South of Hell (Louis Kincaid Mysteries) Page 9

Joe sighed. “Have you seen your mother when you’re awake?”

  “No, but sometimes I can hear her.”

  Joe looked up at Louis again and gave a subtle shake of her head.

  “Ask her about her father, Joe,” Louis said.

  “I don’t think we should right now,” Joe said evenly.

  “He hurt Momma,” Amy said suddenly. “He hurt her bad.”

  Joe’s eyes shot back to Amy.

  “I’m so tired,” Amy whispered. “It’s over now.”

  She closed her eyes, as if she were succumbing to a powerful drug. Seconds later, she went limp. Joe caught her as she tipped over and lowered her gently to the floor. Joe checked her pulse. It was strong. But they still had to get her to a doctor and have her checked out.

  Joe rose and went to Louis. “You stay here with her,” she said. “I’ll drive down the road and call the Livingston County sheriff.”

  “I think we need to keep her with us,” Louis said.

  “What?”

  “She could be a witness, Joe. She could have seen Jean’s murder.”

  “Do you hear yourself?” she asked. “You’re a thirty-year-old man who wants to keep a runaway teenager with you against her will. That’s kidnapping.”

  Her words seemed to register some reality with him. He dropped his head for a moment, then rubbed his brow. “Joe, you know what foster care is like,” he said. “And she may not even get that far. She’ll probably end up in a state hospital.”

  “Louis, we have no choice. By law, I have to turn her in.”

  “Then let’s take her back to Ann Arbor,” he said. “She’s Jean’s daughter, and Shockey will make sure she gets the best home available. And legally, she’ll be in police custody.”

  “No,” Joe said. “She belongs to Livingston County. And that’s where I’m taking her.”

  Louis stared at her. He had no real authority here, and Joe knew that. She also knew how much that was bothering him. If he did actually try to take Amy somewhere other than the Livingston County sheriff, Joe could—and probably would—do whatever she needed to do to stop him. Even if it meant putting him under arrest.

  “Will you carry her to the car, please?” Joe asked.

  Louis walked to Amy and knelt to pick her up. It was an awkward lift, but Amy seemed to be in a comalike sleep, and she didn’t wake up.

  “The front door’s padlocked,” Louis said. “We’ll have to go back out through the kitchen.”

  Joe followed him to the kitchen, holding open the door as Louis angled Amy through the frame. Joe tried to work the door closed, but it was caught on the buckled linoleum, and she finally just left it.

  As she rounded the corner of the house, she saw Louis had stopped. He was staring at a car parked in the road behind her Bronco. A rusty green Gremlin. Two people inside. Ohio license plates.

  The passenger door opened, and a man stepped out, looking at them over the roof of the car.

  It was Owen Brandt.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Louis stayed where he was, on the grass, cradling Amy in his arms.

  Owen Brandt walked toward the gate, keys in hand. He was a stocky man, buffed by six years of lifting weights in the prison gym. His face was the color of a raw steak, the cheeks scored by deep lines down the sides of his mouth. Small spikes of black hair stood on end around his head.

  He unlocked the gate and pushed it open, his dark eyes never leaving Louis and Joe. Stepping inside the gate, he faced them, jingling the keys like a pissed-off jail guard.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked.

  Louis and Joe came forward together. Brandt assumed a blockade position between the gate and the road behind him. He wore a dirty denim jacket and baggy jeans, and Louis could not tell if he had a weapon on his belt.

  “I asked who the hell you people are,” Brandt said again.

  Joe held up her badge, only long enough to let Brandt see that it was gold but not long enough for him to read the county name. But Brandt had seen too many cops and had been in prison too long not to notice the sleight of hand.

  “Let me see that again,” Brandt said. His lips curled when Joe held it up. “Where the fuck is Leelanau County? That even a real badge?”

  “It’s real,” Joe said. “And it’s good throughout the state. Now step aside and let us by.”

  Brandt didn’t move, his gaze narrowing in on Amy, first with curiosity, then with shock as recognition set in.

  “That my girl you got there?” he demanded.

