The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) (27 page)

CHAPTER 79

IT WAS LESS
than thirty minutes after he had walked into Winters’ room that he received the call. Mouzon had been attacked in his home and the attacker had been apprehended. Janet had struck sooner than expected and now he looked like the shittiest investigator out there. But for the Mouzon girl, Cole would have been dead. He had rushed over to the home still reeking of wine and the whiskey night cap he’d had back at the doctor’s room. Mouzon was shaken but otherwise safe. He would survive. But this confirmed that the Christies were Poinsett, and now he needed to act to capture the second part of the couple.

Now midnight, it was Leas’ third time in Mrs. Christie’s home and he was still awestruck by the pedigree of the home. Mrs. Christie had been apprehended after attempting to kill Cole Mouzon. The warrant came swiftly and Leas was looking for anything that would help him find the man of the house before he sought retribution for his wife’s capture. The mail-ordered poison was found within an hour of searching, hidden in the refrigerator crisper drawer. But there was no indication of where the husband had gone.

Standing in the drawing room of the house, Leas was overlooking the dark garden lit by what moonlight was piercing the storm clouds above.
Appearances can be deceiving.
Janet and her husband looked like any other successful, well-connected couple. He was sure they were socialites of Charleston, going to fancy parties, drinking fancy wines. But at home in this nine-million dollar mansion overlooking the harbor, was a much darker reality.

Strolling out to the fountain he noticed the very large goldfish swimming around its base, lit by underwater lamps. Expensive, he was sure. Pedigrees, like the Christies. Everything he had seen so far indicated they both came from upper middle-class families, without any history of violence or suffering. He didn’t know how it happened that a person slipped from sane to insane, but it did happen while the world was ignorant to the fact in front of them.

Agent Tifton walked up beside him and admired the fish as well. “Koi; huge ones, too. I bet they go for two or three thousand dollars each at that size.” Leas looked at the slightly plump FBI agent with a puzzled look. “Are you serious? For fish? And how would you know?”

“What? A man can’t like fish?” Leas shook it off as Tifton kept speaking. “And I think we’ve found something you need to see…really need to see.”

Tifton led Leas back into the house and into the library. What appeared to be a bookshelf was swung open like a door, revealing a small corridor that wrapped around the back side of the wall. A light bulb hanging off a wire was a recent addition to the ceiling, which was otherwise slatted wood with grey plaster filling the gaps between. Walking in, Leas was struck by the smell of old wood and time. Tifton informed him that rooms like this weren’t uncommon for the original homes of Charleston, especially after the great slave revolt of 1822, when a freed slave—Denmark Vesey—sought to execute slaveholders and free Charleston. But for two slaves leaking his plot, total anarchy would have ensued. Charleston’s response was swift. Hysteria hit the minority white population, as the city was only one-third white, and laws were created limiting the movement off any person of color. Vesey and thirty-five others were hanged on the streets of Charleston to warn against any further mutiny.

AS LEAS LISTENED
to the history lesson, he realized he was approaching a small, finished room. On the walls were pictures, hundreds of pictures of women in various states of torture. Leas couldn’t be certain but it appeared there were five women in all, depicted in various poses, some of them likely underage. And that is what they were.

The lack of blood and the otherwise perfectly posed nature of the photos suggested the woman were volunteers in this horrific snapshot session.

What did stand out was a pile of photos spread out across a small metal shelf pushed against the wall. Leas picked one of them up after slipping on the requisite latex gloves and took stock of what he was seeing. It was Cole Mouzon.

Flipping through the stack, it was evident that someone had been watching him since arriving in Charleston. There were pictures of him inside a store, at a bar, and even walking into his family’s home. Mrs. Christie and her husband had hunted him, waiting for the opportune time attack. The question remained, why? And where was Mr. Christie? From all appearances he was on the run, but his wife’s capture could bring him back. Until he was found, Cole wasn’t completely safe.

“Package all this up and that laptop I saw on the desk. If they took these, the files are likely on that. We need to move fast here, people. There may be another strike soon.”

