Among the Dead Read online

  AMONG THE DEAD

  A Rachel Carver Novel

  J. R. Backlund

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by J. R. Backlund

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-68331-273-4

  ISBN (ePub): 978-1-68331-274-1

  ISBN (ePDF): 978-1-68331-276-5

  Cover design by Craig Polizzotto

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: August 2017

  For Wanda and Thu

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Wednesday

  Yellow light from a greasy bulb above the stove. Tomato sauce bubbling over pasta in the droning microwave. The smell of melting cellophane.

  Dylan Gifford was trying to focus on anything but the man dying in front of him. There were short gasps and wet coughs and twitching hands, all signs that it was coming to an end. It would be over in a matter of seconds. Gifford couldn’t change that now, even if he’d wanted to, and that realization made him shudder.

  Irrevocable.

  It was strange to have a word like that pop into his head. It just wasn’t part of his vocabulary. But it stayed there even after he looked away and tried to force it out of his mind. Made him think of his cousin Clayton, who he’d punched in the ear when they were teenagers.

  Clayton had called Gifford’s momma a whore, which was justification for a severe beating. But a single hit had sent that boy to the ground, crying and cupping the side of his head. Ruptured eardrum is what the doctor had said. Damaged his hearing for life. Half of Gifford’s family disowned him after that, and he never saw Clayton again. It hadn’t bothered him before, but it did now.

  The microwave beeped three times, and there was silence.

  Gifford steadied himself, pulled the dishrag off the man’s face, and leaned in to inspect. The black knife handle protruding from the man’s chest was perfectly still. There was no sound of breathing. No air moving across Gifford’s cheek.

  His instinct was to run, to get out of the house and escape into the woods. But instinct was careless. There were rules to follow. He stood up, scanned the kitchen, and went through his mental checklist.

  Cover his mouth and nose. Check.

  Use one of the kitchen knives to finish him. Check.

  Make sure he’s dead before you leave. Check.

  And don’t forget the bat . . . shit.

  It would have been a major screw-up to run off without the Louisville Slugger. He searched the floor and found it tucked into the toe-kick space beneath a cabinet. It must have rolled under there after he had dropped it, too preoccupied to notice. He picked it up and decided to wipe it down, just in case any of the man’s hairs had stuck to it. Check.

  He looked around for a few more seconds and figured it was time to leave. He dropped the dishrag and walked slowly to the back door. The groaning floorboards complained too loudly, making him cringe with each step. He knew there was no reason to worry—no one else in the house—but it seemed wrong to disturb the quiet.

  He reached the door and cracked it, felt a stream of cold spring air pushing in. He turned his ear to the opening and heard a breeze jostling the trees, insects calling in the distance. But there were no voices, no sirens, no barking dogs . . . He worried a lot about dogs.

  He peered into the sliver of night and saw thin clouds covering the moon. They gave off a gray glow, which was just enough light to see across the property to the tree line. He could be halfway down the trail before needing the flashlight in his pocket. He drew the door open, took a last look at his handiwork, and then ran for the safety of the woods.

  2

  Rachel Carver’s head snapped up, and she realized she had nodded off again. The third . . . maybe fourth time since she’d arrived at the Blackstone Estates mobile home park for her weekly visit. She was sitting in her Camry, in the guest lot between the sales and leasing office and the community mailboxes, waiting.

  She’d gotten there earlier than usual, too anxious to sit around in her apartment after another sleepless night. She checked the time on her phone and rubbed a kink in her neck. A moment later, the old woman appeared on the sidewalk, pushing the stroller against a frigid wind. The toddler in the seat endured the ride quietly, pink faced and bundled in layers.

  They were returning from their morning trip to the playground at the other end of the community. As soon as Rachel saw the little boy, she had to look away. It was almost a reflex. A familiar sting of guilt, still too strong to face head on.

  As they crossed in front of the Camry, Rachel could hear the old woman yelling muffled words of encouragement beneath her scarf. She might have been telling her grandson that they were almost home. Or she might have been telling herself. When they finally reached the single-wide, she unbuckled the child and carried him up the steps and inside.

  The stroller stayed on the concrete patio, as it always did—she was too weak to carry it in by herself. In the afternoon, she would come outside and cover it with one of those fifty-gallon, lawn-and-garden-type trash bags to protect it from the pollen and the spiders. At least, that’s what she had done last week.

  A silver sedan turned into the parking lot.