  “Step aside,” Joe said.

  “Now wait a minute,” Brandt said. “That’s my girl, and you don’t have no right to take her anywhere.”

  “She’s a runaway in need of care,” Joe said.

  “She ain’t no runaway if she’s home, and that’s her home,” Brandt said, gesturing to the house. “Now put her down.”

  The thud of a door closing drew Louis’s attention behind Brandt. A woman had climbed from the Gremlin. She was short, her bleached blond hair a pile of frizz atop her thin face. She wore an oversized black leather jacket over licorice-stick leggings. As she wobbled across the road on spiked black heels, Louis could hear the clatter of her plastic bracelets.

  Joe’s gun suddenly came level, held out in front of her in one hand. With her other hand, she motioned for the woman to halt.

  “Stay where you are,” she called. And to Brandt, “Now, you, put your hands on the gate and spread your feet.”

  Brandt stared at her with hatred.

  “Now!”

  Brandt stepped reluctantly to the gate and assumed the position of a man who had been frisked a hundred times. Louis shifted the sleeping Amy to get a better hold and continued toward Joe’s Bronco, praying the girl would not wake up now and see her father.

  When he got to the truck, Amy started to slip, and he adjusted her again, trying to balance her while he opened the door. The blond woman was suddenly next to him, the air thick with a sweet perfume.

  “I’ll get that for you,” she said, opening the door.

  Brandt’s voice shredded the air. “You stupid bitch!” he shouted. “Don’t you help them do nothing. Get your ass back to the car!”

  The woman’s face shot up, and she stared at Brandt for a moment, then turned away, head down.

  Louis set Amy in the backseat of the Bronco and buckled her in, then reached to the console for his Glock. When he got back to Joe, she had finished her pat-down of Brandt. She had holstered her gun and had nothing else in her hands, which meant she had found no weapons on Brandt. Too bad. It would have been a parole violation, and they could have locked him up.

  Joe walked away to talk to the blond woman. Louis stayed with Brandt, his Glock at his side. But Brandt didn’t seem interested in him. He was watching Joe.

  “This ain’t right, what you’re doing here,” Brandt said. “You can’t be inside my house without a warrant. That’s the law.”

  “Shut up,” Louis said.

  Brandt ignored him. “And it don’t matter where you take her, because I’ll just go and get her back,” he said. “And they’ll give her to me, too, because I’m her father, and people out this way understand that. Fathers have rights. That’s the law, too.”

  Joe finished talking to the woman and motioned for Louis to join her in the Bronco. She took the driver’s seat and had the engine running by the time he climbed in. He waited until they were a mile down the road, making sure the Gremlin had not followed them, before he put his gun back into the console.

  Amy was still sound asleep.

  He looked to Joe. Her profile was sharply defined by the harsh sun. Eyes unblinking, lips drawn, jaw tight. Adrenaline from a potentially dangerous confrontation or something else?

  “You okay, Joe?” he asked.

  “I can’t stomach the thought of that man having Amy in that house and being alone with her.”

  Louis was quiet. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was—that if they took her to Livingston County au
thorities now, Brandt would have her within hours.

  “But damn it, Louis, what you want me to do could cost me my reputation—and the election next fall,” Joe said. “And it’s not only disrespectful to Livingston County, it’s against every procedure I’ve ever been taught. I just can’t take people wherever I want to.”

  “Joe, I don’t want you to do anything but help her,” Louis said. “How you choose to do that is totally up to you.”

  Joe slowed for a stop sign at a T intersection. There were no signs, but he knew that north led them to the city of Howell, the county seat for Livingston. South would take them to I-94, the freeway that went to Ann Arbor.

  “Help me out here, Louis,” she said. “How can we explain to this local sheriff why we took Amy to Ann Arbor?”

  “We could tell them she’s a key witness in a homicide,” he offered. “And that we’re taking her into protective custody. With Brandt back in town, they’ll believe that.”

  “Amy was only four when Jean disappeared,” Joe said. “We have no reason to think she witnessed anything.”

  “We can hope.”

  “Hope…” Joe whispered.

