The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (top 20 books to read TXT) 📕

he said what he said all the same. He is not necessarily wrong. I told Lara myself that I make a bad grief counselor. But Scott’s impolite words create an opportunity to put an end to the conversation. I feign more offense than I feel—exploiting what happened to Amber and Cale as an artifice to hide my continuing sin.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says.

“Just drive.”

***

The address we have for Brice takes us along a deserted dirt road deep into the Georgia hills. As we drive further away from civilization, I begin to have Deliverance flashbacks.

I ask Scott, “Is your gun loaded?”

“Always.”

We finally arrive at a glorified shack. I check the number on the mailbox twice to make sure. It’s a match. I shake my head and move to disembark.

“Wait,” Scott says.

He opens his glove box and takes out a holster holding another gun. He hands it to me.

“Just in case.”

I retort, “You have a shotgun in the trunk? We may need that, too.”

“You think so? I can get it.”

I’m unsure if he is serious. I strap the holster to my hip, remove the gun, and familiarize myself with it. If you’re going to carry a gun, you better damn well know how to use it. Satisfied, I re-holster the weapon, safety on. Scott and I tread lightly toward the house. He leaves the shotgun in the trunk.

Our uneasiness outsizes any risk we have actually perceived. The gun hangs heavy on me. Just knowing it is there makes me itchy. I hope for his sake Brice doesn’t emerge with some kind of weapon. He wouldn’t survive the encounter. I wonder about the recusal rules when a prosecutor shoots a witness. Millwood would have a field day with that one.

Scott bangs on the front door and yells out Brice’s name. No answer. I peek into a dirty window to see whatever I might see. The inside of the building appears to be in worse shape than the outside, as if one of those deranged hoarders on television has lived here for the past twenty years. That we may have the wrong place seems certain until I smell the pungent scent of marijuana. I sniff to make sure.

“I smell it, too,” says Scott.

I see an ashtray full of discarded weed on a massive pile of dog-eared paperbacks—mostly Westerns from the look of it. None of the joints in the ashtray appear lit, but the aroma is fresh enough to indicate current habitation.

We make our way around back to check the temperature there, Scott in the lead. A noise arises directly ahead of him. I freeze. I know that sound. Scott does not and asks, “What’s that?” I search for the source and locate it two feet from him. Another step and Scott will be in a world of pain.

“Don’t move a single muscle.”

He’s smart enough to know that this is not a drill. He freezes his body immediately in response to my command. He does allow his eyes to trace my line of sight to the object that captivates my attention. The rattle of the rattlesnake continues to warn, indicating that a decision on whether it should strike Scott remains up for a vote.

The gun is in my hand now. I ease into the shot so as not to startle the rattler with any sudden movement. Safety off, I squeeze the trigger. The boom of the explosion shatters the serenity of the otherwise quiet woods. The rattler dies an immediate death. Scott refuses to move for a while out of an abundance of caution. When he finally allows himself to stand down, he unleashes a string of profanity so poetic that it is positively Shakespearean in its lyrical quality.

Upon this scene, a hapless Brice pops out of the woods and scares the wits out of us. We return the favor by pointing our guns at him.

He squeals, “What did I do?”

Thankfully we don’t shoot—the day’s quota on killing already paid in full. We lower our weapons.

***

The man before us cannot be the same person Scott interviewed at the police station a few months back. For starters, he looks like he has never had a haircut or a shave in his entire life. I didn’t realize hair could grow that fast. The only recognizable features are the timid eyes and the high-pitched voice. Those remain. Not for the first time I wonder why Sara Barton set her sights on him. Scott introduces me, and I explain we just want to talk.

Brice says, “Um, I guess we can talk, but you can’t come into the house.”

“We know about the dope,” I answer. “We don’t care. That’s not why we’re here. The reason we’re here is to find out why you’re here.”

“I don’t understand.”

I search for a place to sit down outside. Like Brice, I want to avoid going into that house. A clearing ahead offers a few chairs—the green metal chairs emblematic of the country. I used to sit with my grandfather in chairs like these, watching him whittle a stick, a routine scene of a happy childhood. I smile at a memory I haven’t come across in over twenty years. The chairs are rusted, but still retain their country strength. We all take a seat.

I ask, “Why did you quit Marsh & McCabe?”

“Couldn’t do it anymore, man, the whole billable hour thing, keeping track of my day in six-minute increments. It’s inhuman. Had to get away.”

“How did you end up here?”

“Got a deal on the place.”

No doubt. Houses that fail to meet code tend to sell for a discount. Brice probably paid cash, obviating any need for a loan or any appraisals. I don’t envision many lenders signing off on this property as good collateral.

“You look different,” I note.

“Got tired of presenting myself in the way other people wanted to see me. Life’s too short for that. Who says I can’t have long hair? Who says I can’t grow a beard?”

Who says you can’t bathe? Maybe he smokes marijuana to mask his