Twenty
Claire watched as Ben loaded their overnight bags into the back of the Denali.
“What’s all that other stuff you’re bringing?” she asked, pointing to a long canvas bag and a big, heavy-duty aluminum truck box that fit behind the seat. She’d noticed the box before and wondered at its contents.
Ben gave her a long, assessing glance, leaned into the back, dragged the canvas bag over and unzipped it. Claire’s eyes widened at a stash of weapons that looked as if it could arm the National Guard.
He reached into the bag and took out what looked like a machine gun. “AR 15 semi-auto. Convertible to automatic with a kit.” He slid it back into the bag, opened a box and pointed to a big black handgun. “M-9 Beretta. Nine mil with a fifteen-round magazine.”
He lifted out a short-barreled shotgun. “Mossberg Thunder Ranch six-shot, twelve gauge.” He shoved the shotgun back into the bag, lifted out a smaller, holstered weapon. “My ankle gun—thirty-eight revolver.”
He lifted out a long, sheathed knife with a serrated edge. “My KA-BAR. It’s come in handy more than once.” He drew it out of its sheath, slid it in with a steely ring. “My Nighthawk’s stashed in the center console. Oh, and there’s a sat phone in the bag. You never know when you might be going off the grid.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, sweetheart, I’m already walking around with the hole Duke Hutchins’s bullet carved into my side. I’m not giving him a chance to finish the job.”
“What...what if the police stop us?”
“These weapons are all legal, all registered. All unloaded—except for my .45.” He pointed to another bag. “Ammo’s in there.”
Claire swallowed. “I’m afraid to ask what’s in the box.”
“My dive gear. I leave it in the car most of the time. I’m a frogman, remember? Oh, and a tactical vest. You never know when it might come in handy.” Ben slammed the lid on the Denali. They climbed inside and buckled up. Firing up the engine, he backed out of the garage.
Following Route 59, then heading east on 190, they pulled into Jasper a little over two hours later. A town of only eighty-five hundred, or so Claire’s iPad said, its only distinctive feature was the courthouse—a big old-fashioned brick building with a watchtower that dated way back to the 1850s.
The county sheriff’s office was on Birch Street, a ways out of town, a beige, flat-roofed structure with white sheriff’s department vehicles parked in the lot out front. She spotted a battered white Chevy pickup in a fenced-in area off to one side, and Ben parked the Denali near the entrance to the lot.
“That Bridger’s truck?” he asked.
Just seeing it made her stomach knot. “That’s it. I remember the dent in the front fender.”
But where was Bridger now? Where was Sam? Claire ignored the heaviness in her heart as she climbed out of the pickup and let Ben guide her toward the front of the building.
* * *
Ben felt the same sense of dread he saw in Claire’s face. Where was Sam? Had Bridger decided the boy was too much trouble and dumped him somewhere? Was he hurt or injured? Maybe even dead?
Ben worked a muscle in his jaw. As far as he was concerned, his son was in trouble and he was going to find him and bring him home. No other outcome was acceptable.
As he walked next to Claire across the parking lot, a silver-haired man, tall, broad-shouldered and imposing, approached from the opposite direction.
“Hello, there. I’m Deputy Carson. What can I do for you?”
Ben pulled out his badge and flipped it open. “Ben Slocum. I’m a P.I. from Houston. This is Claire Chastain. She’s a social worker from L.A. I gather that’s the pickup found outside town early this morning?”
“That’s right. What’s your interest?”
“I’m the father of the missing boy you’ve been looking for.”
“There’s a BOLO out on Troy Bridger, Dennis ‘Duke’ Hutchins and the boy. We’ve been keeping an eye out.”
“I’m working the case. I’d like to see what you found in the truck.”
Carson nodded. Family was important in Texas. “I think I can help with that.” The deputy led them into the sheriff’s office, down a hall to an interview room. He left them seated at a table, returned a few minutes later with a large paper evidence bag.
“Wasn’t much in the truck. No registration, no insurance info. Plate was still on so we knew it was Bridger’s. Mostly just trash inside. Our guys have already gone over it.”
He dumped the bag on the table. A beer bottle rolled a couple of inches. Ben caught it and set it upright.
“What about DNA? Bridger isn’t in the system, but if someone else was in the truck besides my son, it might give us a place to look.”
“We’re a small department, Mr. Slocum. DNA takes time and money. We can send this stuff to Houston, have the boys down there take a look. I can tell you there was no blood in the vehicle, nothing that looked suspicious.”
Relief filtered through him. “I’d still like them to make a run at it.”
“All right.”
But they didn’t have a sample of Bridger’s DNA, and Sam’s would just confirm what they already knew. Then again, maybe something would turn up that would give them a lead if the trail went cold in Converse.
Ben’s instincts said Bridger still had the boy with him. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get Sam out of L.A. But now Hutchins was in the mix. If the three of them were together, Hutchins was a wild card that could change Bridger’s game plan.
