When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(59)

“You sobered up,” I say.

Walt nods, but it’s not a triumphant gesture. His shoulders are bowed and I realize now his cheeks are damp with tears. Did the mountains save him or break him? I wonder if he knows.

Walt clears his throat. He has moved toward a rack of microgreens. He strokes the velvety shoots now.

“When I got back,” he says, “my woman was gone. Boy, too. Cleared out. Maybe they thought I was dead. Maybe, they just saw a chance to escape and took it. I couldn’t blame ’em. I woulda run from me, too. Course, you can’t escape yourself. So I stayed. I dumped out the booze. Every damn drop. I cried, like a sniveling little boy. And I walked. Every night. I had to listen to the woods. I needed the trees to talk to me. I had to learn what they needed to say.

“Maybe I went a little crazy. Locals say I am. They cross the street when I come into town. The store owners take my money but they keep their distance. I’m sober now, been clean for well over four decades. But all that drinking . . . It’s possible I pickled my brain. I don’t know. I still hear the woods at night. I still walk among the trees, listening to the wind tell its stories.

“And sometimes, I hear screaming. There are ghosts in these mountains, and they’re not all in my head.”

“What do you hear, Walt?” I ask gently. Because whether he knows it or not, he’s crying again, silent tears running down his bristly cheeks. And there is something so mournful about him, I’m sorry I was ever scared of him, even as I wonder if this is just a different shade of crazy.

“I hear you,” he says quietly. So quietly, I’m not sure I heard correctly. He looks up. “I hear you crying in that box. I hear all my sins, all the things I can’t undo, including my biggest sin of all.”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. Keith has moved closer to me. What Walt is saying doesn’t make sense, and yet, I already know it does.

My pervasive sense of déjà vu.

“I told him to let you go. I told him it wasn’t right.”

“Who did you tell to let her go?” Keith, his voice strong and even, which is good, because at any moment I’m going to collapse.

“I was a mean son of a bitch. The things I did to my family . . . But I still didn’t understand the full awfulness of what I’d done. Till he came back. Reap what you sow. I don’t want to grow that kind of anger ever again.”

I try to open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

“I begged him,” Walt murmurs. “I begged him to be better. But I could tell. The booze, the drugs, they had him, too. Or maybe, blood simply runs black in this family.

“My boy, showing up as a grown man. Strutting around these woods. If the trees screamed at him, he liked it. If the wind fought, he yelled back. I thought I was something terrible, unnatural, evil. Then, I met my own son.”

I have to put out a hand. I find a metal rack, grab on for dear life. Then Keith is there, taking my arm, shoring me up.

“He took me to the cellar,” Walt whispers. “He showed me what he’d done. He was proud. So damn proud. I heard you, whimpering like a kitten. A poor broken girl who just wanted out.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

I’m shaking my head. At least, I think I am. His words are too much, bringing back the unforgiving feel of the hard wood against my head, the stench of urine as I lay in my own waste, and the gleeful sound of Jacob’s voice.

“I came back for you,” Walt is saying. “I knew he’d never let you go. I couldn’t bear it. I knew it wasn’t enough for me to do no evil. I had to save you, too, or the woods would never let me sleep at night. So I waited till I knew he was away. Headed out on a delivery with his rig. I was gonna rescue you. Break apart that damn box with my own two hands if I had to.” Walt took in a deep, ragged breath. “But I was already too late. The cellar was empty. You, the box, my boy, were gone.

“I never saw him again, till one day, I heard he died in some motel raid by the feds. I didn’t cry. Not then, not now. I raised evil, my biggest sin, my deepest regret. My own son, Jacob, who I’d turned into the meanest son of a bitch of ’em all.”





CHAPTER 25





D.D.





COOK TURNED OUT TO BE a burly woman wearing a grease splattered apron and hairnet. She had rounded up the other two workers, Mayor Howard’s niece, wearing her light-blue maid’s uniform, and another young woman with exotic features and gorgeous brown hair. The second woman also wore a maid’s uniform and kept her gaze fixed on a spot slightly above D.D.’s shoulder.

“This here is Hélène,” the cook said, pointing at the dark-skinned beauty. D.D. would peg the maid’s age somewhere between eighteen and twenty-three. Not as young as the niece, but still . . .

“This is Girl.” The cook pointed to the mayor’s niece.

“Girl?” D.D. interrupted. “You call her Girl?”

“She don’t mind.” The cook stared D.D. right in the eye. She had her thick arms crossed over her chest. A show of aggression. She also remained standing, while having the younger helpers sit. A show of power. She was in charge and she wanted everyone in the room to know it.

Beside D.D., Kimberly cleared her throat, a subtle hint for D.D. to move on. Why start with open warfare when you could build up to it?