Awash (The Forgotten Coast Florida Suspense Series Book 6) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Join my newsletter

  A few words of thanks

  For my fellow survivors

  Touched but unbroken

  -and for-

  F-100 Lt. Jonathan Riley 1973-2014

  -and-

  F-112 Deputy Quinnaland Rhodes 1968-2012

  who served Franklin County bravely and faithfully to the end

  A brisk breeze that bordered on wind blew through the leaves of the old oak trees in the yard, and passed noisily through and around the palmettos and younger oaks in the woods across the street.

  The old glass jalousie windows were open, and the girl sat on the loveseat just beneath the living room window so that she could hear the leaves more clearly, feel an occasional finger of cool, dry air tickle the back of her cocoa-colored neck.

  There weren’t many true autumn days in Apalachicola, FL, and perhaps this was one reason that those days were the girl’s favorites. On this night, halfway between midnight and morning, the girl could close her eyes and believe that she was in one of those places she’d seen on TV, those places where the ground was covered with golden leaves and people had bonfires and cut their own Christmas trees. People with parents and cozy houses and clean, friendly dogs.

  The girl closed the fat anatomy book she’d been reading, using her spiral notebook as a bookmark, and pushed it onto the cushion beside her. Usually, she could go to bed once her aunt came home from work or the bar, once she and the cats weren’t alone in the house. But tonight, she knew that sleep wasn’t going to come. Some nights were just like that, and she would study or read or watch something on TV until the sun came up and she felt tired enough to go to bed.

  Maisy, her aunt’s gray tiger cat, rubbed up against the girl’s ankle and meowed. She needed to go out. Aunt May wouldn’t have a litter box in the house, so the two cats had been trained to go out in the yard. Maisy meowed again, and then was joined by the white cat, Sophie, who sat and regarded the girl impatiently.

  “Alright, hold on,” the girl said quietly.

  Aunt May’s bedroom door had been shut for more than an hour and the girl knew she’d gone to bed too drunk to be awakened easily. She tried not to make much noise anyway, as she stood up and walked through the open living room, the two cats running alongside and then ahead of her.

  The living room and dining area were all of one piece, with the small kitchen off to the right. The back door lined up exactly with the front. The girl turned the cheap little doorknob lock, then opened the door just wide enough for the two cats to take their time passing through it.

  The girl looked out at the dark back yard, such as it was. A space that was mostly sand, with rebellious patches of stiff grass popping up here and there. Several hundred feet across the yard was the back of a brick duplex identical to the girl’s, with nothing to distinguish one yard from the other.

  From where she stood, the girl could see a slice of the woods across the street to the right. There were no streetlights on the corner where her duplex sat, and the woods were just a darker mass against an already dark canvas. Streetlights were a waste of money in the public housing, she supposed. People would do what they did, dark or light, but the neighborhood really wasn’t that bad.

  She closed her eyes for just a moment, breathed in the crisp air and savored the sound of the wind through the leaves. Then she closed the door quietly and went back to the loveseat to see if she could find something on TV while the cats did their business.

  She was flipping through the channels, hoping for an interesting documentary or good old movie in between the late night infomercials, when she heard a new sound, one so out of place and inappropriate that it made the hair stand up on her arms.

  Through the open window in the dining area, over the sound of the rustling leaves, she heard footfalls on the concrete pavers leading to the back door. It was the unlikely but unmistakable sound of hard-soled shoes, moving steadily and purposefully toward the door. The door that she suddenly realized she’d neglected to lock again.

  The sound was so unexpected that she froze there on the loveseat, her widening eyes fastened firmly on the flimsy little doorknob lock, the one that was pointing the wrong way to be useful.

  In six seconds, everything she knew, everything she was, would be changed forever. She could do nothing for those six seconds but hold her breath and wait for them to pass.

  Maggie kicked violently at the covers until her legs were free, then sat straight up in bed.

  She closed her eyes as she took several deep, calming breaths. She felt a weight fall upon the mattress, heard the jangling of Coco’s collar tags, and the rustling of the leaves outside her window. She’d left it open for the cool breeze and the fresh air, and she felt a chill as that breeze landed upon the skin of her neck, slightly damp from the terror of her dream.

  Until last summer, she’d gone a few years without having her memories invade her sleep. She’d been free again for the last couple of months, and those months of peaceful slumber made tonight’s nightmare freshly frightening.

  She gave Coco a quick rub on the snout to reassure her, then slid her legs over the side of the bed. She put her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands, willing her heartbeat to slow, her breathing to be less shallow. She listened to the dry rustling of the leaves outside and realized it was fall. Overnight, it had become November. That must be why she’d had the dream.

  From force of habit, she reached over and picked up her cell phone and her Glock from the nightstand, and stood up on the cool hardwood floor. It was only four a.m., but she knew she wouldn’t be going back to bed.

  She padded out to the living room, Coco tapping along behind her. Half-Lab and half-Catahoula Parish Leopard hound, Coco passed Maggie and ambled to the front door, then sat down and waited expectantly. Maggie unlocked and opened the door for her, watched as she made her way down the deck stairs, then closed and locked the door. She never failed to lock the door.