CHAPTER 80

BEFORE LEAVING THE
Christie house Leas had called the captain, who had agreed to double the guards on Cole based upon what they had discovered. He had left a message on Cole’s cell phone, but there was no answer. Guards confirmed he had gone to bed promptly after the house was emptied, so Leas saw no reason to disturb him for the night.

Back at the station, Leas walked into the small interrogation room where Mrs. Christie had been placed after being released from the EMT at the Mouzon house. Janet Christie resembled nothing of the first impression Leas had about her just a couple days earlier. In the six by five white interrogation room she could be seen for the monster she was. Mascara ran down her cheeks and there were multiple cuts obviously gained during the fight. She looked at him with disdain, like an animal coiled in the back of cage…ready to strike.

FBI training called for establishing rapport with a suspect in hopes they would spill the beans. Under this approach he was to explore what pressures were experienced by the suspect, such as fear, confinement, relationships with any co-conspirators, or even with the interviewer. He was then to determine the suspect’s perception of how strong the case was against him. Finally, he needed to feel out how important it was to the suspect to maintain respect. With these established, the manual told him he could leverage this information over time to collect information helpful to his investigation.

But Leas was never very good at being nice to those he suspected of killing someone. And he wasn’t about to share what the agency called ‘commonalities’ with a murderer. His personal life was off-limits to suspects, a lesson he’d learned the hard way with Maria and had no intention of ever repeating again. Never leverage your personal life.

“Mrs. Christie, we found the room, the pictures.” A smirk crossed her face.

“Which ones?”

“All of them, the girls and Cole. Do you want to tell me about them?”

“Agent, I want my lawyer. I think I already told your buddies out there that. I WANT MY LAWYER!” She shouted to the ceiling and laughed.

“Of course, you are entitled to that, but I was just hoping you could explain to me what those all were?” Janet sat back in her chair, staring at Leas. He wasn’t getting it. He would never get it. She stared at him, puzzled by how stupid she thought he was.

“Let me help you out here, Agent. Those pretty little pictures of the girls, those aren’t mine. Not my style, if you get my drift. Don’t get me wrong, I suffered the reality of those photos played out in my bedroom. The bruises, the cuts, the whippings. But not because I wanted to. No, I suffered under that man.”

“So your husband beat you?”

“Oh, beating doesn’t even begin to describe what he did to me, Agent. Have you ever heard of the Pope’s Pear?” Leas had heard of the torture device, sanctioned in medieval times by the Pope, from a case he had worked on briefly in Washington State. It wasn’t pretty from what he recalled. Reserved for those women who cheated and those men who had sex with other men, the device looked like a pear with a twist handle where the stem would otherwise be. There were three sizes, one each for the vagina, the rectum, and the mouth. The last was reserved for blasphemers who undermined the Pope’s authority. The bulb of the device would be placed in the orifice, and twisted at its end causing the bulb to open, or petal. Thorns on the ends of each petal would cut and slice until death ensued from the loss of blood and excruciating pain. But, if Mrs. Christie was being honest, her husband turned it slowly, to cause prolonged, but nonlethal, pain and suffering.

“I can tell by the look on your face that you know what I’m talking about, Agent. Imagine that once, maybe twice a week. And those were the good times.” She laughed and looked to the floor in thought, recalling the experiences. Life with her husband had been hard. She had met him in med-school and fell hard, too hard. When she discovered his taste for all things seedy and torture she stuck with him. She had invested too much. The first time he tortured her was when she announced she was pregnant. He never wanted children, considering them pests and a ‘waste of good money.’ She lost the pregnancy three days later. She was trapped, a fool who couldn’t leave and was too afraid to stand up to him.

Leas could tell the woman before him was damaged in the worst way. He suspected Mr. Christie had discovered that the hard way.

He walked out of the room and immediately pulled out his cell phone to call Tifton, who was back at the house, still processing it. “Tifton, Leas here. Have you found anything? Well, I think we’re looking for a body, keep at it and let me know what you find.”

CHAPTER 81

“COLE, COLE, ARE
you alright? It’s all over the news. You were attacked? Why didn’t you call?” Cole had woken to the phone ringing and answered it instinctually, without thinking. Cash was in a panic on the other end.

