Dying Truth Page 6

  “Jeez, Tommy. You’re not a cop anymore. Did you forget?”

  “I got unlucky, that’s all,” Cade dismissed. “The police showed up, and Chief Joseph pinned everything on me. End of story.”

  “Jesus Christ. What are we going to do, Tommy?”

  “I got some ideas to start with. I think we should go see if Brandon is okay first, though.”

  “Yeah.” Beth started the car. “We’ve never gone to bed on an argument like this before. I was so mad at him for telling you.”

  “Beth, I saw what was happening as soon as those goons showed up at the garage. He couldn’t have kept it from me. I ain’t some dumb redneck never been out of his hometown before.”

  Beth laughed. “Sure do sound like one sometimes, Tommy.”

  She cut off as the station doors opened and Nate came out. He saw Beth pulling out of the parking lot and waved at her to stop.

  “What now,” Beth wondered.

  Nate jogged across the lot. Beth wound down the window.

  “Thank you, Beth. Look, I wanted to say…we’re not all like Chief Joseph. You know Brandon and I are friends and… well… I want to be a good cop. I am a good cop.” He was looking at Cade as he said that. He ignored the rain which hurried down his face and dripped from his brows and nose. He reached into a pocket of his shirt and took out a card. He offered it.

  “If you need to speak to me directly,” Nate told them, “not through the chief.”

  Cade leaned across from the passenger seat and took the card. “If you mean that, we may need your help, son. Can I count on you?”

  Nate looked back toward the station as though afraid he would be overheard. He wiped his face clear of rain.

  “I guess you can.” He stepped back from the car and ran back into the building.

  8

  The police station was a white-painted, two-story brick building that stood a few doors down from the town hall. As they pulled out of the parking lot and passed the town hall, Cade realized that it was the red brick building he had seen at one end of town, when he had looked down on Burford from above the valley. It was in the south end of Burford, next to the Grey River and set in its own manicured lawns. A single bell tower stood above the roof. Streets radiated out from the town hall with two and three-story buildings clustered around.

  A crowd of people stood in front of the town hall. They carried placards and cheered at the words of a middle-aged man in a tweed jacket who addressed them through a bullhorn.

  “What’s that about?” Cade asked.

  “Protests about the reopening of Shell’s Ridge mine. Don’t know what their problem is. This town needs an injection of cash, and the mine will do it. Bet none of them live here.”

  “The mine is outside of town, though, isn’t it? I passed an entrance on the way here.”

  “Oh, it’s something to do with the environmental impact.”

  “I don’t know. More important to people like that than we are anyway. We’re just human beings.”

  Beth headed north on Donnelly Street. Cade saw the Weaver Bridge appear and disappear in between trees and buildings as they drove. At an intersection, they joined Main Street, retracing the path Cade had driven into town the day before. Beth handed her phone to him, telling him to call, but Brandon’s number went straight to voicemail. A call to the garage landline went unanswered also.

  “I blame you for this,” Beth snapped as she gunned the Buick down Main Street.

  “That don’exactly seem fair.”

  “Life ain’t fair. All we needed was some time and we could have got out from under the Dexters.”

  “It wouldn’t have happened. People like that don’t like to let go of someone once they’ve got their claws in. The Dexters will be making money out of this. They don’t want to lose their income.”

  “Maybe. And maybe you don’t know everything.”

  Her cheeks flushed red, but her lips were white. She looked straight ahead through the windshield, hands tight on the wheel.

  “And just maybe I do know somethin’t about this. I’m sorry that they chose to collect when I was there. But maybe if you had told me about this sooner, I could’a helped you.”

  “How? From where? Where were you for six months when you weren’t answering emails or your phone? I tried to reach you, Tommy, and it was like you had just fallen off the face of the earth. Is that what you call always being there for me? You remember saying that to me? Huh?”

  Cade ground his teeth around an acid reply. Because he did remember.

