“You mean he was a hired killer?” she asks, scribbling in her notepad.
“Yep. Took his nasty habit and started making money off of it.”
“Wow,” I say, before shoving another hush puppy in my mouth.
Mr. Marrs smiles at me. “While he was in jail we arrested an associate of his, Walter Neely. He was the one that finally caved and told us everything. I was in the room when he confessed.”
My mother looks at her notes. “Walter Neely assisted him in some of his crimes, correct?”
“Yep, he helped him hide three bodies. He took us directly to Gaskins’ personal cemetery. We found eight bodies out there that night. Most horrific sight I’d ever seen—bones everywhere.”
At that, I push the basket of bread away.
My mother isn’t deterred by bones and bodies. “Was that all you used to connect them to Gaskins? Neely’s testimony?”
Judson pours a packet of sweetener into his tea and stirs it loudly. “That was a big part but there were some other identifying factors.”
“Can you share?” It’s slight, but I notice my mother’s interest pick up. She already knew these other facts. She’s hoping Judson can tell her something new.
“There’s a small fact that was never released—even in court. It was random on the victims, but we had seen it more than once. Predominately on women. It seemed Gaskins had a signature of sorts, yet it was inconsistent.”
“What was it?”
“On two of the women found at the grave, there were signs of a gash on their chest. We had seen this on several other victims and at least one other victim that had escaped.”
A horrible metallic taste enters my mouth and I realize I’ve clenched my jaw so tight I bit the inside of my cheek. Two images flash in my mind when he describes these wounds.
My mother and Martha Sanders.
* * *
The images from the detective linger in my mind on the way back from the meeting. I had no doubt now about the scars on my mother’s chest but she still didn’t open up about it. She refused to speak, although her pale skin and shaky hands gave her away. I drove, fighting back wave after wave of nausea.
We’re headed down the main road and up ahead I see the turn-off. I don’t ask, I just take it, guiding the car down the bumpy dirt road.
“Where are you going?” she asks, already knowing the answer.
“Taking you to Richard.”
“I don’t think I’m up to a visit.”
I pull into the driveway and park the car. “Go talk to him.”
She doesn’t get a chance to run this time because Richard must have heard our arrival and steps outside.
“Go to him, mom. Let him help you.”
She opens the door slowly and hops out of the seat. I watch as they make their way to one another, tentative, but there was no doubt about the love he held for her in his eyes. I look away, toward the cottage, as they embrace, allowing them to have their moment in peace. I spot a silhouette heading down the boardwalk and I hop out, following.
Nerves race through me, knowing this may be my chance to talk to Justin, but when I get to the sun-baked boardwalk I realize it’s Whit. I owe him a different sort of apology and chase him down to the edge of the dock, calling his name.
He turns at the pounding of my feet and a slow smile tugs at his lips. My eyes flick upwards and I wince at the deep purple bruise surrounding his eye. We meet on the dock and I carefully touch his face.
“Mason?”
“He got in a lucky hit.”
He grimaces when my fingers graze too close. “I’m sorry.”