South Of Hell

Chapter Six

The soft knocking came through to his ears like the tap-tap-tap of a hammer. The sound lay tangled in a dream he was having about fixing the air conditioner in his cottage during a hurricane. The dream was a strange kind of paranormal slide show with a parade of characters he hadn’t seen in years. Some jock buddy from high school, an old bearded professor, and a girl who had laughed when he asked for a date.

He opened his eyes with the sense that those same people were there in the motel room with him, but there was no one. Just darkness and a glow of neon against the curtains.

The knock came again.

Had to be some drunk kid looking for a leftover keg. Louis shoved back the blanket, flipped on the bedside lamp, and stumbled to the door. The fluorescent light in the hall blinded him.

“Look, I told you guys-”

Then she came into focus.

Pale face with chiseled cheekbones, thin lips the color of peaches, and a mane of brown hair, not pulled back in her usual ponytail but down around the collar of her rain-beaded black leather jacket. She had a.45 automatic clipped onto her belt.

“Joe.”

She glanced down at his boxer shorts, then raised a brow, amused at his shock to find her at his door at five a.m. Then she put a hand behind his neck to pull him to her for a hard kiss. The kind that had been building during the four-hour drive down from Echo Bay.

He broke away first. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Mel called me and told me you were going to stick around here and help this Detective Shockey, so I asked Mike for a few days off and came on down.”

“Mel called you?” He blinked, not yet fully awake.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” she asked.

“Of course I am. Come here.”

He pulled her to him this time and shut the door. In a clumsy dance of turns and wet kisses, he walked her backward to the bed. She dropped her purse and the envelope she was carrying, and they fell onto the bed.

Her arms circled his neck, and for the next few seconds, they wrapped themselves in each other. She worked his boxers off, but he was having a harder time with her leather jacket and the stubborn snap on her snug jeans.

“Wait, wait,” she said, breathless. “I’ll do it.”

Joe stood up, unclipped the gun, and began to undress. Louis reached down to pick up her purse and the envelope to set them aside. He noticed the writing on the front of the envelope: BRANDT/JEAN AND OWEN.

He looked at Joe. Her back was to him as she peeled off her blouse. “What is this?” he asked.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, just some research I did for you.”

He unclasped the envelope and pulled out the papers. The top sheet was a copy of the missing persons bulletin Ann Arbor PD had sent out nine years ago. Under that were a few newspaper clippings from various southeastern Michigan newspapers that covered the story, then a six-sheet compilation of Owen Brandt’s criminal record.

“How did you even know Brandt’s name?” he asked.

“Mel told me,” she said. “I just thought I’d do you a favor and pull some background.”

“You didn’t have to do this, Joe,” he said. “Shockey’s trying to keep things low-key.”

“I was just trying to save you time,” she said. “I know how hard it is to get the information when you don’t have a badge.”

He looked up at her quickly.

She was standing there in just her bra and panties, all sharp angles, long, lean muscle, and silken hair. The image should have been enough to wash away all thought and the sting of her last comment, but it wasn’t. He turned away slowly and found himself looking at the missing persons bulletin.

It was a standard photocopy, the same thing you’d see hanging in police stations anywhere in the state.

NAME: Jean Lynne Brandt

DATE OF BIRTH: June 6, 1956

HEIGHT: 5'3"

WEIGHT: 102

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Brown

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: None

LAST SEEN WEARING: Blue dress, brown coat.

JEWELRY: Gold wedding band

MISSING SINCE: 12-4-80

There was a blurry picture in the upper right corner. Jean Brandt stared back at him, a heart-shaped face and dark eyes that had a defeated glaze to them. Her hair was covered in a scarf, a few wisps of dark hair framing her forehead.

A solid gray sky filled the small space around her, and even though Louis couldn’t see any buildings, he had the sense that the photo had been taken at the farm.

It was a bad picture to attach to a police bulletin, taken from a distance, unfocused, and sloppily cropped too close to the right side of her head. It probably had been cropped to remove Owen before they copied the bulletins. But Louis was sure the cops hadn’t done the cutting. Maybe Owen had.

And he knew Shockey was right. Owen didn’t give a damn about Jean, alive or dead.

Suddenly, the light went out, and the bed jiggled. Joe’s arms came around him from behind, folding over his chest and beginning an eager caress.

“Come on,” she whispered in his ear. “I just wanted to help. Don’t be mad.”

Her hands slipped down the front of his body, and she started chewing at his shoulder with catlike nibbles. He finally closed his eyes and tossed the folder, turning to take her into his arms.