  He had been sixteen years old, an awkward, rangy boy with scruffy hair who looked uncomfortable in his own skin. Beth had been fourteen. She sat beside a hospital bed. Momma lay in the bed. The room smelled of disinfectant and a faint haze of chicken feed. There had been curtains half-closed around the bed. They were of faded orange and yellow flowers. Pop was in the corridor, using a pay phone. His work boots were dusty, and he appeared to press himself into the wall every time a doctor or nurse went by, as though afraid his work clothes would make them dirty.

  The doctor had told him Momma was concussed and that she had been sedated because she had been confused and distressed when she came to. She was to stay overnight for observations, whatever they were. The kids were to stay with Pop and Grandma. Beth had watched Momma the whole time, clutching her hand. Pop had listened anxiously, afraid to miss anything. Tommy had stared through his Momma.

  He had finally done it. Tommy had come home and found Momma on the floor, blood pooling around her head. A glass bottle lay shattered beside her. Beth cowered in the corner. Their father was standing over her, fist raised. Tommy had walked in through the open door without a word, picked up one of the metal-legged chairs that sat beside the kitchen table, and crossed the floor, swinging it high. Beth had screamed his name at the last instant, and He had turned. It probably saved His life, because the chair had come down on His arm instead of the top of His head.

  He fell to one knee, roaring. And Tommy swung again, battering Him again. And again. The chair was ripped from his hands. Tommy fell onto Him, kicking and punching and yelling. He had thrown Tommy aside and towered over him, his face purple with anger. His meaty hands were clenched into fists. Tommy knew that he was going to die. His father would beat him to death, then his sister and his mother. All three were going to end up one of those horrific news stories.

  The trailer would be banded by yellow-and-black police tape, their bodies outlined where they lay, photographed and then zipped up into bags. And they would become part of some detective’s caseload. They would cease to be people anymore. They would be a sideshow for the neighbors to whisper about. For better-off families to shake their heads over. For police detectives to one day forget about.

  The injustice of it had burned. They had done nothing wrong. It was all Him. Him. They would be punished because He was weak. Tommy bared his teeth and his left hand closed on a large shard of broken glass. He gripped it, not caring that it bit into his fingers and palm. Tommy launched himself at the old man, swinging the glass.

  It had sliced His right cheek and produced a scream that was almost a squeal. And He had run.

  But Tommy felt no victory. He was still out there, somewhere. Standing near the hospital room, waiting for Momma to wake up, Tommy had decided.

  “I’m going to go find him.”

  “What. Are you crazy? He’ll kill you, Tommy. Don’t go.”

  “I have to, Beth. It needs to stop before he kills us. I’m going to make him stop.”

  “Please, Tommy. I need you. Please don’t go.” Tears made Beth’s eyes big. She squeezed Momma’s hand.

  “I’m goin’. But I’ll be back when it’s done. And I won’t ever leave you on your own. I promise, Beth.”

  Then he left. Tommy had known where to look for Him. Knew the bars and the buddies. He would deal with Him and then look after his sister and his Momma.

  The scars were barely visible now, the faintest of white lines across a ta
nned hand. Cade traced them with his thumb.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  Beth shrugged. “I don’t know what you could have done anyway, Tommy. Even if you were still a cop.”

  Cade’s reply was cut off by Beth’s phone ringing. It was an unknown number. Cade answered and switched the call to speaker. The voice at the other end didn’t wait for anyone to speak.

  “Brandon got what was coming to him. He stepped out of line, and you’re next unless you cooperate.”

  It was a man’s voice, and it cut off as quickly as it had begun.

  “Brandon,” Beth breathed. “Oh no. Oh my god, what have they done?”

  “Step on it, Beth,” Cade growled. He was already calling 911.

  The car roared around a station wagon that was slowing for traffic lights. Beth floored the gas and raced through the red lights. She took a turn fast enough that Cade had to hit the dashboard to brace himself in position. Tires screamed and something in the car gave off a strong odor of burning.

  “I need an ambulance. Collins Autos on…” He swore.