  She sat for a moment longer, then hit her right blinker and turned south.

  Joe dropped Louis at the Ann Arbor police station so he could tell Shockey about Amy and make arrangements with the police in Hudson to do a welfare check on Geneva Brandt.

  Then she swung by the College Inn, left Louis a note, grabbed her overnight bag, and checked herself and Amy into the only hotel in the city that had two-room suites and an on-site bar, the Ann Arbor Hilton.

  Amy was groggy but managed the walk down the long hotel hall without asking where she was going. Joe unlocked the door and, with a gentle push, guided her inside. Amy wandered to the middle of the living room and turned a slow circle as she looked around.

  Joe unzipped her bag, dug out a hair brush and the oversized Cleveland Browns T-shirt she used as her nightgown. Then she went into the bathroom, soaped up a warm washcloth, and snatched a towel. When she returned to the living room, Amy was gone. Joe spun to the door. The chain was still on.

  She found Amy in the bedroom, perched nervously on the edge of the bed. Joe sat down next to her and carefully pulled her hair back to wash her face.

  Good Lord.

  One washcloth was not going to be enough. The girl was filthy, dirt caked behind her ears and in her hair. And now Joe noticed a smell, too.

  “Amy, will you take a shower?”

  Amy turned to her, confused.

  Joe sighed and pulled her to her feet. Amy trailed along behind her without protest. She stood limply in the bathroom while Joe turned on the water, her eyes brightening with a glint of interest at the rise of steam. But she made no move to undress herself.

  Joe started with the dirty blue T-shirt, easing it up Amy’s body. Amy let her take it off, her arms going up and flopping down like a rag doll. She wore no bra.

  Joe unsnapped the blue jeans and pulled them down Amy’s skinny legs. Amy surprised her by balancing herself on Joe’s shoulder as she stepped out of them. Her panties were blue and too small, the elastic biting into the skin. As Joe reached for them, she looked up at Amy’s face.

  She wasn’t sure why, but she half expected the girl to tense at this point. Most abused girls would have started fighting her long before this. But Amy was simply watching her, that same empty expression on her face.

  Joe lowered the panties. There was a small spot of blood in the crotch.

  “It came again,” Amy said. “I’m sorry.”

  Joe stood up, relieved that the blood was not the result of a recent assault and grateful that Amy had finally spoken.

  “It?” Joe asked. “You mean your period?”

  “Just it.”

  Joe set the panties in the sink and went back to her overnight bag. She found a tampon and returned to the bathroom. Amy’s sad brown eyes registered no understanding at the sight of it.

  “Do you know what this is?” Joe asked.

  “No.”

  Joe sighed. “Okay, never mind. We’ll make do for a while ’til I can get to the store. Why don’t you get in the shower?”

  Amy looked to the bath but didn’t move. Joe pulled the curtain back and took Amy’s hand, urging her firmly into the tub. It took Amy only seconds to appreciate the warm rush of water. With the deepest sigh Joe had ever heard, Amy closed her eyes and turned into the spray, like a child in the rain.

  Joe watched her, waiting for her to pick up the soap or reach for the washcloth. But it was clear that Amy wanted nothing more than to feel the water, so Joe took on the task of washing her. Amy didn’t seem to mind being touched, but she also didn’t respond to anything. Joe had to tell her the simplest things—turn around, lift your arm, rinse your hair.

  It was just as difficult to dry her. Joe finally gave up and returned to the living room to rummage through Amy’s backpack, hoping to find clean underwear.

  The top of the bag was cluttered with sardine cans, saltine crackers, and uncooked popcorn. Under that, Joe found a pair of jeans, the denim elaborately marked with colorful swirls, circles, and glued glitter. She dug deeper and found one pair of clean panties.

  Joe started to restuff the bag, but her eye caught something in the bottom. It was an old cardboard kaleidoscope, like something you’d find in a bin at some long-forgotten dime store. Joe set it aside. She noticed a book at the bottom of the bag and pulled it out.

  It was A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Joe knew the story. It was about a young girl named Francie who struggled to survive in a home without love and a place without hope.

