8:05 P.M.
As he did most weeknights, Billy Ray had consumed his meal-from-a-box, enjoyed the one beer—Abita Amber, there wasn’t any other as far as he was concerned—he allowed himself, and headed into his war room.
He sat there now. Assessing. Questioning. His greatest achievement. And most dismal failure. All the puzzle pieces that he’d found and snapped into place, yet he was the only one who could see the emerging image.
Logan Abbott.
Dixie Jenkins seemed to stare accusingly at him, as if demanding how he could have let this happen to her.
A thumping from his front door dragged him away from his thoughts. He went to it, peering out the side window, right hand hovering over his firearm.
Tucker Law. Local high school football hero and hell-raiser. His parents stood behind him, looking anxious.
Billy Ray opened the door. “Tucker,” he said, then shifted his gaze. “Martin, Betty, this is a surprise.”
“Tucker has something to say to you.”
He shifted his gaze to the seventeen-year-old. “That so, Tucker?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He has some information about Dixie,” Martin said.
“Come on in,” Billy Ray said, stepping aside so they could enter. “Have a seat.”
They did. Billy Ray grabbed a notepad and pen, then took the chair across from the boy.
“What do you have to say, Tucker?”
He cleared his throat. “I was drivin’ past The Landing Friday night. Late. Me and Louis Moore, we’d been out hunting.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “At night?”
“Yes, sir. Nutria.”
“Gators, you mean?”
Tucker slid a glance toward his father, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Which was illegal, a fact Billy Ray ignored. Hell, reality television had practically made it open season. “When you say ‘late,’ what time?”
“Two, three in the morning. Which I suppose made it early Saturday morning. I’d just dropped Louis off.”
“Which? Two? Or three?”
He thought a moment. “After two but not three. I remember thinking that. Doing the math, you know. How long I’d have to sleep before getting up for work.”
“Go on.”
“I saw Dixie, her Mustang. In the Landing parking lot.”
Billy Ray fought to take it slow. “You saw her? Or just her Mustang?”
“First, I just noticed her ’stang. It’s a sweet set of wheels. Needs some work, but still—”
Billy Ray cut him off, impatient. “Yes, it is. Go on, Tucker.”
“Then I noticed Dixie. She was talking to someone in the truck next to her.”
“Did you notice what kind of a truck?” Billy Ray asked, unable to hide his excitement.
“A Ford F-150. Real shiny. Black.”
Logan Abbott had a black F-150.
“What happened next?”
“She climbed into the truck.” He twisted his hands in his lap. “I didn’t think anything of it until Mom and Dad—”
“We told him about Dixie being missing,” Betty Law said.
Billy Ray fought to keep his excitement from showing. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No, sir. Told my folks and we came straight here.”
“You did good, Tucker.” Billy Ray looked from Tucker to his parents. “Don’t repeat this story. Not to anyone. This might just be the break we’ve been waiting for. And if it is, we don’t want the perpetrator to know we’re on to him. You get me, Tucker?”
“Yes, sir.”
He looked him dead in the eyes. “I mean it. I hear you’ve blabbed, I’m going to throw your ass in jail.”
“Jail,” Martin Law said. “What the hell for?”
“Hunting gators out of season. It’s breaking the law, no matter what you may think from watching Swamp People.”
“But we brought you this information! Is this how you pay us back?”
“It’s how I ensure you keep your mouths shut. You do that, and I overlook that infraction.”
Tucker nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing. But what about Louis?”
“I’ll need to talk to him, too. Confirm your story and timeline.” He closed his notebook and stood. “Can I count on your silence as well, Martin? Betty? Nothing to no one.”
Martin looked at his wife, who nodded, then back at Billy Ray. “You can count on us. We want this son of a bitch caught, whoever he is.”
Not whoever, Billy Ray thought moments later as he watched the three drive off. Logan Abbott.
Finally.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, April 22
3:15 A.M.
A cry on her lips, Bailey sat straight up in bed. A nightmare, she realized, working to calm herself. Nothing more.
Bailey turned toward Logan, surprised she hadn’t awakened him. She hadn’t because he wasn’t in bed with her. She moved a hand over his spot, finding it cool to the touch.
They’d had dinner at Faye’s. She’d eaten some, but mostly moved the food around the plate. And said little. When he’d asked about her change of mood, she’d claimed exhaustion. A headache.
The red shoe. Emerging from its muddy grave.
A snippet of a memory meant nothing. There was a logical explanation, one that she already knew but didn’t remember.
She dragged the blankets up to her chin, remembering. Tony barking. The shoe. Being scared half to death by Henry at the edge of the woods. He’d heard Tony and come looking.
“What do you have there, Ms. True?”
She’d told him it was nothing, and asked if he would show her the way back to the path. He had done better than that, he had walked her all the way to the gate. But not before she had taken a couple of pictures of the shoe.
There, her memory came to a sharp stop.
Stop this, Bailey. Show Logan the picture. Tell him what you remembered. Ask him about it.
Of course that’s what she should do. Why was it so hard to focus? To stay calm and clearheaded? The TML? Pregnancy and its runaway hormones? A combination of the two?
She reached for her cell phone, located on the nightstand beside her. Its display glowed reassuringly as she checked the time. Three-fifteen. Late to be up working or anything else. Even for Logan.