“Started on what? A pointless search based on a dubious informant? Old stains in an empty boathouse? You’re overreaching.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
It might have turned into a staring contest, but his radio chirped. “Nineteen. Control.”
Jacobsen stepped into the shade. “Control, nineteen. Go ahead.” He turned the radio down and moved away until his conversation faded to a bare hum. When he returned, his face was all business. “We’ll continue this later.”
He moved for the car and Michael asked, “What happened?”
Jacobsen ignored the question. He opened the door, closed it. The engine started and the car turned a tight circle, wheels chewing dirt, then straightening as the big engine gunned.
“Come on.” Michael touched Abigail on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Why?”
“Just get in the truck.”
They turned for the Land Rover, but Caravel Gautreaux wasn’t finished. “I want my baby girl.”
“And I told you-”
“I know what you said, like I know you’re a liar.”
“You may know my husband, but you don’t know the first thing about me.”
Gautreaux’s lip curled. “I know hard born when I see it.” Abigail turned away, but Gautreaux stepped in front of her, head tilted. “I know marrying rich don’t make you special.”
“Get out of my way, Caravel.”
Gautreaux reached out a hand, and laughed coldly when Abigail flinched. “We both know that truth, too.” She moved and Abigail twitched again. “Look at you, all puckered up and white as white.”
“Abigail?”
“I’m okay, Michael.”
“Then let’s go.”
“Yeah, run on, now. And don’t come back here without an invitation.”
Michael got Abigail in the truck and closed the door. He looked once at Gautreaux, who jerked her head and said, “Keep walking, big man.”
“You should be more careful around people you don’t know.”
“Trust me,” Gautreaux said. “I know her plenty.”
“Do you know me?”
He made a gun of his fingers, then pulled the trigger and drove them out. Beside him, Abigail looked as if she was in shock. After long minutes, she finally spoke. “I’m sorry.” She sat low in the passenger seat, small color back in her face. “She scares me.”
“Why?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
They drove farther, the Land Rover bucking as Michael pushed it harder on the rough track.
“Why are you driving so fast?” Abigail asked.
“We need to hurry.”
“Why?”
“They found the body.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
Twenty minutes later they came out of the woods, and Abigail directed him to a place that looked down on the lake. He stopped at a spot where the low ridge dipped, then fell off sharply. They got out of the car, and no trees grew in the place where they stood. They could see everything: the lake, the cops, the cluster of boats on smooth water. They were gathered at the same place on the lake-four boats-while on the shore, every cop stood silent and still. Two divers were already in the water. As Michael watched, another went over the side.
“What are they doing?”
Abigail stepped close to the edge. One more step and she would tumble off. Michael watched activity on the lake. Cops were trying to lower a mesh basket over the side of the largest boat. The basket was the length of a tall man, and had ropes at each of the four corners. They eased it into the water, a diver at each end. Abigail spoke when it became clear that Michael was not going to answer her.
“They use that to bring up the body?”
“In theory, yes.” He watched until the basket sank, taking all three divers with it. “There’s only one problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“That’s not where I put Ronnie Saints.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
They waited for the basket to come up, Michael and Abigail. Bubbles rose from the lakebed and broke the surface, but the basket stayed down. “What do we think about this?” Abigail watched his face as if he could provide an answer that made sense.
“I sank Ronnie over there.” He gestured with his chin. “Three hundred yards, at least.”
“No current in the lake. No way the body could have moved.”
“Unless somebody moved it.”
Abigail shook her head. “That seems unlikely.”
Michael agreed. “The sun was almost up when I put him in. If somebody moved him, they did it in daylight.”
“So, where does that leave us?”
“Two choices, I guess. Either they’ve made a mistake.” Both looked at the cops, the boats. “Or there’s another body in that lake.”
Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. She rolled her shoulders and looked ill. “I don’t like this at all.”
Michael looked at his watch, the angle of the sun. “We should go.”
“Go?”
“If they pull up a body, they’ll shut this place down. It will go from a search to a full-blown murder investigation. There’ll be interviews, interrogations. They could declare the entire estate a crime scene. Jacobsen’s a hard-ass with a reason to be upset. Nothing will get in or out of here without cop approval.”
“But my husband-”
“They’ll push harder because of who your husband is, and because of what happened last time. It’ll be worse. Federal cops may get involved. Media. No way they can keep this quiet.” On the lake, men began to pull on ropes. Water churned between the boats, and Michael took her arm. “We have to go.”
“Where?”
“They’re bringing something up. We don’t have much time.”
“I want to see.” He pulled gently, but she pulled back, stubborn, and her arm came loose from his hand. “I need to see.”
He gave her a minute. She rocked where she stood, the edge of the ridge just a few feet away. On the lake, men leaned over the boats’ sides. Agitated movement. Loud voices that barely carried. A diver broke the surface, then a second. Between them, the basket hung just below the surface, a hint of silver the shape and size of a coffin.
“It’s too far,” Michael said. “You won’t see detail.”
“I can’t stand this.” The basket rose the last few inches. It was not empty. “Oh, God.”
The cops were shouting now, trying to heave the basket out of the water.