Peril in Silver Nightshade: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 4)

by Lakota Grace

  The doctor chuckled, but it wasn't a ha-ha laugh, more of a clearing the air between us.

  “I don't. It’s a quality men have. They 'soldier up' when they need to. Before we run expensive tests, I'd like to try something else with your permission.”

  “Name it.”

  “There is a ward at the hospital, used for respite care for families. We can admit HT there for a week or so.”

  “What good will that do?” My voice broke.

  “Maybe nothing. But if he's taking all those pills, plus some extra now and then, I'm amazed he's walking around. Those drugs would sedate a whole zoo full of elephants. If we can wean him off a few, you might be surprised at the change. Think you could talk him into staying?”

  My lips grew firm. “To get my grandfather back, I'd walk on hot coals.”

  “No need to go to that extreme. Why don't the two of you sit in the waiting room while I pull a few strings over there, get him admitted.”

  Now I knew how a convicted convict feels when a sentence has been commuted. Maybe HT wasn’t going to die, or follow the same path that my mother had taken. Maybe he would be okay.

  The sunshine broke through the clouds as we went out to the car and took the short drive to the hospital.

  It was easy to talk HT into staying at the ward. He trusted me.

  It was tougher for me to leave him there. Much tougher.

  High Water Crossing

  ~ 40 ~

  Pegasus

  With HT in good hands, I could focus on my work again. I could change Rory’s mind about the firing. I was a FLO with clients and a murder case I was too stubborn to give up. Not to mention a boyfriend that wasn’t one, exactly. Life got complicated.

  When Wolf called me back, he didn't question what I needed. It was as though he expected my request.

  “Go across Black Hawk Crossing Bridge at Red Rock State Park,” he said, “and I'll meet you at the trail to the House of Apache Fires. Don't bring anyone. I'll be watching.”

  I showed my employee's pass at the front gate to the park. Apparently, the word of my first firing hadn't traveled to the entrance.

  “Guess you know the way,” the volunteer at the gate said.

  “Guess I do. Black Hawk Crossing still open?”

  We'd had the usual spring run-off, and sometimes when that happened the wooden bridge sections lifted off the big cement pilings and we had to close the bridge. Funny that I still thought in terms of “we,” as though I was a part of the park staff.

  “Yup, opened back up after that last runoff. You have a good day now.”

  I parked at the top of the hill away from the Visitor's Center. I put my cell phone in its waterproof covering and snugged it in my pocket. Many places in the park had a dead zone, being hidden in the hills the way it was, but I'd still take it with me, just in case.

  A group of teenagers was cutting up and taking selfies by big desert spoon agaves at the trailhead. I'd been that carefree once. Maybe when this investigation was finished, I would be again.

  Mere weeks ago my world was perfect: a job here at the park, a new boyfriend, the possibility of full-time work at the sheriff's office. And then it exploded in my face like a faulty stick of mining dynamite. I kicked at a rock. I wanted my life back!

  I entered the switchback zigzags of the Smoke Trail. On one edge, a claret hedgehog cactus exploded with bright red blossoms. It didn't seem to mind being a desert plant in the midst of this juniper pine forest.

  I rounded the final turn of the downward switchbacks. The sound of the creek that had been muffled by the rock ledge roared up like a freight train. The edge of spray turned the air chill.

  In the sky, storm clouds mushroomed. We didn't usually get rain this time of the year, but a depression off the Baja Coast of Mexico was interrupting our usual sunny days. At the foot of the hill, a chain barred entry across the bridge. The trail was closed. Maybe they anticipated the crossing would flood again.

  I looked both directions. No hikers that I could corrupt with my rule breaking. I unhooked the chain link, walked through and carefully hooked it back up again. Wolf said to go this way, and that he would be watching. I didn't want to spook him.

  Fifty paces farther was the first creek crossing. There were no guardrails, simply a strip of cross-nailed boards on the wooden section. The swelling water swept past, only feet below the passageway.

  The water roiled with malevolence, its normally clear stream a mud-red gash. A branch broke upstream and roared toward me, ricocheting off one boulder. It caught briefly on a cement stanchion, then passed under the bridge and disappeared downstream.

