Beneath Devil's Bridge(81)

“Dirk, hey, listen, I know this is abrupt, but I need to know. Way back, when Merle was trying to quit smoking, and you said she was trying hypnosis, which therapist was she seeing?”

“Is . . . this to do with that podcast?”

“Yes. You mentioned in the incident room that Merle was having hypnotherapy.”

“There was only one hypnotherapist in town in 1997, Rachel, and you know that.”

I close my eyes. A bitter taste crawls up the back of my throat. Softly I say, “Granger.”

“Of course. It helped for a while, you know. She quit for about two years. Then she went back to it. Probably because I was always smoking in the house, and it was too much of a trigger for her. I shoulda quit, because . . . well, as you know, the lung cancer got her in the end.”

“I need you to be honest with me, Dirk. There can be no more secrets. Do you understand? Did you ever share with Merle the details of Leena Rai’s autopsy? Did you talk to your wife about the case, and about how Leena was killed?”

Silence.

“Dirk?”

“Shit,” he whispers. “I . . . Does this have anything to do with—”

“Just tell me, Dirk.”

“I told Merle things. Always. She was my rock, Rache. She kept my counsel. She never shared what I told her. And I was badly affected by the Leena case, like we all were, especially after I got a look at the postmortem results, and saw what that girl went through, and how she was drowned. Those pebbles in her lungs . . . that did me in. Inhaling those pebbles with her last, desperate gulp for breath. Those photos of the boot imprint on her skull. I needed to talk to Merle. And maybe I shouldn’t have, because what I told her messed with her head, too. She had trouble sleeping. She said the images kept coming at her, and her imagination would run with them in the darkness. She couldn’t get the whole thing out of her head. It made her reach for her cigarettes again. I . . . I think she asked her therapist for a way to deal with it. The trauma of it. The horrific nightmares. The things that were urging her to smoke again.”

Emotion wells in my eyes. I inhale deeply.

“Rache?”

“I’m here.” I struggle to moderate my voice. “Thanks, Dirk.”

“Did this have anything to do with—I mean, it couldn’t have impacted the investigation, could it?”

“Maybe. It’s okay.”

“Shit,” he whispers. “What happened—what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet. I promise I will let you know, okay? Thanks, Dirk. Thanks for your honesty.”

I kill the call and try Granger again. Still no answer. It’s like everyone in my close circle is avoiding me. A pariah. I check the time. It’s just past 8:00 p.m.

I decide to drive past the Raven’s Roost to see if Granger’s bike is perhaps parked outside.

When I pull into town and take the small side street around the back of the pub, I see Granger’s bike.

Parked beside his motorcycle are two other Harleys. Both display Devil Riders insignia—that distinctive spiderweb design.

I know how these prison gangs work, Rachel. My father had a tattoo on his neck that marked him as an affiliate of a gang on the inside. A spiderweb . . . If a Devil Rider member, or a boss, wants someone targeted either on the inside or the outside, they can make it happen. That barbed wire keeps no one safe . . .





RACHEL


NOW


Sunday, November 21. Present day.

I walk into the bar. It’s busy. Sunday night, so there’s live music. Plenty of food, specials on drinks.

Rex is behind the bar. He spies me and raises his hand, but I ignore him as I scan the faces of the packed pub. I see him. Granger. Leather jacket. Ruffled hair. He’s huddled in a booth in the back corner with his son, Johnny, their heads bent close as they discuss something.

I march toward them, bumping people in my haste.

“Hey! Old bitch. Watch where you’re going.”

I ignore the jibe. My whole being, every molecule in my body and mind, is focused on the back of Granger’s head. I’m zeroing all my mental and emotional energy in on him because I can’t even begin to process properly what Clay said about my daughter, and what that means to me as her mother. And right now, my worst fear is that the man I live with not only helped put Clay away twenty-four years ago, but also helped kill him today.

I reach the booth. Johnny stares up at me in surprise.

“Rachel?” Johnny says. “Are you all right?”

Granger turns his head, sees me. Blood drains from his face.

“Did you do it?” I growl at him. “Did you have him killed?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Clay Pelley. He’s dead. Shanked. Did you do this? You and your Devil Rider contacts?”

“Jesus, Rachel.” He surges to his feet. “Sit down, will you. Lower your voice.”

“You were his therapist, Granger. You were Merle Rigg’s therapist, too. You took those crime scene details from Merle, and you seeded them into his head.”

His face pales further. He grabs my arm. I try to yank free. He grips tighter. He’s strong. He pulls me close and puts his mouth to my ear. “Not in here. We’ll talk outside. In your truck. Come, walk.” He begins to usher me out.