting woodstove. A cobweb-festooned oil lamp.

There was a thin trail of blood drops on the floor.

"Fuck!" Lovering said. "There's nobody here."

"Hold on." Burgess knelt and examined the blood, following the trail to the sofa. He studied the ruptured upholstery and the well-chewed bun feet, the telltale scrapes in the dust, the lighter area on the floor, and glanced at Kyle, who knelt by the other end. Kyle nodded. "Let's move this out."

"We shouldn't disturb..." Lovering began, but Kyle and Perry were already lifting the sofa into the center of the room. On the floor behind it, tucked into the space between sofa and wall was a dark bundle wrapped in a ragged carpet. A still and silent bundle.

Quickly and carefully, with an eye to preserving evidence if they couldn't preserve life, Kyle and Sawyer moved the bundle to the center of the room and unrolled the rug as the others provided light.

Clay Libby's head appeared, ashen skin a match for his gray hair, then his torso and his legs. His clothes were torn and bloody. Kyle put his ear on Libby's chest, holding his breath as he listened. The room was deadly silent, as though their collective will could breathe life into the too-still man on the floor. Kyle shifted his head and listened again, then lifted it and looked at them, eyes glittering, his face alight with "fuck the bad guys" triumph. "He's breathing."

Chapter 36

It seemed years since they'd been eating Chris's roast chicken, since he'd opened the letter from Maggie and lit that candle for Reggie with Maura, the whole night a jumble of revelations about sex and family and violence grafted onto an already complex and troubling investigation. No time to process any of it. For hours, they'd been in response mode. Receive, respond, handle, move on. He had thirty years of that under his belt, enough to go on responding regardless of how tired he was, and to respond in a way that wouldn't ultimately screw things up.

Now, cold and wet, they crowded into the truck with another unconscious Libby and bumped back down the track. Miserable beyond description and, after carrying a second unconscious man through the stormy woods, sore, aching, and out at the far limits of exhaustion. Even Stan, their energizer bunny, was drooping, and Kyle, who grew fiercer and more wild-eyed the tireder he got, looked like a madman.

When the ambulance had rumbled off, red lights disappearing into darkness, they left Sawyer and Lovering to deal with the search for Kevin Dugan and to arrange for Joey's car to go the crime lab, climbed into the Explorer, and cranked up the heat. Moisture from their clothes steamed the windows, sealing them into a small, opaque world that smelled of sweat and damp.

"Man," Perry said, "I am beyond fucking tired. Are we done yet?"

"What do you think?" Kyle said. "I'm betting Joe's still keen to search that cottage."

Perry slumped back against the seat, closing his eyes. "I got nothing left."

None of them did. They were reamed, gutted, depleted. Anyone with sense would go home and sleep. They'd come here to find Clay Libby and that mission was accomplished. No one could fault them for getting some rest.

On the other hand, if there was anything to be found at Claire's cottage, they had to get it now. As soon as she heard about Joey, she'd head to the hospital, but Claire wouldn't leave things to chance. She'd sweep that cottage. Clean it out or burn it. Do it herself or send someone. Maybe Dugan was already on the way. Joey might have lied about the car. Dugan might have stolen one.

He'd been surprised she hadn't cleared out the boat. Perhaps she'd still been in denial, or didn't understand the gravity of the assault on Amanda Mercer. Maybe the Mercers were complicit in Reggie's death, so she thought she had them buttoned up. Mama and Papa, at least, were, and she was arrogant enough to assume no one would suspect her. The phrase "depraved indifference toward human life" fit Claire Libby to a T.

The most compelling reason for searching the cottage was Kevin Dugan. Burgess thought Dugan had been staying at the cottage. Dugan worked for Claire. He'd left Reggie's building in Joey's car, in a hurry, and hadn't been seen since. Burgess wanted Dugan tied into this with physical evidence as well as Goodall's statement. He wanted anything that would tie Claire and Dugan. He wanted to check out that cottage now, never mind that they were all dead on their feet, because he didn't want to waste tonight's work; he wanted to build on it. He wasn't risking evidence being destroyed.

Reggie's loss was a hole too big to fill with an arrest and a prosecution, but bringing in those responsible would help. He wanted all the players—Claire, and Star and Nick Goodall, and his own loser godson Joey—all tied up in this, feeling the sense of loss and deprivation, the humiliation and defeat that came with getting caught, with body searches and incarceration. And he wanted Dugan so badly he could taste it.

There was still the risk that the criminal injustice system would screw up, hand out slaps on the wrist and a stern admonition to behave better next time. He'd seen the system's heart-wrenching failures, the injustice that came from having the money to hire good lawyers, from being socially or politically connected. Still, he kept his part of the bargain. His team brought in the bad guys, collected the evidence. They connected the dots, dotted the i's and crossed the t's. His team wrote clean warrants and did top-notch investigations. He'd served and protected his whole effing life. He wasn't stopping now just because he was miserable and exhausted and his knee felt like he'd been kicked by a mule.

"Earth to Joe, come in, please," Kyle said. The usual snap was missing from his voice.

"Marching orders, sir?"

"Sir? Terry, are you feeling all right?" Burgess said.

"Might ask you the same thing." Kyle's eyes were closed, his voice quiet in the dark car. "I am full of piss and vinegar. Ready to slay dragons. Rescue fair maidens. Find pots of gold at the end of the rainbow."

"Dementia," Perry's voice was a low growl from the back. "Detective Kyle is suffering from dementia, hunger, exhaustion, and the beginnings of sleep deprivation. I say we call this meeting over and go home to bed."

"Feel free," Burgess said. He was supposed to be supervising these guys. Not just managing the investigation, but managing his people. Part of managing was taking care. He was doing a poor job of it. "I know you guys are beat. You should go home, get some rest. As the lovely Scarlett O'Hara said, 'Tomorrow is another day.'"

"Notice you didn't include yourself," Kyle said. "You're sending us weary kids home to bed and you're going out carousing?" He smothered a yawn. "In case you hadn't noticed, it IS tomorrow, you pathetic old gimp."

That made the pathetic old gimp smile. "If searching Claire Libby's cottage is carousing, then that's what this pathetic old gimp is gonna be doing."

"You can't do that alone," Kyle said. "It's not safe, or sensible. I won't let you."

"And our sergeant is always safe and sensible. Why not just wait 'til morning?" Perry said, his voice barely audible. A few minutes more and Perry would be asleep.

"Because then the bad guys and evidence will have flown the coop. Bad guys think they're safe in the dark."