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“Right. One of the lucky ones. Anyway, a deputy spotted his truck leaving the bar and followed him to his cabin. Called me and I said we’d want to interview him at his home, right?”
“At least give him the option.” Reed was already heading out of the city to Settler’s Road, backtracking a bit as the Cravens family’s home was closer to the Beaumont estate than it was the city. In fact, it was situated on a parcel of land directly across the river from the old house and had once belonged to the Beaumont family. “Any idea how long Bronco was at the bar?”
He cracked his window, letting in the cool night air.
“Hours, mainly nursing beers, watching baseball according to the barkeep.”
“You already talked to him?”
“Yeah, by phone. While waiting for you. He wasn’t too happy about it as he was busy.” She explained that Guy Thomas, the bartender, had said Bronco Cravens was a regular and had been hanging out there for hours, was there when Thomas had signed in for his shift at 4:00 p.m. and insisted that one of the TVs over the bar be tuned to the local news. “According to Thomas, Cravens seemed irritated that there was so much coverage of the hurricane and kept asking the bartender to flip the channel from one local station to the next. Really ticked the bartender off. Finally, about forty minutes ago, he left. That’s when the deputies caught sight of his truck. I’d already put out a BOLO for it, so they called it in and I asked them to follow him. He led them home, I called you, told them just to make sure he didn’t go anywhere but wait for us. And here we are.”
Reed checked the clock on his dash. 1:23. Again he thought fleetingly of his partner. Surely Morrisette was out of surgery by now, but he hadn’t received any calls.
A good sign?
Or bad?
No telling. He’d phone once he’d talked to Cravens.
He hit the gas, leaving the lights of the city behind. The road wound along the river and into the woods, where the brush was thick, moonlight barely filtering through the leaves. As they reached the lane leading to the property where Bronco Cravens had lived most of his life as far as Reed knew, they came across a cruiser for the department, parked fifty yards from a clearing where a small cabin sat, moonlight illuminating the dark structure. An older Ford Ranger was parked in the two ruts that stopped before a small garage, its door slightly askew.
The deputies hadn’t gotten any closer as they’d seen a dog through the window, so they’d kept their distance while watching the cabin. The lane was, according to all maps, the only way in and out of the property, and the deputies had a view of the front and back doors as the cabin sat at an angle.
“Came home, let the dog out, went back in, cut the lights,” the taller deputy, Marcel Van Houten, told him. “We got lucky, the dog didn’t notice us.”
“Okay, let’s go,” Reed said to Delacroix, and together they walked to the front door. As anticipated, the dog inside began going nuts, barking its fool head off, and a man responded, “Fender! Stop! No barking! Enough.” But the dog ignored him, making a ruckus. “I said, enough already. Holy shit, stop!”
Reed rapped loudly on the front door as Delacroix stood a step to the side, her weapon drawn. Just in case.
Inside the rough-hewn home, the dog was growling, snarling and yapping out of control. But the man had turned quiet.
“Police!” Reed said to the door, pounding again. “Bruno Cravens, this is Detective Pierce Reed. Savannah-Chatham Police Department. Open up!”
Then he waited.
No response.
“Bronco!” Reed shouted, and this time he heard something other than the dog.
“Yeah, I’m comin’. You! Fender! Sit and shut up.”
Finally, the dog went quiet and footsteps could be heard before the single bulb of the porch light turned on, a lock was turned, the door opened a crack, and Bronco, his brown hair mussed, one bleary eye peering past a small chain that connected the door to the jamb, asked, “Whadda ya want?”
“I think you know,” Reed said. “We want to talk to you about what you know about the bodies discovered in the basement of the Beaumont home, downriver. We know you called in the report.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did, Bruno. We know it. Can prove it.” Reed was too tired for the other man’s denials. “So, don’t argue. You won’t win. Why don’t you just open the door, let me and my partner, Detective Delacroix, in and you can tell us all about it?”
The eye just stayed focused on Reed.
“Otherwise, Bronco, we’ll have this conversation down at the station. Your choice.”
“Oh, man,” Bronco whined as a moth, drawn to the light overhead, began flitting around. Bronco was distracted by the movement for a moment.
Reed brought him back to the conversation. “Work with us and you won’t find yourself behind bars for trespassing.”
“Behind—? Hey, look! Without me, you wouldn’t have . . . oh, shit,” he said, realizing he’d just admitted to the call. His eye refocused on Reed.