  “That’s my book,” Amy said from the doorway. “Please don’t take it away.”

  Joe turned to her. Amy had put on the clean Browns T-shirt Joe had left in the bathroom. It hung like a sheet on her body, the shoulders wet from her dripping hair.

  “Have you read this book?” Joe asked.

  “Many times.”

  “What is it about?”

  “Finding things where there isn’t anything to find. Can I have my book?”

  “In a minute,” Joe said. She held out the panties. “Go put these on, and use a dry washcloth for…the it. Okay?”

  “I understand,” Amy said.

  Amy left and returned a minute later, hand out again for her book. Joe gave it to her. Amy started to put it into the backpack but paused. She rummaged through the backpack and then looked up at Joe.

  “Where’s Toby?”

  “Who?”

  “Toby,” Amy said. “Did you take him?”

  “I didn’t take anything out of there, I promise,” Joe said. “What—who—is Toby, Amy?”

  “He’s my rabbit,” Amy whispered. “He’s missing an ear. I must have lost him.”

  She looked inconsolable. But then she slowly repacked the backpack, zipped it up, and stowed it under the coffee table. When she drew herself to her feet, she looked around again, as if she was just realizing she was in a hotel room.

  “Where am I?” Amy asked.

  “Ann Arbor.”

  Amy’s eyes sparked with something Joe had not seen until this moment—life.

  “Go Blue,” Amy said.

  Joe blinked in surprise. “Where have you heard that before?”

  “Mr. Bustin had a Go Blue room at his house,” Amy said. “He went to school here. He missed this place very much.”

  Amy walked to the window, holding back the heavy drape so she could look out. Joe knew there was nothing to see but an alleyway Dumpster with a glimpse of a gas station at the corner.

  “I thought Ann Arbor must be a beautiful place for Mr. Bustin to miss it so much, but it isn’t,” Amy said. “It looks just like Hudson.”

  “Is Hudson far from here?” Joe asked.

  “It’s way down by Ohio, I think,” Amy said. She had been still looking out the window and turned suddenly toward Joe, her expression clouded. “Aunt Geneva died in her sleep. She shouldn’t be there alo
ne. Can someone go help her?”

  “Someone is already on their way.”

  “Good,” Amy said. “I didn’t know what to do with her, but I didn’t think she’d mind if I left. But I think I’m selfish now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t miss her,” Amy said. “I only feel free. Is that selfish?”

  Joe watched her, fascinated by the way Amy’s strange young mind seemed to work and the way she was changing—no, maturing—right before her eyes. She was starting to like this girl.

  “Amy, how did you get from Hudson to the farm?”

  “I went out to the highway and waited until someone came along. I was in—” She was counting on her fingers. “I was in three big trucks, two cars, and a small truck.”

  Joe shook her head slowly. “How did you know where to go?”

  “Aunt Geneva talked about the farm all the time.” Again, Amy’s face clouded. “I don’t remember much about it. I guess I was pretty little when I went to live with Aunt Geneva.”

  Joe wondered how Amy had come to live with Geneva. Had Owen just dumped the girl on his sister after Jean disappeared? “Amy, do you remember anything about how you came to live with your aunt?”

  Amy hesitated, then looked back out the window. “I was just little,” she whispered. “I remember Poppa woke me up and took me down to the car. He said we were going for a ride. It was very cold, and I was scared, because Momma wasn’t going with us. We drove for a long time. When I woke up, I was in a big bed by myself.”

  “Amy, come sit down,” Joe said gently, patting the sofa.

  Amy let the drape fall and slowly came to the sofa, perching on its edge. Her eyes were locked on Joe, expectant, as if she was waiting for more questions.

  “Why did you leave Hudson to go back to the farm?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know,” Amy said. “I just knew I had to go. Aunt Geneva told me I should never go back there. She told me bad things happened there a long time ago and that it was an evil place. But I had to go back anyway.”

  “What exactly did your aunt tell you?” Joe asked.

  “She told me lots of stories,” Amy said. “But I can’t remember them.”

  “Do you remember the things you told me at the farm?”