  “Willow and Jefferson,” Beth shouted.

  “Willow and Jefferson,” Cade supplied. “No, I don’t know. I believe my brother-in-law has been assaulted and may be seriously injured. We’re on our way to him now, but I don’t yet know the extent of his injuries… Ma’am, I wouldn’t be calling 911 unless I believed it was an emergency. We are just arriving at the scene; please stay on the line.”

  The garage appeared off to the right, and Beth swung the Buick into the parking lot. Something clanged off the rear of the car as it fishtailed through the entrance. Beth barely seemed to slow as the double doors to the shop raced toward them. The car came to a halt in a cloud of blue smoke, engine still running. Beth kicked open the driver’s door and sprinted for the doors to the shop, shouting Brandon’s name. The doors were locked.

  “The office!” Cade yelled.

  He ran for the glass door, phone in one hand. As he approached, he lifted one booted foot and hammered it into the lock. The door burst open, glass shattering as it smashed into the wall. Cade vaulted the reception counter and tried the inner door through the shop. It, too, was locked. A sharp pain ran up the side of his leg from the shock of kicking in the outer door. It lanced as he kicked again. It took three before the lock gave. Cade’s leg gave as he ran through, spilling him onto the concrete floor of the auto shop.

  Beth stepped over him. Brandon was lying next to the inspection pit. His face was a mass of blood, eyes swollen shut, nose flat across his face. He was facedown, head turned toward them. One arm lay in the pit, and one leg was twisted at an unnatural angle beneath him. Beth fell to her knees, a terrible keening wail tearing from her. Cade reached her, staring down at the mess they had made of Brandon Collins. Old instincts kicked in. Dropping to his knees and putting the phone to one side on speaker, he bent to Brandon’s head, having to push Beth out of the way.

  He felt for air at Brandon’s mouth as he pressed his head to the man’s chest.

  “He’s breathing and there’s a heartbeat. But he’s unconscious. Looks like one leg broken. Severe contusions to the head and face. At least one head wound I can see,” he called out to the emergency operator. He ran his hands rapidly over Brandon’s body.

  “Can’t find any other major wounds. Looks like he’s been repeatedly beaten about the head and upper body. He’s been lying here some time. A few hours. Maybe since last night.”

  The operator assured him an ambulance was on the way and began giving him instructions. Cade wasn’t listening. He knew what to do. He’d been in this situation more times than he could count. Cade was numb, emotion instantly and thoroughly partitioned and locked away. That would come out later, when the crisis was over. Then he would shake, and he would throw up from the horror of what he had seen, what had been done. But for now, his body responded like a machine. He checked Brandon’s airways.

  Beth crouched beside him, reaching for Brandon and having to be pushed away to stop her being in his way. Time enough later for gentle treatment. Brandon was cold. Way too cold. The blood on the surrounding floor was dry, the wounds on his face scabbing. He’d been lying here on the cold concrete for several hours, long enough for the blood to clot. Cade tore off his jacket and wrapped it around Brandon.

  Then he went hunting through the auto shop for anything else to help keep Brandon warm. He remembered a blanket he kept in the back of his pickup in a waterproof duffel bag. When he got back with the blanket, Beth had taken Brandon in her arms. His blood smeared against her cheek and neck as she pressed him close. Her eyes dared Cade to separate them. Cade put the blanket around them both and hunted for portable heaters.

  The ambulance arrived fifteen minutes later. Beth got in with Brandon. Cade didn’t follow.

  “I’ll speak to the cops and follow in my truck. What’s the name of the hospital?”

  “County General,” one of the paramedics answered.

  “I’ll find it,” Cade assured Beth.

  “Madison is at school. Burford Elementary. I don’t want her seeing Brandon like this. She gets collected from school by childcare, so she won’t be home until after five. I’ll try to be back home. But I don’t know how long… or… Please, just make sure you’re back there and tell her…” She looked at Brandon, and her words failed.

  “I’ll think of something. Just go. Don’t worry.”