  I climbed up the stones forming a rough stair to the start of the bridge and tested the wooden surface. It seemed sound enough.

  I felt the power of the water beneath the bridge as I took one step, and then another. The swift current was hypnotic, so I looked straight ahead at the end of the bridge, only thirty feet beyond where I stood.

  We hadn't had rain here, and the wooden planks were dry. The soles of my boots grabbed them, sticking like panther paws. Like very scared panther paws.

  Then I was off the planking, and onto the middle island of the crossing. I walked past huge sycamores, their mottled branches silent guardians, and quickened my pace. Wolf said he’d be waiting, but I didn’t know how long. My window of time was closing.

  The next section, from the island to the mainland, usually bridged a meandering, swampy runoff from the first channel. Not today.

  In front of me was a torrent of angry water, deeper and faster than the first channel I had navigated. I hesitated and looked back. The muffled roar of the first creek was hidden beyond the trunks of the sycamore. Then I gazed at the longer crossing ahead of me.

  Forward? Or back?

  I jutted out my chin. I wasn’t retreating. I stepped onto the second bridge and paced steadily across. At the end I jumped off, squelching into the mud at the creek bank. Made it!

  After I spoke with Wolf, I'd return by the big Kingfisher Bridge in the opposite direction. Bracing this torrent once was enough.

  I ran Kisva Trail at a half jog. Still no hikers. That happened sometimes. There'd be a lull in visitors and I’d feel like a millionaire with my own private preserve.

  Today, though, I didn’t welcome the emptiness ahead of me. What would happen when I reached Wolf Brandeis? I regretted not bringing a weapon. Surely he wasn’t dangerous. He’d been gentle in our closeness.

  I ticked off the questions I intended to ask. Had he threatened Silver, like she said? The young woman was known to exaggerate, but I’d seen those ugly marks on her neck. And Wolf had admitted to owning the six-shooter that killed Henry Fisher. Had he pulled the trigger?

  Intent on my own thoughts, I nearly passed by a bench hidden under a grove of tall alder trees crisscrossed by native grapevines.

  “Here,” called a voice from the shadows.

  Wolf’s spirit seemed quiet as he touched my shoulder.

  “Sit here, Peg. It’s time you learned a few things.”

  The casual joking manner that he'd often adopted in our relationship was gone. He seemed somber, depressed. My mind flashed to Andy Fisher's suicide. Did Wolf harbor those same deep pits of despair? If so, it would explain a need to revenge his friend. Did he murder Henry Fisher because of Andy’s death?

  “Wolf,” I began, “Rory Stevens came to visit me.”

  “I figured he would, sooner or later.”

  “He thinks ballistics will identify the gun that killed Henry Fisher as being registered to you.”

  He shrugged.

  “Did you kill Henry Fisher?”

  “What’s your take?” Wolf asked. “You think I did it?”

  I wanted to say no, but I hesitated. “I'm not sure.”

  “That's my girl.” He touched my hand. “It’s better to tell the truth.

  “Here’s what happened. Andy and I met in Afghanistan. He was an idealist, always looking on the bright side. That nearly go
t him killed. This woman with an I.E.D.—Andy didn’t want to, but he took the shot. Saved both of our lives. He never forgave himself. ‘A woman,’ he’d say. ‘How could I kill a woman?”

  I nodded. It was a decision I hoped I’d never face, but someday I might. Cop work was not that far removed from being a soldier.

  “I stayed in,” Wolf said. “There were Black Ops missions they still needed me for—but Andy mustered out. He'd had problems with Beatrix and figured he needed to leave the corps to save his marriage. I worried about him, caught that way between his wife and his father, still depressed over what he’d experienced over there.”

  Wolf paused and rubbed his hand over his face as though he wasn't sure where to go next.

  “I got here the night Andy killed himself. Too late!” Anguish twisted his face.

  “Go on.” Now I was the one offering reassurance.

  “Andy always swore he’d never end his life that way. I believed him. If he didn’t plan to die, maybe he used a bad batch of drugs and that’s what killed him. So I've been making the rounds of the known drug dealers since I got here, trying to gather information about who that might be.”