  Right on schedule, Rachel thought as she grabbed the envelope lying on the center console.

  The sedan pulled into one of the guest spots, and a large woman with a round face and a black, shiny bob stepped out a moment
later. She was a social worker from the Wake County Division of Social Services. Her name was Eva Santi. Rachel approached her as she struggled to dislodge an oversized handbag from the floor behind the driver’s seat.

  “Good morning, Agent Carver,” Santi said with a grunt as the handbag broke free. “Wish I could say I’m surprised to see you here.” She shut the car door and brushed past Rachel, heading for the old woman’s trailer. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell you, again, that you shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know I’ve been a pain,” Rachel said, keeping pace. “And I’m not here to try to see the boy. I was just hoping you could give this to Mrs. Bailey for me.”

  She sped up to get in front of Santi, blocked her path, and held out the envelope.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake . . . This is completely inappropriate, Agent Carver. If you want to—”

  “I’m not an agent anymore.”

  “What . . . ?”

  “I quit. More than a month ago.”

  The look of irritation on Santi’s face softened. She stared at the envelope for a few seconds and asked, “How much is in there?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “And how do you know I won’t just keep it?”

  “I guess I’ll have to trust you.”

  “Don’t go trusting me too much.” Santi took the envelope and slid it into her handbag. “Anything else?”

  Rachel glanced at the trailer. “Have you had any luck finding him a home?”

  “Are you kidding? A two-year-old with no disabilities? No developmental disorders? At least none that we know about. I won’t need luck. People will be lining up to adopt this kid.”

  A chime from Rachel’s phone announced an incoming text message. She flicked the mute switch with her thumb and stuffed it into her back pocket. “Then why is he still here?”

  “These things take time,” Santi said with a shrug.

  Rachel held her gaze, demanding a better answer.

  “I shouldn’t be talking to you about this,” she sighed. “The problem is we can’t find the father. We know he doesn’t want the boy, and we’ve started the procedure to terminate his rights, but . . . like I said, it takes time.”

  “Would it help if I found him for you?”

  Santi chuckled, shook her head, and said, “I know this is personal for you, Agent Carver. Especially with . . . what happened. But you really need to let us handle it. Go home. We’ll make sure the boy is taken care of.”

  “I’m not an agent anymore,” Rachel repeated, but Santi was already walking away, climbing the steps to knock on the old woman’s door.

  Rachel went back to her car and checked the message on her phone.

  “Hey, Rachel. Need your help with something. Call me when you get a chance.”

  It was Danny Braddock, an old partner from her time as a detective with the Raleigh Police Department. They had worked together in the homicide unit until Rachel had decided to move on, taking a job as a special agent with the State Bureau of Investigation. But they had remained close friends, at least until Braddock had moved away in an attempt to save his marriage. His wife had wanted to be closer to her family, had wanted Braddock to be around more. “Maybe we’ll finally be able to start a family of our own,” she had said. They divorced a year later.

  Rachel called him, and he answered on the second ring.

  “How’ve you been?” he asked.

  “Not bad,” she lied. “You?”

  “Could be better . . .” His voice was tense and distracted.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry . . . I got something here. Thought maybe you might be able to help.” He seemed to be dancing around a question. “Are you busy? I mean, have you started a new job yet?”

  “No. Haven’t really been looking.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised.

  Her eyes drifted back to the trailer. “Been a little preoccupied.”

  “Well . . . if you’re interested, I might have some work for you.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Consulting on a murder case.”

  She thought for a moment about how enticing that sounded. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Danny.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just not what I do anymore,” she said without conviction.

  “I’m pretty desperate, Rachel. Anything I can say to change your mind?”

  Braddock worked for a small sheriff’s office somewhere west of Asheville near the Tennessee border. Lowry County, if she remembered correctly. A quiet mountain community. The kind of place where people didn’t kill each other very often, save for the occasional hunting accident.

  “Are you not getting any help from the state?” Rachel asked.

  “They’re sending us a tech to help with the crime scene, but all their investigators are tied up right now. Might be a week before we get one. I can’t wait that long. I need someone now.”

  “Sounds like you’re in a tough spot.”

  “You have no idea.”

