so she’d driven to Knoxville, landed a job at the paper, and although she’d started out writing light human-interest pieces, her propensity toward the morbid had eventually driven her to ask for a chance to work on crime stories.
Maybe it was because her own daddy had been chewed up by a gator when she was little. The day it happened, he’d taken her out on a pirogue to go fishing, but he’d known she was terrified of the water, especially the gators. He was pure evil, though.
He liked to see how close he could get to the gators and taunt them, then laugh when she cried. But that day, he hadn’t won. He’d taken his bottle with him and guzzled it while he fished, but when he got up, he’d lost his footing and he’d fallen in and . . . She shuddered, the memory of blood so vivid her stomach clenched as if it were yesterday.
Now, here she was in another town that had known its own share of death.
She’d done her homework, had photographed the falls and mountain, although she hadn’t yet seen the crimson color the water turned in the sunlight. The color of blood.
The water had probably always looked that way, caused by some kind of particle or plant indigenous to this part of the country, but she understood the way small-town legends took root and became embellished over time.
The height of the falls had astounded her. When she visited, she’d imagined standing at the top of the mountain and being thrown over the ridge into the jagged rocks and rapids.
She clicked on the old story about the murders and skimmed the details. A man named Johnny Pike had been arrested for the gruesome crimes and was serving a life sentence. She’d requested an interview with him, but he had rejected her request.
She had to figure out just what he would want in order to talk to her. Cigarettes? Cash? Some kind of special privilege?
She jotted down the names of his victims, and decided that, while she was here, she’d interview their family members. Many of whom had avoided her at the memorial. She punched Deputy Kimball’s phone number but got his voice mail.
Frustrated that he’d only given her the bare minimum about Gwyneth Toyton’s murder when they’d spoken before, and that Agent Coulter had refused to talk to her, she grabbed her coat, gloves, and purse and hurried outside.
Blues and Brews was just across the street. Bars were great places to mingle with the locals.
It was open-mic night, so she ducked inside, eased onto a barstool, and ordered a beer, hoping to fit in. Inebriated locals often had loose lips.
Loose lips were just what she needed now. Someone who knew more about Gwyneth and how she’d ended up dead.
Cal ran his finger over the edges of the medal, his memory of the day Brent had received it still fresh, his anger still pulsing.
“Do you really think you should accept that?” he asked Brent.
Brent shrugged. “Why not? We made a big bust tonight. Just think about all the drugs we got off the streets. All the kids we saved.”
“What about the one we didn’t save?” Cal asked, the pain raw. He could still see Milo’s young face. Eager to escape being trapped in a gang, he’d agreed to help Brent get info on the Ten-nines. But the leader of the gang caught on to Milo’s undercover ruse and shot him in the head.
The fourteen-year-old boy’s life had been snuffed out in seconds, his brain matter splattering Cal’s shirt.
“He knew what he was getting into,” Brent said. “Besides, the gang already considered him in. They never would have let him leave.”
“We were supposed to protect him,” Cal argued. “He trusted us.”
Brent’s eyes flared with impatience. “Look, Cal, I’ve spent half my life wiping up other people’s messes, taking care of kids like Milo. Kids like you. We can’t save them all.”
The phone jarred Cal from the memory and Brent’s callous words. They should have saved Milo.
He hadn’t deserved to die so young.
Mona booted up her computer and
Maybe it was because her own daddy had been chewed up by a gator when she was little. The day it happened, he’d taken her out on a pirogue to go fishing, but he’d known she was terrified of the water, especially the gators. He was pure evil, though.
He liked to see how close he could get to the gators and taunt them, then laugh when she cried. But that day, he hadn’t won. He’d taken his bottle with him and guzzled it while he fished, but when he got up, he’d lost his footing and he’d fallen in and . . . She shuddered, the memory of blood so vivid her stomach clenched as if it were yesterday.
Now, here she was in another town that had known its own share of death.
She’d done her homework, had photographed the falls and mountain, although she hadn’t yet seen the crimson color the water turned in the sunlight. The color of blood.
The water had probably always looked that way, caused by some kind of particle or plant indigenous to this part of the country, but she understood the way small-town legends took root and became embellished over time.
The height of the falls had astounded her. When she visited, she’d imagined standing at the top of the mountain and being thrown over the ridge into the jagged rocks and rapids.
She clicked on the old story about the murders and skimmed the details. A man named Johnny Pike had been arrested for the gruesome crimes and was serving a life sentence. She’d requested an interview with him, but he had rejected her request.
She had to figure out just what he would want in order to talk to her. Cigarettes? Cash? Some kind of special privilege?
She jotted down the names of his victims, and decided that, while she was here, she’d interview their family members. Many of whom had avoided her at the memorial. She punched Deputy Kimball’s phone number but got his voice mail.
Frustrated that he’d only given her the bare minimum about Gwyneth Toyton’s murder when they’d spoken before, and that Agent Coulter had refused to talk to her, she grabbed her coat, gloves, and purse and hurried outside.
Blues and Brews was just across the street. Bars were great places to mingle with the locals.
It was open-mic night, so she ducked inside, eased onto a barstool, and ordered a beer, hoping to fit in. Inebriated locals often had loose lips.
Loose lips were just what she needed now. Someone who knew more about Gwyneth and how she’d ended up dead.
Cal ran his finger over the edges of the medal, his memory of the day Brent had received it still fresh, his anger still pulsing.
“Do you really think you should accept that?” he asked Brent.
Brent shrugged. “Why not? We made a big bust tonight. Just think about all the drugs we got off the streets. All the kids we saved.”
“What about the one we didn’t save?” Cal asked, the pain raw. He could still see Milo’s young face. Eager to escape being trapped in a gang, he’d agreed to help Brent get info on the Ten-nines. But the leader of the gang caught on to Milo’s undercover ruse and shot him in the head.
The fourteen-year-old boy’s life had been snuffed out in seconds, his brain matter splattering Cal’s shirt.
“He knew what he was getting into,” Brent said. “Besides, the gang already considered him in. They never would have let him leave.”
“We were supposed to protect him,” Cal argued. “He trusted us.”
Brent’s eyes flared with impatience. “Look, Cal, I’ve spent half my life wiping up other people’s messes, taking care of kids like Milo. Kids like you. We can’t save them all.”
The phone jarred Cal from the memory and Brent’s callous words. They should have saved Milo.
He hadn’t deserved to die so young.
Mona booted up her computer and
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