P. Parrish - The Little Death

“Andrew, let’s see if we can find that stream,” Louis said.

“Where Wyeth was found?”

“Yeah, I want to see how close it is to the pen.”

They trudged south through the weeds. The red BMW was the only spot of color in the monotony of the greens and yellows, but they soon lost sight of it.

Louis was about to suggest they turn back when he heard the sound of water. They pushed through the brush and cattails, emerging on the edge of a fast-running brown stream.

“This has to Turtle Slough,” Swann said.

Louis looked north. From this spot, he could again make out a sliver of red in the distance. They were only about fifty yards from the BMW and the pen.

“He could have been thrown in here,” Swann said.

Louis nodded. “And drifted downstream, just like Hernandez said.”

They were both quiet. A blur of movement caught Louis’s eye. A giant blue heron was standing on the other bank of the slough, watching them.

“We’d better get back to the car,” Louis said.

They found their way back to the pen, coming in the back way this time. Swann ripped down the last of the crime-scene tape and stuffed it into his pocket. But then he just stood there in the middle of the pen.

“Andrew?”

“This place is important,” Swann said. He shook his head slowly. “I mean-this is going to sound stupid.”

“Say it, Andrew.”

“Something you told me that Aubry said. Something about this place being special to the cowboys?”

“No,” Louis said. “He said it was special to Mrs. Archer. He called it sacred.”

“Sacred? That’s the word he used?”

Louis nodded. He knew where Swann was going with this. Sacred was the kind of word you used for battlefields or burial grounds. They were too far north of the Seminole reservation for this to be significant to the Indians. And if there were any graveyards around here in this brush, there was no way he and Swann would find them.

“Come on, Andrew,” Louis said. “We have to go talk to Mrs. Archer.”

A dark-haired woman with a Spanish accent answered the door at the Archer Ranch. She wasn’t happy about the idea of two strange men asking to see Señora Archer. She told them to wait on the porch and closed the door.

Ten minutes passed. Swann finally went and sat down in one of the rockers. “Maybe that place out there has something to do with her husband,” he said.

“Husband? Why?” Louis asked.

“Aubry told us Jim Archer died in 1965. Maybe he’s buried out there.”

“It still doesn’t explain why two men were murdered in the same area,” Louis said.

“Damn, look at that,” Swann said.

Louis turned to where Swann was pointing. Eight men on horses were coming up the coquina-shell driveway. A pack of dogs trotted behind. All of the men wore denim shirts, jeans, and wide-brimmed hats. As they came closer, Louis saw that the big guy in the lead was Burke Aubry.

Louis and Swann came down off the porch as the men drew next to the red BMW and stopped. Aubry looked down at Louis through his mirrored sunglasses.

“All right, what’s this about wanting to see Mrs. Archer?”

Louis heard the crackle of a radio and saw a walkie-talkie strapped on Aubry’s saddle. He noticed that the other men had them as well.

“We need to ask her some questions about Devil’s Garden,” Louis said.

Swann came down off the porch toward Louis. Aubry’s horse let out a loud snort and did a jerky side dance. Swann jumped back a good five feet.

Aubry calmed the horse. “Who’s your friend?”

“Lieutenant Swann, Palm Beach Police Department,” Louis said. “We came back because we have another man from Palm Beach who was found dead near here.”

“In Devil’s Garden?”

“About a mile downstream in Turtle Slough.”

Aubry leaned on his saddle horn, head down.

“Does the name Paul Wyeth mean anything to you?” Louis asked.

Aubry shook his head. “That the dead man?”

“Yes,” Louis said.

“What about the names Osborn or Lyons?” Swann asked.

“Don’t ring a bell. They from around here?”

“Palm Beach,” Swann said.

“That’s another world, son.”

“What about Devil’s Garden,” Swann said. “Why is it so special?”

Aubry stared down at Swann. “Special?”

“Mr. Aubry,” Louis said, “the last time we were here, you said Devil’s Garden was sacred to Mrs. Archer. It’s really important that we talk to her, please.”

Aubry turned to the other men. “You all can go back out. I’ll catch up later.”

Without a word, the men turned their horses and rode away, the dogs following. Aubry dismounted and tied his horse to the railing. He brought a ripe smell of sweat and horse with him as he came up onto the porch. Louis noticed that Swann was watching Aubry with awe.

“You don’t need to bother Libby Archer,” Aubry said.

“Mr. Aubry-”

Aubry held up a hand to silence Louis. “I can tell you everything you need to know.”

Louis felt Swann come up behind him.

“Libby’s son David died out there,” Aubry said.

“When?” Louis asked.

“Twenty-eight years ago,” Aubry said. “He was just eighteen.”

Aubry didn’t seem to want to go on. Louis had no choice but to press him. “What happened, Mr. Aubry?”

“It was an accident. His horse threw him. He hit his head on a rock and died.”

Louis knew nothing about horses, and he guessed it could have happened exactly like Aubry said-a simple freak accident. But all of Louis’s training, experience, and instincts forced him to distrust what seemed simple. Another young man dead in Devil’s Garden. Even if it was nearly three decades ago, it wasn’t something that could be ignored.

He looked at Swann. He was thinking the same thing. And Louis had heard something in Aubry’s voice. Sometimes, the simpler the words, the more complex the emotions behind them.

“Mr. Aubry, were you working here then?” he asked.

Aubry nodded.

“You’re sure there was nothing unusual about David’s death?”

“The doc in Clewiston said it was a head injury, that his brain hemorrhaged before anyone could help him.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

“Autopsy?” Aubry pulled off his hat and shook his head. “No, nothing like that. The Archers… they were, well, it was really a bad time. They just wanted to bring David home and bury him proper.”

Louis knew how deaths were often handled in small towns, and twenty-eight years ago, things would have been even less sophisticated. Add to that an unassuming police chief and an ingrained trust of your neighbor, and it was easy to see why a fall off a horse would raise no questions. And maybe that’s all it was, but Louis felt the need to press it.

“I know this is hard, Mr. Aubry,” Louis said. “But can you tell me exactly what happened the day David died?”

There had been a dull kind of pain in Aubry’s eyes before, like the man had long ago resigned himself to a life of backbreaking work and lonely nights. But at this moment, his blue eyes went almost colorless in the harsh light of the sun.

“You think David’s death could have something to do with the men you’re finding now?” Aubry asked.

Louis caught the break in Aubry’s voice, and he almost didn’t answer the question. But now there was something else he wanted to know more about: Aubry’s obvious affection for this kid David Archer.

“It’s a long shot,” Louis said gently. “But we’ve discovered that sometimes, these kinds of killers get their start early, when they’re very young.”

“You mean a serial-killer-type fella?” Aubry asked.

Louis nodded. “Yeah.”

Aubry gestured to the two empty rocking chairs. Louis and Swann sat down. Aubry leaned against the porch rail, his dusty hat still in his hand. “It was just before sundown when David’s horse came back without him,” he said. “We didn’t get all fired up right at first, because we all knew David had just gotten the horse for his birthday and was still getting used to her.”