Groggy, Cole responded slowly. “I’m okay, I promise. They…they got her. I’m sorry I didn’t call. With all the ruckus, I just forgot and I passed out as soon as everyone left. Please don’t worry. Everything is okay.”

By the tone of Cash’s voice, the apology was insufficient. “Don’t worry? A killer was in your house and stabbed you.”

Cole was still groggy from the long night and in no mood to deal with unnecessary ministering so early in the morning. With his eyes still squinting to adjust to the light, he spoke, “Look, I’m starved. Would you like to do breakfast?”

“Breakfast? Cole, it’s one-fifteen in the afternoon.”

A howl out the window drew Cole’s attention to the half bent trees. Tropical storm Andrea had finally arrived and the rain began pouring down, stinging the window pane with droplets, as grey swirling clouds brewed outside.
How could I have slept so long?
“What?! Shit, I must’ve taken too many of those damn pills.”

Cash continued, “…But, if you’re hungry, let’s do a late lunch.”

Leaning back into the king pillows of the bed, Cole murmured, “Perfect. Want to meet at Mamma Brown’s? This fat boy could really go for some more bar-b-que.”

“Wow, someone is really hungry. Didn’t you have it like yesterday? Okay, yeah, sure… Does two give you enough time?”

“Yeah, that’ll work. Okay, let me jump in the shower and I’ll see you there.”

After a few moments of lying still in the bed, Cole swung his body out over its edge and walked into the master bedroom’s bathroom. Covered in floral wallpaper, the room was five times the size of his bathroom in Denver, with a double basin, garden tub and one of the three windows being a stained glass version of a snowy egret. Things are big in the South, even bathrooms.

RITUALISTICALLY HE LOOKED
into the mirror and stared at himself to reflect on where he was, who he was. Halfway through noting the lines around his eyes that looked slightly healthier because of the tan accumulated in the past few days it dawned on him. Though he still woke to the feeling of being alone, he had stopped counting sometime after arriving in Charleston.
Was it day six ninety-five… ninety-seven?
He couldn’t remember. That fact alone scared him. His memory was his safe harbor.

He had told himself that the habit gave him strength to move about in his daily life after Atlanta. The realization of its loss made him feel hollow and bare. The deeper acknowledgement of its purpose welled up, forcing him to feel. For almost two years the ritual had been unconsciously justified as a remembrance. Forgetting the ritual meant he forgot someone he loved and lost. He felt guilty, as if by not remembering he was forsaking all the memories, the existence…the death of a person he loved.
What kind of person am I?
His head spun in frustration. He could feel tears welling up from the base of his eyes and he fought to throw up his wall. Only red, irritated mist came as he gained control with the wall partially up.

Raising the wall further, he pushed himself forward. Jumping in the shower, he wondered why, when he had stopped counting.
Was it Charleston
? No, he had been back since the death and he recalled counting on the first few days of this trip.
When did you stop, when? Was it when you met Agent Leas and learned of Poinsett? No.
Flashing memory after memory like flash cards the flicking stopped when it reached one image…
Cash
.

CHAPTER 82

BROODING AND HALF-WAY
soaked from the rain, Cole arrived at Mamma Brown’s with Cash already waiting. Other than formal niceties and the faux cordiality mastered long ago by Southerners, Cole withheld from the conversation. He was still working it all though his head and didn’t want to speak until he felt comfortable with what he suspected was the cause of his realized change. So, he focused on the food, speaking only when spoken to in hopes of avoiding the detection of his inner turmoil.

Cole had finished his platter of vinegar-pepper pulled pork with fried okra, collard greens, and field peas before he had barely sat—it kept his mouth too full to speak things he himself wasn’t ready to hear. Cash watched in amazement at how fast the food disappeared. “Wow, do you want seconds?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Ha, okay there chatterbox, I was joking.” Cole stuck his tongue out at this comment and slid the last bit of collards on his fork and engulfed it with a dramatic, exaggerated bite. “Num, num, num. There is nothing like Carolina-style bar-b-que.” He wiped his lips with the blue and white check washcloth a passing waitress had handed to him just before he finished.

