Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,33

the front door. Mize, a deputy who’d only been with us for a year, was on the desk, and I knew from the look on her face that she wanted to kick my ass for sneaking past her.

Outside, I breathed in the cool October air, jogged back to the Ford, and followed my phone’s directions to Elien Martel’s address.

I was surprised when the phone took me outside of Bragg; Elien didn’t look like the country type. I was more surprised when the GPS sent me cutting east on a tiny state road that tunneled through the old growth of trees on this side of the parish. Branches grew so close together that they formed a web overhead, and the air from the Ford’s passage made them shiver. When I rolled down the window, the sound of bark clicking against bark reached me over the engine’s grumbling. The air smelled wet, like leaf mold, and the headlights carved a bubble out of the darkness.

When I turned onto a gravel drive, the trees seemed even thicker. Where the hell was my phone taking me? I pictured barns on the verge of falling over, saltbox houses with tarpaper roofs, guys who wouldn’t think twice about opening up with a shotgun if a stranger drove onto their property.

I followed the gravel around the next corner, and a wall of light met me. The house in front of me was spectacular. Multi-million-dollar spectacular. It was a modern take on a farmhouse style, updated with elegant lighting and bright white paint and walls of glass. I killed the headlights, pulled off the drive, and examined the scene in front of me. Perfectly tended lawn. Artful landscaping around the house itself. Behind the house, at the edge of the ring of light, I could see where the wilderness began again. With the engine quiet now, the ripple of flowing water filled the stillness. This was very much the kind of place I could imagine Elien living.

Rolling up the window, I grabbed my flashlight. Then I let myself out of the car and moved toward the house. I wanted to talk to Elien, but not yet. First, I wanted to take a look around. I knew what Mason would tell me, if Mason were there: he’d tell me I was being a major fucking dumbass, he’d tell me I was cutting corners and threatening the integrity of the investigation. He’d be right. But the fact was that nobody would believe me if I told a story about blue lights and a dead man who grabbed Elien’s arm. Nobody thought Mason’s death was anything besides a tragedy. There wasn’t an investigation to jeopardize, and at this rate, there never would be.

My first stop was the garage. The roll up door was down and didn’t open when I messed with it. I went around to the side and saw a half-lite door. This one was locked too. When I flashed a light through the glass, I saw a nice three-bay with a Lexus sedan in the bay closest to the house. The garage was finished and, I judged by the weather stripping, climate controlled. Lots of money to burn, it seemed.

Following a cement walk to the back of the house, I caught a whiff of jessamine and sweet olive and shit. The mixture brought me to a stop. Exterior lights on the house flooded the backyard all the way to a rocky bank and running water, the currents throwing back crescents of light. Maybe a big stream. Maybe a small river. Hard to tell in the dark. On the far bank, a branch snapped, and then several more in succession. Something big was moving over there. Something big moving fast. A black bear, maybe. Still a good number of black bears in DuPage Parish. I was trying to remember how many calls we got a year on black bears, but all I could think about was those branches snapping like firecrackers.

A soft noise came from my left, slick and vaguely metallic. And then again. And again. Rhythmic. On my next breath, I could smell something rotting.

I took a step off the cement walk. My hand rested on the Sig as I moved toward the sound. Shick. Shick. I eased the Sig loose. The sound was coming from somewhere ahead of me. A magnolia tree marked the edge of the lawn; the thick, glossy leaves curtained off everything beyond it. I ducked under the lowest branches, picking a path over the