  She walked into the small kitchen off of the living room, got a glass of water from the kitchen tap. There was a rustling noise outside the window and Maggie’s lungs had already closed up by the time she saw the silhouette of her rooster, Stoopid, as he clumsily landed on the outside sill of the window above the sink. He hacked and coughed through the screen.

  Maggie squashed the impulse to shoot him right off the sill for frightening her. Instead, she yanked out the sprayer and shot some cold water through the screen. He half fell, half flounced from his perch, and Maggie leaned against the counter, took another deep breath, and finished her water.

  She was setting the glass in the sink when her cell phone rang. She snatched it up from the counter. She recognized Deputy Dwight Shultz’s phone number.

  “Hey, Dwight,” she said.

  “Hey, uh, Maggie,” Dwight with his perpetual hesitance. “Sorry to wake you up.”

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sp; “I was awake,” she answered. “What’s up?”

  “Uh, well, Apalach PD called us out on a sexual assault over here on 12th Street,” Dwight answered. Maggie could hear several male voices in the background. “The victim’s aunt called PD, but the girl is asking for you.”

  Maggie felt a slight twinge of nausea in her stomach, and thought for a moment that she might still be dreaming.

  “Who’s the victim?” Maggie asked.

  “Zoe Boatwright.”

  “I know that name,” she said, thumbing through a mental Rolodex.

  “African-American girl, fourteen years old,” Dwight offered.

  “Zoe Boatwright,” Maggie repeated. “She was a shortstop when I coached the Angels.”

  “Okay.”

  “I haven’t seen her in years,” Maggie said. “She was in first or second grade then.”

  “Well, she’s asking for you,” Dwight said. The background noise faded somewhat. Dwight must have been moving away from the scene.

  Maggie got a blurry vision of a skinny little girl with almond-shaped eyes and a gap in her big smile. The heat of rage warmed Maggie’s insides and she pushed it down. An angry cop could be very effective; an enraged one was useless or worse.

  “PD wants us to take it?” she asked.

  “They were thinking that anyway,” Dwight answered. “They’re kind of covered up.”

  “You’ll have to run it through Wyatt,” Maggie said, meaning their boss, Sheriff Wyatt Hamilton.

  “I, uh,” Dwight started quietly, “I don’t suppose he’s handy?”

  “Well, I don’t know if he’s handy or not,” Maggie said a little sharply. “But I assume he’s at home in bed.”

  “Uh, yeah. Sorry,” Dwight said, and Maggie felt bad for snapping. But it bothered her that those who knew about her and Wyatt assumed they were sleeping together.

  “Forget it, Dwight,” she said. “I’m sorry. Do me a favor and give him a call. I’ll get dressed and be over there in about twenty minutes, okay?”

  “Okay, sure thing.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Public housing. 202 12th Street, right on the corner of 2nd Avenue,” Dwight answered.

  “Okay. See you.”

  Maggie thumbed the disconnect icon, dropped the phone to the counter and blew out a breath.

  She hated November.

  The small public housing development was just outside of Apalach’s compact downtown area. It wasn’t the historic district by any means, but neither was it particularly disreputable. The few square blocks of brick duplexes were occupied by the working poor, black and white, and generally well-maintained, albeit rather plain.

  Zoe’s house was at the back of the development, on a corner lot. Across the street stood an expanse of woods that remained a dark blotch against the pre-sunrise sky. Maggie parked on the street, as the gravel driveway had been taken up by one cruiser from Apalach PD and one from the Sheriff’s Office. A paramedic unit sat in the sparse grass of the front yard, dark and silent. Maggie could see that the two front seats were occupied by EMT’s, though she couldn’t tell who they were. She knew they were waiting for the go-ahead to go inside and do their thing; this told her that, outside the violence of sexual assault, Zoe probably had no other injuries. Of course, this meant little or nothing, depending on perspective.

  Maggie grabbed her cell phone and her keys and stepped out of her black Cherokee. Her hiking boots crunched through the yard and along the jagged gravel, and they and the frayed hems of her jeans were damp from the dew by the time she reached the front door.

  She knocked twice, and a moment later the door was opened by Dwight. He looked more uncomfortable than usual. He didn’t speak, just nodded once and stepped back to let her in. He ran his free hand through his closely-cropped blonde hair, and his eyes were sad. Maggie admired that about Dwight. He wore empathy on his sleeve and was neither ashamed of it nor inclined to stifle it.

  As Dwight shut the door again, Maggie ran her eyes around the room. Brenda Collins from Apalach PD sat next to Zoe on the tweed couch, while Mark Sommers stood a respectful distance away, next to a cheap entertainment center. The TV was on but muted. At the back of the long room, beyond a round veneer table and six upholstered chairs on wheels, Jake Marino from the crime scene unit was dusting the outside knob of the back door. Through the open door, Maggie could see the crime scene vehicle parked just a few yards behind the house.

