Blackwater Springs

Chapter Eleven

1

Audrey stared blankly at Jim for a moment. "You know. Robie. About twenty years old. Brown hair, freckles, sunburn. About this tall." She held up her hand six inches above her head. Jim continued to look at her with a concerned expression plastered on his face. "He has a slight limp, though that might've just happened. Does none of that ring any bells?"

"Sorry, lady. I've only got four men under me, and ain't nary one of 'em named Robie." He turned to leave, looking quite fed up.

A memory popped into Audrey's head; Robie had noticed Audrey first, when she was drenched on the porch, and he'd been sitting in the passenger side of Jim's van. "Wait," she said. "Robie rode with you. I remember seeing him in your van."

Jim's expression never changed. "Lady, I don't know how much you been drinkin' or how much weed you smoked, and I don't wanna know, but I always ride alone. I don't know who this Robie is, but he sure as hell don't work fer me, and 'less he's hidin' real good, he ain't up here neither. Now if I's you, I'd git my ass back downstairs til I called a contractor and made sure this floor's safe. Ya hear?"

"Yes sir." Audrey felt like a chastised schoolgirl under the old man's gaze; her eyes were glued to the floor.

"Good. C'mon, I got a flashlight. You go along in front'f me, now, so's you can see."

Audrey did as she was told, but not before she glimpsed a dozen or so small black creatures scamper under the long table.

2

Jim avoided Audrey until the vans were unpacked, and even then it was just to let her know that he and his men were done and there was a small matter of payment to be discussed. She paid the man, and he and his crew left. Audrey sank onto a bar stool, which looked extremely out of place in the middle of the kitchen with not a breakfast bar to be seen.

Tap-tap-tap.

Audrey sighed. John was at work, there wasn't a neighbor for miles, and someone still showed up at her front door, and just when she'd gotten comfortable,no less. She maneuvered her way around the mazes of boxes and pulled the door open.

Only to find Detective Stevens on her doorstep.

"Can I help you?" she asked. She looked down at the outfit she was wearing. Yoga pants and a dirty yellow shirt, perfect for cleaning; not so much for unexpected company. Please don't let him notice my dirty bare feet, please don't let him look down. She sincerely hoped her face wasn't as red as it felt.

"Can I come in?"

"Sh-sure." Audrey held the screen door open and stepped aside. She followed the detective inside, and she couldn't help but notice his ass, clad in jeans. It almost had Dwight Yoakam's beat. Almost. Her face flushed an even deeper shade of scarlet.

Bradley settled himself on the couch by the bay window and looked around. "Movin' day?"

"Yeah. We can sit on the porch if you'd rather."

"This's fine. I can't stay long anyways."

Both fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Audrey racked her brain for something to say. "So," she said, "are there any leads on the Della Johnson case?"

Bradley shook his head. "And there's not likely to be any either. We processed the crime scene. No fingerprints, no footprints. Nothing. Either our killer was very meticulous, or..." He dropped his head into his hands and sighed heavily.

"Or what?"

Bradley rose his head back up. It may have been the harsh sunlight, but Bradley looked years older. "'Member when I told you 'bout the pi'ture I took of this place?"