  She gave him a frightened look before the doors closed and the ambulance wailed its way down the street. Cade stood alone in the auto shop, surrounded by the smeared and spattered blood on the oily concrete floor. His fists clenched until he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms.

  “Scum,” he growled.

  He wanted to throw something, wanted to hit something. He hadn’t felt this kind of impotent rage since he was a kid, in the days before he had finally stood up to the old man. The days when he’d listened to his mother being beaten and could do nothing except cower in fear. It had driven him to be a cop. Not immediately. He had been on a trajectory to oblivion before the intervention that had thrown him toward the police. Now he was helpless again. Powerless.

  It was as he stared at the clotted pool of blood where Brandon’s head had rested against the concrete that it hit him. He took out his phone and switched to camera mode. Cade photographed the scene. He walked outward from the spot where Brandon’s body had been found, in a widening circle, eyes scanning the ground for anything that could be used as evidence.

  A wrench, half under a wheeled toolbox, with spatters of blood. Shifting the box to once side, he saw the dark stains at one end of the wrench, the weapon used, then tossed aside. Probably not used by Brandon, then. One of his assailants. Cade snapped it. He wasn’t a cop anymore, but he would not waste that knowledge and experience. And he would not let the corrupt fuckers who passed for police in this town cover up what had happened to Brandon.

  Satisfied that he had documented everything he could, he took out Nate’s card and dialed the number.

  9

  “It’s Tommy Cade.”

  “Just a second.” There was the sound of a chair being scraped on the floor, hard-soled shoes on a hard floor, then a door opening and closing. The voice came back, more hushed than before.

  “Mr. Cade…”

  “Call me Tommy, son.”

  “Tommy. Sorry, the chief is in the office today. I didn’t want him overhearing.”

  “I understand. Brandon was assaulted, probably last night. He’s on his way to County General. It was the Dexters.”

  “Any witnesses?” Cade was impressed that the young cop didn’t waste time with unnecessary questions.

  “None I know of. I’ve documented the scene as much as I can, but if you have a forensics field kit, you can bring it down here at Collins Autos.”

  “I will. But I can’t get away immediately. I don’t want any of the chief’s guys finding out.”

  “Agreed. I’m not going anywhere. Get down he
re when you can.”

  “How bad?” Nate asked.

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Where were Cole and Nelson? Brandon’s mechanics,” Nate asked.

  “No sign of them. The place was locked up when we got here. Probably came into work this morning and went home again when they found the place shut.”

  “Sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can. The chief will have to find out when we file the report, but if we can get the evidence locked down and on its way to the crime lab up at Flint, he won’t be able to do anything about it.”

  “Good man.”

  Cade hung up. He was sitting in Brandon’s office. As soon as he hung up from Nate, he dialed another number.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Rissa answered after two rings. Her phone was never far from her.

  “Rissa, I need your help.”

  “Hi. I’m fine, by the way. How are you? Notice how we civilized people engage in social niceties?”

  “Right. Are you busy?”

  She sighed. “Cannot believe you sometimes. I’m always busy.”

  “This is real important. I need information.”

  A pause. “Information?” One word, but Cade could hear the sharpening of interest. Reporter Rissa.

  “Yeah. I need some dirt dug. And nothing you’re likely to find is going to show up through the usual methods. Y’know?”

  “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. All is forgiven. This sounds juicy. It’s been too long.”

  “Yeah, yeah. There’s a story here for you, a big one. And you would be helping me out.”

  “Okay, I’m ready. Give.”

  “I need everything you can dig up on a family called the Dexters. In connection to Flint County, New Hampshire. In particular…” He paused, recalling names. “William aka Billy Dexter, probably in his sixties. Also James aka Jimmy and Robert aka Bobby Dexter. His sons. Jimmy’s in his thirties, I think. Bobby, late twenties. I’ll look into some local history here, so don’t waste your time on anything that made the local papers. I’m looking for the stuff the local library won’t have. Y’know?”