Read Online After Midnight by Merline Lovelace - Free Book Online
Authors: Merline Lovelace
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Delbert McConnell, pastor of the Dunes Baptist Ministry in South Walton County. Reverend McConnell’s wife reported him missing after he failed to return from a fishing expedition. He disappeared almost a month ago, the same day Tropical Storm Carl lashed the coast.
Carl had done its share of damage, Jess thought. The same storm that had torn limbs off trees on base, deposited mounds of debris on the Fam-Camp beach, and whipped the bay into a frenzy was now presumed to have claimed Reverend McConnell’s life.
Coast Guard and local marine patrols conducted an exhaustive search and located his overturned boat, but found no trace of the popular minister until his badly decomposed body was discovered submerged in the weeds in Harry’s Bayou.
The sound of footsteps brought her head up. Petrie stopped short in the doorway, a Coke can clutched in one fist. His glance whipped from her face to the newspaper and back again. When he didn’t speak, Jess gestured to the photo.
“Did you know him?”
Her question hung on the air. His throat working, Petrie opened his mouth, shut it again.
“Yes,” he finally got out. “I knew him. Everyone ‘round these parts knew Dilbert McConnell. He… He was a good man.”
Whatever she might have said in answer was lost when Sergeant Babcock appeared just behind Petrie.
“I’m all set up, colonel.”
“Right.”
She moved to the door. Petrie backed away, giving her room to pass through. Stopping before him, she held out her hand.
“Thanks for the Coke.”
“What? Oh, yeah, you’re welcome.”
Despite the air conditioning that dewed the windows with condensation, sweat runnled down Billy Jack Petrie’s cheeks as he snatched up the telephone receiver. His finger shaking, he stabbed at the keypad and waited in a swelter of impatience until a voice roughened by decades of cigarettes growled out an answer.
“Yeah?”
“She was just here,” Petrie hissed. “In my office.”
A long, hacking cough rattled through the receiver. Deep and swimming with phlem, it ripped all the way up from the bottom of his listener’s chest.
Grimacing, Petrie held the phone away from his ear. “Did you hear me?” he demanded when the vicious rattle finally died. “She was just here.”
“So?” There was another hack, and the splat of spittle hitting something tinny. “She’s your boss, ain’t she? She’s come to your office before.”
“Not without calling first. She just showed up, I tell you, right when I was reading about Delbert.”
“Reading what about Delbert?”
“Didn’t you see today’s paper? Jesus Christ, it’s right on the front page.”
“I ain’t got around to going into town for a paper yet,” his listener snarled. “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“The police made a positive ID. They know it’s him.”
“They say how he died?”
“No, only that he disappeared the day the storm hit. Jesus, what if they do an autopsy and don’t find water in his lungs?”
“Why wouldn’t they find water in his lungs? He drowned, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but what if…?”
“Shut up, for crissakes! You’re starting to sound as bad as Clark!”
His stomach roiling, Petrie swiped an arm across his forehead. First Delbert, then Ron Clark. Where would it end? Where could it end?
If he didn’t know the finish, he knew when it had started. Twenty-five years ago, on a night he’d wiped clear out of his head until Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Blackwell arrived at Eglin and stirred beasts best left slumbering.
“She keeps ragging me about one of my men,” he said hoarsely. “She wants to lay the blame for his troubles on me, I know she does. Between that and…”
“Shut up, I said! You’re making my head hurt worse than that bottle of Jim Beam I killed last night.”
“That’s another thing, dammit. You keep swilling a fifth or more every night and you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I
Carl had done its share of damage, Jess thought. The same storm that had torn limbs off trees on base, deposited mounds of debris on the Fam-Camp beach, and whipped the bay into a frenzy was now presumed to have claimed Reverend McConnell’s life.
Coast Guard and local marine patrols conducted an exhaustive search and located his overturned boat, but found no trace of the popular minister until his badly decomposed body was discovered submerged in the weeds in Harry’s Bayou.
The sound of footsteps brought her head up. Petrie stopped short in the doorway, a Coke can clutched in one fist. His glance whipped from her face to the newspaper and back again. When he didn’t speak, Jess gestured to the photo.
“Did you know him?”
Her question hung on the air. His throat working, Petrie opened his mouth, shut it again.
“Yes,” he finally got out. “I knew him. Everyone ‘round these parts knew Dilbert McConnell. He… He was a good man.”
Whatever she might have said in answer was lost when Sergeant Babcock appeared just behind Petrie.
“I’m all set up, colonel.”
“Right.”
She moved to the door. Petrie backed away, giving her room to pass through. Stopping before him, she held out her hand.
“Thanks for the Coke.”
“What? Oh, yeah, you’re welcome.”
Despite the air conditioning that dewed the windows with condensation, sweat runnled down Billy Jack Petrie’s cheeks as he snatched up the telephone receiver. His finger shaking, he stabbed at the keypad and waited in a swelter of impatience until a voice roughened by decades of cigarettes growled out an answer.
“Yeah?”
“She was just here,” Petrie hissed. “In my office.”
A long, hacking cough rattled through the receiver. Deep and swimming with phlem, it ripped all the way up from the bottom of his listener’s chest.
Grimacing, Petrie held the phone away from his ear. “Did you hear me?” he demanded when the vicious rattle finally died. “She was just here.”
“So?” There was another hack, and the splat of spittle hitting something tinny. “She’s your boss, ain’t she? She’s come to your office before.”
“Not without calling first. She just showed up, I tell you, right when I was reading about Delbert.”
“Reading what about Delbert?”
“Didn’t you see today’s paper? Jesus Christ, it’s right on the front page.”
“I ain’t got around to going into town for a paper yet,” his listener snarled. “You want to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“The police made a positive ID. They know it’s him.”
“They say how he died?”
“No, only that he disappeared the day the storm hit. Jesus, what if they do an autopsy and don’t find water in his lungs?”
“Why wouldn’t they find water in his lungs? He drowned, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but what if…?”
“Shut up, for crissakes! You’re starting to sound as bad as Clark!”
His stomach roiling, Petrie swiped an arm across his forehead. First Delbert, then Ron Clark. Where would it end? Where could it end?
If he didn’t know the finish, he knew when it had started. Twenty-five years ago, on a night he’d wiped clear out of his head until Lieutenant Colonel Jessica Blackwell arrived at Eglin and stirred beasts best left slumbering.
“She keeps ragging me about one of my men,” he said hoarsely. “She wants to lay the blame for his troubles on me, I know she does. Between that and…”
“Shut up, I said! You’re making my head hurt worse than that bottle of Jim Beam I killed last night.”
“That’s another thing, dammit. You keep swilling a fifth or more every night and you’re going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person. I
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