  He stopped and gave me a bemused look. “That is, when I wasn't playing house with you.”

  I reddened. This was business, cop business, and I wouldn't be sidetracked.

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “Well, Silver Delaney showed up. A piece of work, that one. Had this 45 for sale—my gun. I recognized the scratched initials on the grip. Here, let me show you.”

  From beside him on the bench, he lifted the six-shooter and my heart stopped. Was he going to shoot me?

  “Easy,” I said, jerking back.

  “It's not loaded,” he said, cracking the barrel to prove it. “I brought it to turn over to you.” He closed the gun and offered it to me.

  I grabbed it and placed it on the seat far away from him, should he change his mind.

  “You need to come in, tell your story to the proper authorities.”

  “Proper, as in, Chas Doon—that weasel-mouth piece of shit? I can't do that, sorry,” Wolf said.

  His head jerked up as though he heard something. His demeanor changed, becoming more alert.

  Before I could react, he grabbed my hands and bound them with a sturdy zip-tie. Then he wrapped a length of rope around both my legs and secured it to the cement bench.

  “That might delay you some, or there’ll be a hiker along soon enough.”

  He looked at me sadly. “You have what you need now. Find who used that gun and there’s your killer. I can’t stay. Beatrix needs me.”

  With that, he took off, running back toward Black Hawk crossing.

  He hadn't pulled the zip-tie around my hands tight. Had he done that deliberately? I wrenched one hand through the tie. Then the other. A moment later I loosened my feet from the bench.

  I was free, but Wolf had a quarter-mile head start on me. I stuck the empty revolver in my waistband and ran after him. As I sped down the path I pulled out my phone. No bars! I was in the park dead zone.

  Black Hawk crossing was just ahead of me. I hit the first bridge at a run and then dashed across the center island. With each step, I gained on him.

  On the other side of the island, the sycamores revealed the shadowed silhouette of Wolf Brandeis. He descended to the side of the concrete stanchion on the second bridge, tugging, lifting at the wooden crossing section. What was he doing?

  Then I saw. Freed from its cement foundation, the bridge gave a quiet sigh and one end slipped into the water. Wolf jumped onto the now angled wood planks and climbed them like a ladder to dry land. As I watched, he vanished into the forest.

  I stopped short where the second bridge had once crossed the swirling waters. Although the far end of the bridge section was still attached to its cement pillar, the section had now aligned with the swirling current. There were ten feet of water separating me and the end of the free-floating section.

  The distance was too far to jump. If I misjudged, I'd be pulled under as the flood rushed through the narrowed opening. But if I had a tool to pull the edge of the loosened bridge closer? Then I could climb on board as Wolf had done and ride across the torrent.

  I had to try. I had a chance of catching up to Wolf, but only if I went this direction. If I had to retrace my steps and cross at the farther Kingfisher Bridge, Wolf would be long gone. I’d never find him.

  I searched the creek bank for a good-sized sycamore branch. I picked up one branch and tested it. Not quite long enough. I needed more.

  The cement foundation trapped the creek making a makeshift dam of water and junk. I dug around in the debris swirling there: An old tire, a shopping cart, and braced against the cart, a long metal fence post. That might do it.

  I used the rope Wolf had tied me with to lash the fence pole to the branch. Then, I climbed down the embankment. The water reached the top of my boots and flooded in around my legs. I shuddered at the frigid snowmelt barely above freezing. The icy water numbed my feet instantly, but it was too late to turn back. Holding onto the near stanchion with one hand I waded farther.

  Then I reached the mental end of the fence post toward the bridge partition trying to hook the loose chain. It held briefly, then dropped. I tried again. It held. Carefully, I drew the makeshift tool back to me, the chain dangling from the end.

  I grabbed for it and my hand hit the cement stanchion. Pain jolted up my arm. Too stubborn to quit, I shifted the heavy chain links to the other hand and dunked the injured one in the current numbing it with cold. My skinned fingers bled, creating red eddies in the current.