Cash sat back and leaned sideways into the old yellow pine arrow-back chair. “Watching that was sexy.”

Looking down, Cole grinned at the sight and spoke, “Yeah, I’m sure this massive gut will land me a keeper for sure.” Cole placed his hand on his stomach and tried to stick it out as much as possible, beating it like a drum and then looked up.

Cash clearly wasn’t falling for the Southern charm. He was immune to its effects. He pushed forward. “Ha. But, seriously Cole… Are you okay? They got her, right?”

“Yeah, they got her. There is still no understanding of why or if she is even Janet Christie. Agent Leas is looking into that and her husband based upon the message I received last night. But, it’s all okay. It appears he has disappeared. So, I’ll be heading back to Denver in a couple days.”

There was slight shock in Cash’s face. “Denver? But, so soon?”

“Well, there’s nothing for me to stick around for. I’ll have to come back for the trial, I’m sure, but nothing immediately. If Charleston criminal cases move anything like Atlanta, it could be years before that case sees the light of a courtroom.” Cole was still trying to avoid direct eye contact as he spoke.

Cash pulled back at the ‘nothing.’ “Oh, well if there’s
nothing
. Then that makes sense.” His attempt to play it off failed. He wore stinging hurt and turned his eyes to the worn wooden floor in an apparent attempt to avoid showing too much.

Cole sensed the hurt he had just inflicted. Leaning in, “Cash, please don’t take it that way. You know what I mean. I was here for vacation. Not to get involved in a murder investigation, not to get involved…” And, then the wall went up completely.

Cole turned bitter without warning, trying to avoid a conversation that had been brewing for too long. Like overworked dough, the batch was bad and he just wanted to rid himself of the whole thing—to run. The idea of dealing with Cash and what he was looking for, what he wanted, was too much for Cole to deal with. The pain from Atlanta, the death that he could not escape, flooded against his wall, consuming any emotion other than flee. Snapping, he spoke, “Cash, why are you sticking around here at all? We just met.”
Run, get away from him.

Cash was thrown off by the question. “Cole, this happened to me too, you know. My brother suffered because of what happened thirty years ago.”

“That’s right Cash,
years ago
. She was after me, not you, not Mark.” Throwing his napkin to the table, Cole added, “I don’t need this right now. What you want, I can’t offer.”

Cash leaned across the small wooden table in an attempt to reach out to Cole. “Stop pushing me away!”

Cole withdrew his hand before Cash could grab it, turning his side into the table. But he kept contact with Cash’s blue eyes. Looking into them, Cole just wanted to cry. The wall had abandoned him and he couldn’t think with all the emotions flooding in. Instinctively he spat out, “You’re not my protector. And I don’t need one. They have her. And I’ve got a legion of FBI and cops surrounding me all day and night for the next two days if they don’t. You being around, well, you’re just another captor.”

Cash pulled back from the table, still speaking softly. “I’m just concerned about you, Cole.”

“What are you, my therapist now? I’m not Mark, Cash. Mark is
dead
. You can’t save him and there is nothing you can do about that.” Cole felt sick as those last few words left his mouth, causing his emotional wall to fracture. The sting was evident on Cash’s face.

Standing up, Cash leaned over the table to look Cole in the eyes. “Fine, I’m going. But please stop and think about this.” His words were thick with emotion even though his eyes said he was still stinging from the coldness coming off of Cole.

Slowly rolling his eyes away from Cash’s gaze to turn off the flow of emotional torment, Cole could feel tears trying to break through. “I have, Cash.”

Cash turned away after dropping a twenty on the table, only looking back as he paused to open the restaurant’s door and put up his umbrella. Cole sat there, numb and nauseous over what had just happened. He hated himself in that moment.
How could you have done that to Cash? How could you have done that to yourself?
Like a flash in a pan, a desire to run after Cash extinguished as quickly as it came. Cole sat there for a moment, numb. He tried to justify it as unworkable, unattainable, and thus why try? He told himself Cash only offered pain and he didn’t need more of that in his life. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that he had just ruined something. He was the loser Ann mentioned in the battle for the ‘good ones.’