The Red Hunter(53)

Rhett Beckham, the tall, thin one. The one who dragged me through the window, who cut me with my father’s hunting knife. And then there was Josh Beckham, his brother, the one who tried to say I wasn’t in the barn. That’s what I think, anyway. Those are my theories, based on my long investigation, the fragments of my memory, the recorded voice, the eyes I saw in mug shots.

According to Seth Murphy, who was also still obsessed with what happened that night, there was another man, a man in the passenger seat of the car, sitting, waiting. We had no idea who that might be.

The car they were in was a big old Caddy, black, run-down. Seth didn’t see any tags. It was never found. But Didion had been seen driving something similar a week earlier. All just fragments, pieces that never gelled enough for an arrest, though they were all questioned.

“I heard,” I said.

“He was released,” said Boz. “He rolled into town a week ago, and now he’s his living with his brother and mother.”

“Someone’s moved into the house.” The words backed up in my throat. “She’s renovating it. She has a blog.”

He had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his face.

“Mike thinks the energy has been disturbed,” I went on. “That it’s time for closure.”

“That sounds like something he’d say.”

He watched the steeping pot, then retrieved mugs from the cupboard.

I told Boz about the break-in, about what Paul said. He brought the mugs to the table and sat across from me.

“Paul was scared,” I said. “He said: they’re coming.”

Boz frowned at that, seemed to go internal for a second. He stood and walked off; I heard him padding down the hall, and I took a sip of my tea. It was hot and sweet. After a moment, he came back clutching a thick file folder covered with scribbling and coffee cup stains.

“So,” he said, sitting across from me, putting the folder on the table. He flipped it open. “Three men rob a local drug dealer named Whitey Malone. He’s got a pile of cash, around a million buried outside a cabin he owns in the woods. The men, armed, trained, kill two of the thugs guarding the stash, dig it up, and take off, leaving a CI cowering under a bed. They have foreknowledge of the site, move quickly, and take off. We don’t know what they were driving. CI says he never got a good look.”

I nod. I know all this.

“Two weeks later,” he said. “Three men break into your home and proceed to torture your parents—and you—looking for this money. Your father, according to your retelling, has no idea where the money is, or he doesn’t give it up.”

“He had no idea,” I said. This part always makes me angry, that Boz leaves any doubt that my father would allow us all to be killed for money. He wouldn’t.

“I’m just saying, Zoey,” he said. “It were me? I wouldn’t tell them either. I’d stall as long as I could, hoping for an opportunity, a miracle. They were going to kill you all anyway. He knew that.”

“He didn’t know anything about it,” I said. “I’m telling you.”

“Okay,” he said, lifting his palms. “None of Whitey Malone’s men are ever tied to the scene. We have loose, circumstantial evidence that might, I repeat might, implicate these two men—John Didion and Rhett Beckham—the boot print, Didion seen in an old Caddy, your possible recognition of Didion’s voice. But there was never enough to make a case. Didion got sent away on gun charges, got out, went up again, just released last year. Beckham also went away for armed robbery—stabbed some guy in the joint, had some time added. He was just released last month.”

He took a sip of tea, looked at me over the rim. We did this. Started at the beginning, ran it all down. Again and again. I guess we’d get tired of it when we found answers to all our questions.

“And Josh Beckham, his brother, no criminal record, has been here all along. Took over his father’s business, cares for his elderly mother. The only reason we looked at him was because you said the third man, much younger, seemed afraid and tried to help you hide.”

“You talked to him.”

“We brought them all in,” said Boz. “If it was them, none of them ever talked. Not then, not in the joint, not bragging at a bar.”

“And the money was never found.”

“No,” said Boz. “According to my CI, the money was never recovered. Whitey Malone died in prison a couple of years ago. That million bucks is like an urban legend now. People look for it, talk about where it might be. Occasionally, cops will find some kids out in the woods behind your old place, digging for it.”

“So maybe the guys who took it from Malone got away with it,” I said. “They’re living in the Caribbean somewhere. Whoever thought my dad took it, they got it wrong.”

“That’s a possibility,” said Boz. “I’ve considered it.”

“But.”

“But nothing,” said Boz. “It’s one of a couple of theories. I don’t have the answers, kid. Believe me, I wish I did.”

We’d had this conversation so many times. I drained my cup, set it down on the table.

“I don’t want to know about Didion, okay?” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”