The deputy handed him a pair of latex gloves. “I’ll give you a few minutes to take a look, but like I said, it’s mostly just trash.”
“Thanks.” Ben looked down at the pile that included torn Wrigley’s Spearmint gum wrappers, dirty blue paper windshield washing towels, an empty Pepsi can, two Lone Star beer bottles and a coffee-stained paper cup. Taking a pen out of his pocket, he sifted through the rest of the smaller debris, including some clear cellophane candy wrappers with white printing on the sides.
“I saw some of those in Bridger’s apartment,” Claire said, looking down at the table.
“Now that you mention it, so did I. Guy must have a real sweet tooth.”
Ben picked up one of the empty squares of cellophane, read the name of the candy. “Mud Bugs.” He looked at the ingredients. “Chocolate, caramel and pecans.”
“A little like pralines.”
“Yeah.” He read the rest of what was printed on the wrapper. “‘Homemade Mud Bugs. Catahoula Candy Makers, Egansville, Louisiana.’”
“You know where that is?”
“No, but it’s one more indication he’s heading for Louisiana.”
“Back to his family.”
“Yeah. I’ll have Sol check it out. Come on, let’s go. It’s another ninety miles to Converse. We’ll do a little digging once we get there, maybe spend the night.”
“I don’t want to get my hopes too high, but I feel like we’re getting close.”
But close only counted in horseshoes. Taking Claire’s hand, Ben led her out of the sheriff’s office.
* * *
Converse, Louisiana, was a tiny village south of Shreveport with a couple of stoplights and a population of a little over four hundred. The residents were mostly white, typically Southern and not too happy the Aryan Nations was planning to build a compound ten miles out of town.
Their first stop was the mayor’s house, a little gray-and-white dwelling that conveniently had a sign reading Mayor’s Office in the yard out front.
“The group’s not even really located here,” the mayor told them, a little disgruntled. “All they’ve got is a post office box. Anyone can have a post office box. Pastor Gulett lives over the Sabine line in DeSoto Parish. And we are more than happy he does.”
Pastor Morris Gulett, the self-declared leader of the Nations, owned a twenty-acre parcel he intended to use for the compound, the mayor said. Still, Converse was the closest thing to a town in the area. Ben flashed the mayor the photo he had of Bridger with his two brothers and one of Bridger with Laura.
“Never seen any of them before,” the mayor said with a shake of his head.
Since the Aryan Nations was part of the Church of Jesus Christ–Christian and heavily based its white-supremacist doctrine on their version of the Bible, they dropped into each of the several churches in the area, names like Hickory Grove, Bear Creek and Beech Grove Baptist.
None of the pastors recognized any of the men in the photos, none were happy the group was claiming Converse as its home. The owner of the tiny local grocery was no help. No one at the nearest gas station had seen the men before.
By the end of the day, Ben was sure they had made a wrong turn and Converse wasn’t Bridger’s final destination. He was fairly sure their white-supremacist theory had led them on a wild-goose chase.
As he started the engine on the Denali, he ran a hand wearily over the roughness along his jaw. “It’s getting late. Let’s get something to eat and find a motel room.”
“We’re a long ways from nowhere. I looked on my iPad earlier and the closest motel is up near Mansfield. It’s more than thirty miles away.” Claire sounded as disheartened as he was. They needed something, anything that would help them locate Bridger.
“Good a place as any, I guess.” Especially since he had no idea where they would be going from there.
They made the drive in silence, pulled into a motel called the Country Inn off Highway 171. All the place had were rooms with two double beds, which reminded him of the first time he and Claire had made love. He’d needed her that night. He needed her now.
Ben set his jaw. He didn’t need anyone, he reminded himself. He was who he was, and that wasn’t going to change.
“There’s a café next door,” he said as he carried their bags into the room. Typical cheap motel decor: old flowered bedspreads, curtains drooping a little at the windows. But the room and bathroom were clean, and the mattresses weren’t sagging.
He tossed his overnight duffel on one of the beds. “You hungry?” he asked, though his appetite had waned as his mood sank from glum to completely sour.
“I’m not very hungry, but I guess I could eat a bowl of soup or something.”
Ben took her carry-on and tossed it up next to his duffel. “Maybe we can bring something back here, and get to bed early.”
Claire walked over and slid her arms around his waist, leaned into him. “I can’t stand this, Ben. I keep thinking of Sam. We’ve got to find him.”
His arms went around her. “I know.” But Bridger had evaporated into thin air, and unless something turned up soon, they were going nowhere. Ben stood there with Claire’s head on his shoulder, trying to think of something encouraging to say, something at least half-true, coming up with nothing.
The sound of his phone ringing felt like a reprieve. Claire stepped back as he pulled the phone out of the pocket of his jeans and checked the caller ID. “Sol.”