  Rachel could feel herself being drawn in, almost compelled to say yes. She missed being a homicide investigator, in spite of the job’s considerable downside. There had been long hours and periodic bouts of insomnia, an ever-increasing dependence on caffeine and alcohol—sometimes together—all accompanied by the complete absence of anything resembling a social life. And Rachel had made all of it worse by burying herself in her cases, allowing them to consume every aspect of her existence.

  Her apartment was a perfect example. Crime scene photos on her coffee table, medical examiners’ reports on her couches, autopsy photos on the kitchen counter by the coffeemaker . . . She had been living among the victims, making them part of her daily routines so that she never lost sight of her obligation to them. Her commitment. A promise that had driven her to the point of obsession. She never would have given up on it, never would have abandoned them, had it not been for . . .

  “Tell me about the case,” she said, looking away from the trailer.

  “We discovered the body this morning,” Braddock said eagerly. “Doesn’t happen very often around here. Especially not like this.”

  “Not like what?”

  “The victim was killed inside his home. He lived alone. No signs of forced entry. No witnesses, no suspects . . . your specialty.”

  “I have a specialty?”

  “You’ve got a talent, that’s for sure. All I’ve got is a pair of detectives who spend most of their time working larceny. There’s no one around here with your expertise.”

  “Aw, Danny, you’re making me blush,” she said, her mood lightening a bit.

  “I mentioned we’d pay, didn’t I?”

  “Flattery and money? You’re making it hard to say no.”

  “I’ll have to work it out with the sheriff. Daily fee plus expenses?”

  “Sounds about right.” She thought about the prospect of turning him down, of spending the next few days trying to track down a deadbeat dad, torturing herself for things she couldn’t change. Or she could say yes and get away for a while, bury herself in a new mystery. The money was a nice incentive too. It had been nearly six weeks since she’d resigned. Six weeks without a paycheck, and she had all but drained her pitiful savings account. “How long will it take me to get there?”

  “About five hours or so, depending on traffic.”

  “I’d better get moving.”

  “Wait. Don’t go taking off just yet. I still need to make sure Ted’s gonna be good with all this.”

  “Well damn, Danny. You got me all excited and everything.”

  “I know. Just give me twenty minutes, and I’ll call you right back.”

  3

  Braddock could hear the conversation between the two sheriffs as he approached the open door. His boss, Sheriff Ted Pritchard, was rocking in his chair, staring blankly at his glass-topped wooden desk with puffy eyes. Pritchard’s cousin, Sheriff Lee Harrelson of Buncombe County, sat acros
s from him and seemed to be doing most of the talking.

  “You never know what that bunch of damn fools is gonna say or do,” Harrelson said. “But I wouldn’t go trusting a single one of ’em.”

  Pritchard noticed Braddock standing in the doorway and waved him in. “Have a seat, Danny.” Then to Harrelson, “Lee, you remember my chief deputy, Danny Braddock?”

  The heavyset Harrelson reached over as far as his broad midsection would allow and shook Braddock’s hand. “Good to see you, Danny. Wish it was for a better occasion.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Braddock said and sat down. “Good to see you, Sheriff.”

  Pritchard said, “Lee was just telling me what he thinks of our friends on the county commission.”

  And Harrelson continued, “They can all go to hell, as far as I’m concerned.” He looked at Braddock. “And I wouldn’t have a bit of trouble telling each one of ’em just as much.” Back to Pritchard. “They didn’t have any right to try and scapegoat you the way they did last year. But to a man, they’ll try and do it again if this case doesn’t get solved real quick. Mark my words.”

  Pritchard rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger and asked Braddock, “Have you heard anything back from Sanford yet?”

  Braddock had called the State Bureau of Investigation within an hour of learning about the body. The special agent in charge of the Western District office had taken his time responding. “Just a few minutes ago. He said we can expect a crime scene specialist within the hour. Also said he might be able to free up an agent toward the end of the week, but he didn’t sound too sure about it.”

  Harrelson said, “Hopefully that’ll be enough to get the job done. Y’all got your work cut out for you, that’s for sure. But I’ve known Sanford for a few years. He’s a good guy. He’ll do what he can to help.” He gripped the arms of his chair and lifted himself to his feet. “Well, boys, it’s a long drive back to Asheville. I’d best be on the road.”

  “I appreciate you coming all the way out here to see us, Lee,” Pritchard said. “You sure I can’t convince you to stay for lunch?”

  “Nah, Tee Pee. I appreciate it, but I reckon my fat ass could use a break from the barbecue sandwiches for a while. Y’all be good.”