  Hand-over-hand I pulled the section toward me. Holding tight with one hand, I plunged into the stream. The swift-moving torrent rose to my waist and yanked me off the slippery rocks. My head went under the water, conked by a piece of debris rushing downstream. When I surfaced, gasping and sputtering, I forced my numb hands to pull me closer to the wooden section at the end of the chain. If I didn’t reach it soon, I’d drown.

  My fingers grabbed the splintered wood, and I held tight. A moment later it banged against the far side. I lunged for dry land. My knee hit a submerged rock, and I winced. Then I crawled onto the shore, soaked and shivering.

  I took off at an awkward half jog. My boots sloshed water as I went up the three zigzags to the parking lot. Breathing rapidly, I slumped into my car seat. I had faced death on that journey, and yet in spite of my efforts, Wolf was gone.

  My cell phone beeped into service. It was Rory and he sounded upset.

  “Why don't you have your cell on, Peg?” His disembodied message-voice accused me.

  Because the park has a dead zone? Because you fired me, you idiot? But my anger disappeared when I heard the rest of the message.

  “There's a huge fire in Elmerville near the Fisher house. I’m monitoring the radio traffic. It doesn’t sound good.”

  Wild Fire

  ~ 41 ~

  Pegasus

  When I heard Rory’s message about fire at the Fisher home, my initial thought was owner-arson. It wouldn't be the first time setting a deliberate fire transformed a mortgage into insurance proceeds.

  But when I pulled into the yard and saw Beatrix Fisher near an EMT van, I knew that wasn't true here. The woman was in shock, her face smudged with soot. Black smears had turned her clothing into a patchwork of shadow and shade.

  The EMTs placed a blanket around her shoulders. One worked a blood pressure cuff on her arm. Often shock could send readings into the stratosphere, and losing your home and belongings was a trauma.

  I slipped into my Family Liaison Officer role.

  “Beatrix, is there anyone I can contact for you?”

  “They called my sister. She’s coming.” Beatrix staggered to her feet, the blanket falling to the ground. “I lost everything. Everything!”

  “Take it easy. Tell me what happened.”

  I held her hand, which was pale and cold. Not a good sign. She'd ne
ed to be watched closely.

  At the edge of the yard, firemen worked the hoses reducing flare-ups before they could spread to mesquite trees and dry grasses. Beatrix’s home had been reduced to charred, broken timbers.

  “My dog? Where's Skipper?” Beatrix cried.

  “They're looking for him. Are you sure he wasn't inside?”

  “No, I heard him barking in the yard. I think that's what woke me.”

  “Then he’s around somewhere. They’ll find him,” I said.

  “Wolf was here. He pulled me out. I'd be dead if he hadn't done that.” Tears ran down her soot-stained cheeks.

  So this was where Wolf was headed. But how did he know? With Wolf, somehow I wasn't surprised.

  “Surely insurance will cover the damage?”

  “I canceled coverage last week. I just couldn't afford it. And now this.” She put her head in both hands and sobbed, her thin shoulders shaking.

  “Beatrix,” I started again. “You need to tell me what happened.”

  She hiccupped once and then cleared a throat made raspy by the smoke.

  “I went to bed early. I woke near midnight, and I took a drink from the pitcher I always keep by my bed. Then when my dog barked I tried to get up, but I couldn't. I think the water was drugged. If Wolf hadn't rescued me, I would have died.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “No, or maybe yes.” She pulled the blanket closer. “I thought it was a dream. Manresa Snow was here; at least I think she was. I saw one of those shawls she likes to wear.”

  “Manresa.”

  Beatrix nodded. “And then she said that I was a loose end that needed tying up and she had this big ball of yarn.”

  It didn’t make sense. Was she having dreams or hallucinations?

  “I told Wolf about it, I remember that. He pulled me outside the house, and then he left. The neighbors called 911, but by the time the firetrucks arrived, it was too late.”

  She had a quizzical look. “Wolf said he needed to clean up loose ends of his own. What did he mean by that?”

  A neighbor rushed up with her dog, his collar tied to a rough leash. “Guess what I found.”