Ben pressed the phone against his ear. “Tell me you’ve got something.”
“You are so gonna love me.”
He looked over at Claire, saw the hope in her pretty green eyes.
“You know those candy wrappers you called me about?”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“The Catahoula Candy company keeps digital sales records. I found several shipments from Egansville to Troy Bridger’s address in Los Angeles. A box around Christmas, another in June. I figure gifts—Christmas, maybe Bridger’s birthday.”
“Who sent them?”
“A woman named Agnes Bragg. She paid cash, Ice. There’s a very good chance she lives somewhere near Egansville. Even better news. When I ran a background check, guess what I found? Agnes Bragg has six brothers. One of them is named Troy.”
Adrenaline jolted through him. “Troy Bragg.”
“My money’s on it. This family is off the grid, though. Way off. Not the kind of folks you’ll find on Facebook.”
“You get an address for Agnes or any of the other Braggs?”
“They share a P.O. box in Egansville. That’s it. Like I said, they’re off the grid.”
“We’re on our way first thing in the morning. Keep digging, Sol. We’ve almost got him.”
“We’re gonna nail the bastard. Good luck, Ice.”
Ben hung up the phone, turned to see Claire staring anxiously into his face.
“Troy Bragg?” she said. “That’s his real name?”
“Looks like. Six brothers and a sister. They live somewhere near Egansville.”
Excited, Claire grabbed her iPad and turned it on, brought up Google Maps. “The town’s less than a hundred and fifty miles away. Maybe we should drive there tonight.”
He’d already considered it. But there was nothing they could do till morning and both of them were beat. “Better to get some sleep, get an early start tomorrow.”
“We’re going to get him, Ben.”
He drew her close. “Yeah, we are.” At least they had a chance. Ben softly kissed her. “Want to celebrate?”
“Why don’t we celebrate when we find Sam?” She ran her fingers through his hair, went up on her toes and pressed her soft lips over his. “In the meantime, why don’t we just go to bed?”
Ben kissed her long and deep. “Good idea,” he said.
But even afterward, with Claire curled sweetly in his arms, his mind remained on Sam and he couldn’t fall asleep.
* * *
“Get the hell out of bed, you lazy little bastard.”
Lying on his sleeping mat, Sam’s eyes cracked open. Pepper scrambled out of the way as Sam dodged the heavy leather boot swinging toward him and rolled to his feet.
“Leave him alone, Troy,” Aggie said. She was Troy’s sister, Sam knew, older than Troy, with a big butt and bigger boobs, and long brown hair streaked with gray. Troy had told her he had brought Sam home so that she’d have a kid, like she’d always wanted.
“Sam didn’t get much sleep last night,” Aggie said, “what with you boys gettin’ in so late from huntin’.”
“Too damn bad. He’s already missed breakfast, Aggie. Kid’s gotta learn to carry his weight around here. Skinner’s gonna show him which plants he can eat. Sam’s got a lot to learn if he wants to stay alive in the bayou.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. Living in the swamps was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to be home in California where he could ride his skateboard and play baseball with his friends. Where he could play video games and go to the movies like regular kids.
A shiver ran down his back as he remembered the hunting trip yesterday with Troy and his brothers Scully and Mace. He’d never forget the big brown-spotted snake nearly as long as Sam was tall, slithering across the trail in front of them. A water moccasin, Troy had said. Troy said if it bit you, it could kill you.
Sam hated snakes. He hadn’t known how much they scared him until yesterday.
His eyes burned. He should have run away that night at the chicken fights. He should have headed out into the desert instead of going back to the truck.
But Pepper had been waiting, and he couldn’t just leave him.
“I’ve got some chores for him to do right here,” Aggie said, resting a hand on his shoulder. She was the only one in the camp who’d been nice to him.
“I’ll see he gets somethin’ to eat,” Aggie said. “Soon as we’re done, I’ll send him on out to y’all.”
“All right, but don’t take too long.”
Aggie smiled down at him. She was kind of old, but at least she liked him. “Hear that? We’d best get you fed. How about some grits and syrup? It’s still in the pot. I can heat it up in no time.”
Sam just nodded. His stomach was rumbling. He tried not to think of the French toast his mom used to make, his favorite breakfast meal. He tried not to think of his mom at all.
Or Claire. He wondered if she had tried to find him after he was gone. She probably thought he’d run away and forgot all about him.
His throat closed up. When Aggie set the grits down in front of him along with the pitcher of syrup, he had to force the food past the lump in his throat.
He was never going home. He had to face the truth. Troy would never let him leave, and there was no place to run from here. Not unless he wanted to get killed by a snake or eaten by a gator. He’d seen one of those yesterday, too.
Little by little he was getting to the point where he didn’t really care. Maybe he’d just take off, see if he could make it out of here on his own. Sam went back to eating his grits. He would need to be strong if he decided to run.