Not One of Us(76)

I closed my eyes and continued to sit as the mechanical noise tunelessly droned on. Ordinary sounds of life carried on all around me—the gentle backdrop of ocean swells breaking on the gulf, talk and laughter by the dock as the ships left for open sea, birds singing and squirrels scurrying in their busy business of survival.

I imagined Deacon’s heart still beating, growing slower and more erratic, his breath more shallow. Or had he died instantly? I hoped to hell he had, that other than the few seconds when the killer entered his house, aimed, and fired the shots, the end had been quick and merciful. Much as I didn’t want to, I had to rewind and listen to this tape again and again, as many times as necessary, until the colors and shape of the unidentified voice revealed itself.

“Jori?” Green arrows—Dana’s voice. “Are you okay? Someone thought they heard a scream this way.”

I jumped to my feet with a startled gasp. My phone dropped to the ground. “I-I’m fine.”

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She cocked her head to one side. “What’s that noise?”

I scooped up my phone, but not before the endless whirring of the recorder gave way to the sound of garbled voices again and the squeak of a door opening.

“What are you listening to?”

“An audiobook.” I switched off my phone and wiped at the tears gathering in my eyes. “Go away, Dana. I told you I’m fine. We have nothing more to say to each other.”

Dana shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, okay? Can’t you let it go? We’ve been friends since grade school.”

“No. I just thought we were friends.” I leaned over, this time to pick up the clipboard with my event agenda.

“We were friends. Still can be if you’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“Leave me alone, Dana.”

“But I—”

“Here.” I held the clipboard out in front of me. “You want to help me, give this to Ashley Rogers. You know her, don’t you?”

“Yeah. She works with the mayor’s office.”

“Give it to her and say I had to leave unexpectedly. All that’s left to do is make sure the city maintenance crew starts cleanup and answer any questions that might pop up from vendors or guests.”

I turned my back on Dana and stepped into the woods. Obviously, I needed to find a better place if I wanted to be left alone. The path was narrow but well traveled. Kids still rode their bikes through here to get to Choctaw Beach, a small strip of sand in a secluded area. The place was only a fifteen-minute hike by foot. While there I could sit on a patch of sandy soil. With any luck, I’d catch sight of several kayakers as they rowed their way to the final lap of the event course.

Minutes later twigs snapped behind me, and I whirled around to face Dana. “Why are you following me?”

“I can tell something’s wrong. Come back with me, and we’ll get a drink at the Pavilion.”

“Go. Away.”

Without waiting for a response, I spun around and marched forward. Minutes later, after hearing no sounds of being followed, I glanced back over my shoulder. Dana was gone.

I’d worked up a sweat by the time I arrived at Choctaw Beach. I plopped down on the warm sand and scooped a handful of hair up from the back of my neck. The forested banks offered seclusion from open ocean views. Tall willows, sycamores, and other tree species reflected green in the slow-moving stream. Here in the primitive, mysterious heart of the bayou, the humidity was tempered by shade and cooling breezes over water. Here my heartbeat slowed under the spell of ancient tree roots that veined on the bank sides and reached deep into the earth. Here I sunk into the peaceful rhythms of nature, the unceasing wail of cicadas, the splash of turtles sunning on rocks and then returning to their murky underwater domain, and the eternal backdrop of breaking ocean waves in the distance. A gentle breeze passed over my bare nape, and I drew several full breaths, growing calm for the task ahead.

At last I was ready. I turned on my phone and started the recording over from the beginning. The gunshots still shook me to the core, but not with the intensity of the first listen. I still couldn’t make out the tornado of sound that refused to settle into a specific color and shape.

Again, the file reached the long whirring period. According to my phone, there was a little over twenty minutes remaining. I waited it out as though it were a lifeline spanning across the past thirteen years and I was lying in blood on the floor with Deacon, together for one last time. I stared at the phone screen. Only another eighteen seconds left. Seconds before I expected the whirring to end, a large thud sounded, as though the camcorder had been dropped again.

Someone—Deacon? The killer?—was still in the room. Perhaps they’d tossed the camcorder to hide it, or the killer had thrown it, thinking to break the machine.

Distant voices sounded. Footsteps grew closer. The door opened.

“Let’s get this over with,” uttered a deep voice—or words to that effect. The recording was so muffled it was hard to tell exactly what was said. It sounded as though the camcorder might have been stuffed under a pillow or blanket.

Yet—I knew that voice. The umber whirlwind settled and transformed into burnt-orange cubes. My lungs seized with shock. More faint words came, undecipherable, yet my colored hearing picked up on the tone, and I recognized the patterns as clearly as a thumbprint.