Emilie Rose - A Better Man

He detoured down a back road leading to the bridge spanning Deer Hunter’s Creek. He’d slept under the old wooden trestles too many nights to count—most of the time to hunt at sunrise, but sometimes to escape the sound of his mother’s crying.

More than once after his father had beat her then passed out in his recliner, Roth had contemplated ending his mother’s suffering by using his hunting rifle on his father. But that would have made him as much of an animal as his old man. Leaving had been the only way to avoid temptation.

Something about the dense woods bordering the creek snagged Roth’s attention as his tires rumbled over the boards. One thing drilled into him as a sniper was that if something didn’t fit he’d better check it out. He pulled onto the shoulder, climbed from the cab and studied the landscape. Not one broken branch or pinecone littered the ground. Too clean.

Resting his hand on his holstered Glock, he carefully made his way down the steep, leaf-covered bank, cataloguing the signs of habitation. Someone had tucked an old metal chair and small table into a hollow. The tracks along the bank looked a few days old. A recent rain had caved in the edges, making it impossible to identify the type or size of shoe or the original depth of the impression.

The prints led to a rock-ringed fire pit. He squatted and touched the carefully positioned stones. Cold and damp. Somebody had been camping here. But not recently.

On the far side of the bridge a neatly stacked pile of branches acted as a screen and/or fuel supply. A metal can hung from a bungee cord suspended between two bridge supports. Pretty smart to hang it out of wildlife’s reach. He took down the can and pried off the lid with his pocketknife. Matches. Beef jerky. Packages of sunflower seeds and peanuts. A resealable plastic bag with two cookies. A small pocketknife.

No drug paraphernalia. No booze.

He returned the bucket and scanned the makeshift camp again, looking for any clue to who’d been here. Probably not a hunter judging by the lack of spent shotgun shells or rifle casings. And not likely pot-smoking teens, who tended to leave snack wrappers lying around. He hadn’t noticed any beggars in Quincey. Did the town have homeless people? Charlotte’s street corners had been littered with them.

He scanned the area one last time. Today, who camped here wasn’t his concern, but come Monday morning, once he’d donned his badge, it would be. He’d check for crimes in the vicinity and ID the squatter. A known hazard was easier to control.

Determined to get the next item checked off his list, he returned to his truck. The pine forest gave way to fields. He braked involuntarily when he spotted a white clapboard house that shouldn’t be there. This was his family’s land, wasn’t it? Or had he been away so long he’d lost his orientation?

He checked the side mirror. Sure enough, there at the base of the oak tree he’d carved his and Piper’s initials in stood the hundred-year-old cement post marking the beginning of Roth land. His mother’s family had owned this property, and she’d given him her maiden name in good ole Southern tradition.

He rolled forward again, finding two more houses in what had been soybean fields. Not that his father had ever farmed. After his grandfather died Roth’s parents had leased the land to supplement the meager income his father made from the garage.

Roth had hunted the fields to put meat on the table. Deer. Rabbit. Turkey. Quail. Wild boar. If you could eat it, he could shoot it.

Had his mother sold the property? Or had it been repossessed for nonpayment of taxes? She hadn’t mentioned either when she’d called to tell him about his father’s pending release three months ago.

He’d never been able to understand why she hadn’t divorced her good-for-nothing husband. Her name was the only one on the property deed she’d inherited, and she had the income from the acreage to support herself. Eloise had always claimed it was because she loved Seth, and no matter how hard Roth had tried, he’d never been able to convince his mama that love didn’t blacken eyes or break bones.

It was a shame a deputy had to die before the cops did anything about his father’s actions, and for that he blamed Lou Hamilton. Hamilton’s department had been useless whenever Roth called them as a kid because Roth’s mother had refused to press charges. Seeing his father hauled off to prison had been a tremendous relief.

Roth’s muscles tensed and his grip on the wheel tightened as he crested the hill leading to the home place. He focused on tactical breathing, exhaling slowly and forcing each kinked muscle to relax the way he had before taking a shot.

He emerged from the copse of dense oaks and holly trees. A new mailbox and post marked the property. Lush green grass carpeted what had once been a muddy, weed-choked, car-parts-strewn yard. He drove up the gravel driveway and the house came into view. For a moment he sat in the truck trying to make sense of it all. The place looked nothing like he remembered. Even the old garage had been spruced up.

He’d expected to find the structure rotting from almost twelve years of neglect. Instead, the house looked better than it ever had when Roth had lived here. Pale yellow paint coated what had once been peeling white boards, and the black shutters hung parallel to the windows instead of dangling at a weird angle or sitting on the ground propped against the foundation. Somebody had put a lot of money and work into the place. Who?

The brightly colored toys dotting the lawn looked as out of place as an iceberg at the equator. A child’s squeal rent the air then a medium-size mutt raced around the corner of the house with a hip-high redhead on its heels. The girl skidded to a halt beside Roth’s truck, her tail-waving, tongue-lagging friend beside her.

“Hey, mister.”

Opening his door, he climbed out. His experience with children was limited to encounters with fellow officers’ offspring. “Hey, kid. You live here?”

“Yessir.”

The front door opened. A woman in her late twenties with dark red hair and freckles to match the girl’s came out. She descended the stairs quickly and put a hand on the child’s shoulder. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Roth Sterling. I lived here. A long time ago.”

The stiffness left her frame. “Oh. Are you the owner? I thought I remembered the agent saying a woman was moving in.”

“My mother.”

“We’re going to miss this place. It’s a wonderful house.”

She didn’t have the memories attached to the place that he did. “It’s in great shape. Did you fix it up?”

“Oh, no. It was in perfect condition when we moved in and the rental company has folks who come out whenever something needs fixing.”

Who was paying for this? He and his mother would have to have a talk. “Have you been here long?”

“Almost eight years. Quincey is a lovely community. Close enough to Raleigh for convenience, but far enough away for privacy and safety. We don’t want to leave the area. Ann Marie is looking for another house for us nearby.”

“Ann Marie Hamilton?”

“Yes. Do you know her?”

Piper’s mother. “I did. I’ve been gone a while.”

“She’s Quincey’s only real estate agent. If you’re looking for a place near your mama, maybe Ann Marie can help you find one.”

He might not be planning to stay, but no one else needed to know that. He could use a fictitious house search to find out what Piper was hiding. “I appreciate the tip. I’ll give her a call.”

Time for a little recon.

* * *

“SPILL IT,” MADISON SAID as she set down her med-kit.

Piper tried to gather her scattered thoughts and pretended to be busy shuffling the charts on her desk. “How’s Pebbles?”