Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,56
I’m not you can send the search party. All right?” She grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. It seemed a peculiarly intimate gesture for a middle-aged mother and her grown-up son. But then Ingrid didn’t have much to compare it to. Svetlana had never been the demonstrative type.
Once the son was gone, Gurley dragged the heavy bag around the table and unzipped it. “I guess Foster could really have used this stuff, huh?” He gently kicked at the bag with the tip of his boot. “What did he do—give you a list?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherwood scooped a stained cardboard beermat from the table and started to pick at a corner of it.
“Man, it’s been a long day,” Gurley said. “Why is it so many people don’t know what it is I’m talking about?” He turned to Ingrid. “Is it something to do with my accent? Do I talk too fast? Maybe it’s my pronunciation?”
The bar manager said nothing, just peeled off a shred of the printed layer from the surface of the beermat.
“Yvonne, you are aware that aiding and abetting a suspect is a criminal offense?” Ingrid kept her voice low. “Perverting the course of justice carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment.”
“That isn’t my bag. I’ve never seen it before.”
“Your prints are all over it. And all over the seven hundred pounds inside. We saw you withdraw the cash from the ATM.” Gurley sat back in his chair and interlaced his fingers across the back of his head.
“You can’t threaten…” Sherwood looked from Gurley to Ingrid.
“There really is no point continuing this charade, ma’am,” Gurley told her.
“Where did you find it?” Sherwood stared down at the bag.
“Right where you left it.”
“I’ve never seen it before.” She was sounding less convincing each time she repeated the lie.
“Someone got to the trailer before Foster. Seems you didn’t choose your drop-off location carefully enough—someone’s living there.”
“What?”
“Somebody is living in the trailer.”
“They’ve got no right.”
“But it’s OK for you to drop stuff there for a wanted man, huh?”
She didn’t respond.
“Kyle Foster didn’t get a chance to pick up what you left him,” Ingrid said.
Sherwood closed her eyes.
“Are you ready to start leveling with us?” Gurley kicked at the bag again. Metal clanked against metal.
Sherwood snapped open her eyes at the sound. “The money’s still inside?”
At last.
“Everything’s inside.” Gurley said. “I guess Kyle really needed that cash.”
“Have you any idea how much trouble you’re in?” Ingrid asked. “You were helping a man accused of attempted murder escape arrest, Yvonne.”
“Attempted murder? That’s ridiculous. Kyle wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s not that sort of man.”
“He’s a First Lieutenant in the US Air Force. He’s flown on dozens of missions. Conducted countless drone attacks. Over the years he must have killed hundreds of innocent civilians. The guy’s hardly a peace loving hippy.” Gurley jabbed the bag with the heel of his boot.
“He was assigned to search and rescue missions in Afghanistan. And the drone operations are for reconnaissance purposes only.”
Gurley gave her a wry smile. “That’s what he told you. He couldn’t say anything else even if he wanted to.”
“OK! But he wouldn’t hurt his own flesh and blood. No way. He loves his kids. He’d do anything for them.”
Gurley sat up straight. “I’m sure under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t deliberately set out to hurt anyone. But under pressure, in the middle of an anxiety attack… in a blind rage? That’s a whole different ball game.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Kyle just isn’t like that. I’ve seen him have an attack. Have you?”
Gurley fanned out his thick, long fingers in the air. “Please, enlighten me.”
“He doesn’t go on the rampage, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Really?”
“He gets very subdued, withdrawn, even.”
“What brings on an attack—do you know?” Ingrid asked, wondering whether the screaming of his children would have been the thing that triggered the episode on Monday.
“Stillness. Quiet,” Sherwood said without hesitation. “He can’t stand it. Always has to have the radio on in the car. Or he’s constantly whistling some annoying tune. Anything to fill the silence.” Sherwood flipped over the beermat and started to peel the printed design off the other side. “He told me that sometimes he even goes into Tommy’s room at night just to listen to his noisy breathing. He’s a bit of a snorer, Tommy. My Luke is always complaining about him whenever he comes here for a sleepover.”
Ingrid glanced at Gurley, wondering if he’d remembered that part of Carrie Foster’s account.