  Standing in the kitchen doorway watching Jake, smoke from her cigarette drifting toward the open door, was a black woman about Maggie’s age. There were bags under her blank eyes, and her green capris and striped top looked like they’d been slept in. Maggie had known Zoe’s mom, though very casually and many years ago. But Zoe’s mother had been white. She didn’t recognize this woman.

  Zoe’s father had been Mack Boatwright, a slim, handsome black man who had been a shrimper like Maggie’s late husband. He’d been killed five years back or so, when a truck hit his car as he was driving home from Panama City. In fact, the last time Maggie had seen Zoe was at her father’s funeral. Shortly after her husband’s death, Zoe’s mother, a quiet, pretty redhead, had moved to Port St. Joe for work and a new start.

  After their rapid scan of the room’s occupants, Maggie’s eyes settled on Zoe.

  She wasn’t a small girl, though she was very slim. She looked like she might be taller than Maggie, and her legs looked incredibly long beneath her shorts and baggy tee shirt. She sat perfectly still, her spine straight as a board and her hands folded neatly in her lap. The purposeful dignity made something clench inside Maggie’s chest.

  Zoe had been a cute little girl, but she was an exceptionally pretty teenager. Her skin was perfectly clear, and the color of coffee with just the right amount of milk. Her long, straightened hair was up in a loose bun, but much of it had fallen or been pulled loose, and several strands hung down around her face and below her shoulders.

  Zoe’s large, almond-shaped eyes were focused on Maggie unblinkingly.

  “Hello, Zoe,” Maggie said quietly.

  Zoe’s voice was so low that Maggie almost couldn’t hear her. “Hi, Coach,” she said, and Maggie felt something inside her crumple in a heap. She kept it off her face.

  “Why don’t I get a rundown from Sgt. Collins before I start asking you questions?” Maggie asked. “So you don’t have to repeat yourself too much.”

  “Okay.”

  Maggie looked at Brenda Collins.

  “Zoe was up late, watching TV. Ms. Boatwright, her aunt, was asleep in bed. Zoe’d just let the cats out to go to the bathroom,” Brenda looked down at her notepad, “at about 3:20, when a white male entered the unlocked back door. He was wearing a blue ski mask. White with brown eyes, roughly five-seven to five-ten, slim build, jeans and a dark blue tee shirt.”

  Maggie had been watching Zoe as Zoe stared at the coffee table, but she looked back over at Brenda when she stopped speaking. “Weapon?”

  “He stopped by the kitchen and grabbed a butter knife,” Brenda answered.

  Maggie looked back over at Zoe. “Do you think you know him, Zoe?”

  Zoe raised her eyes to Maggie’s and shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so,” she answered flatly, her voice and face both free of emotion or expression. “Do you think I know him? Is that why he had a mask?”

  “Maybe,” Maggie answered. “Either he didn’t want you to recognize him then or he doesn’t want you to recognize him later.”

  Maggie turned back to Brenda. “We have a description out?”

  Brenda nodded. “All available cars are looking for him. Zoe thinks he was on foot.”

  “He might have parked somewhere,” Maggie said.

  “Well, this is all we’ve got so far,” Brenda said. “She asked for you and we decided to let you handle the rest of the questions.”

  Maggie nodded and pointed at the couch, wanting Brenda to make room. Instead, the other officer stood.

  “I’ll get us sta
rted with canvassing the neighborhood, see if any of the neighbors were up,” she said. “If that works for you.”

  “Yes. Thank you,” Maggie said as she sat.

  Mark Sommers followed Brenda out the front door. Dwight held it open and looked over at Maggie. She nodded an unspoken answer to his unasked question, and he shut the door and stood back against the wall once more, staring down at the floor as though by not looking at Zoe he could be less of an eavesdropper.

  “Dwight, could you take the notes, please?” Maggie asked him. He looked like he was going to say something, but then he just pulled a department tablet out of the Sheriff’s Office attaché on the floor beside him. Maggie watched him for a moment as he pulled up the right screen. He glanced at Zoe almost apologetically, as though it was unkind of him to listen, then he nodded at Maggie.

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder at the back of the room. Jake from the crime scene unit had moved into the kitchen. The aunt was sitting at the kitchen table now, a fresh cigarette in her hand, staring out the back window at the almost-dawn.

  Maggie sat down in the vacancy that Brenda had created, and Zoe watched her impassively as she took a breath before speaking quietly.

  “Okay, Zoe,” Maggie started. “You were up watching TV?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is there some reason you were still up?”

  Zoe hesitated a moment before answering. “I have insomnia sometimes,” she said.

  “Doesn’t that interfere with school?”

  “Not really. I homeschool,” Zoe answered.

  “Okay. You live here with your aunt?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You and your mom?”

  Maggie saw the girl’s eyelids flutter almost imperceptibly. “She died last year. She had breast cancer.”

  Maggie felt like someone should slap her for having asked the question. “I’m sorry, Zoe,” she said quietly. Maggie hadn’t really known Zoe’s mother except to say hello to, but she remembered a wide and ready smile.

  “So you were up watching TV and you let the cats out to use the bathroom?”

  Zoe nodded.

  “How long after that did the man come in?”