“I sure wish you’d have thought about this stuff back at the time,” Baronick snapped.
Froats shot him a look. “As I was saying, something else that’s odd is the only time I remember Wilford being the one to step forward was the night of Gary Chambers’ accident.”
“Murder,” Baronick corrected.
Froats’ boots hit the floor with a thud and he came out of the chair, a finger pointed at the detective. “I’ve had enough of your insolence, you young punk. Just shut the hell up.”
Pete shifted to one foot and lifted the crutch like a bat. “Both of you, cut it out. I don’t need to be breaking up a fight in the middle of my station. Neither one of you are schoolboys. So stop acting like it.” He aimed the crutch at Froats. “Now. What about Wilford the night of Chambers’ crash?”
Froats glared at Pete for a moment, but finally answered. “The night of the crash, it was Wilford Engle who called it in to dispatch.”
Son of a bitch. Pete turned to Baronick. “Drive me out to Wilford Engle’s place.”
Baronick checked his watch. “Now? It’s kind of late, Pete.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s two o’clock in the morning. Let’s go.”
Thirty
In spite of the long June days, by the time Zoe and Patsy pulled up in front of Wilford Engle’s house, the valley had fallen into sultry shadows. Heavy evening air, thick as a dripping sponge, hit Zoe in the face the moment she opened the Tundra’s passenger side door and stepped out.
“Is that his car?” Patsy tipped her head toward an old brown four-door sedan parked under a tree in the overgrown yard.
“Beats me.”
The place was dark except for a faint glow at the front door. Perhaps a light from the back of the house. Zoe wished she had her truck there. More specifically, she wished she had the tire iron she kept under her seat.
She picked her way through the weeds to the sedan—an Oldsmobile—and rested a hand on the hood. “It’s still warm. They’re here.”
Patsy shot an anxious glance toward her Tundra. “We should call the cops and wait out here.”
But Zoe had called the cops. One of them at least. Why hadn’t Pete called back? “You’re right. You stay out here and call 9-1-1. I’m going to check the house.” She started toward the front porch.
“I said we should wait,” Patsy called after her.
Zoe heard Patsy curse followed by the soft thud of her boots as she jogged to catch up.
The first step screeched the moment Zoe stepped on it. So much for the element of surprise. As if they’d had any chance of that, rolling up in that glow-in-the-dark white Tundra.
“What are we gonna do?” Patsy whispered.
Zoe climbed the rest of the steps and crossed the rickety porch. “I’m not sure.” Knock? Expect to be welcomed into Wilford’s home? Ask him flat out if he had Harry? Yeah, that would go over well.
“You’re not sure?”
Zoe peered in the screen door. The front room was in total darkness. As best she could tell, it was a living room. If someone lurked there, he was hidden in the shadows. A doorway opened to another room in the rear of the house. What appeared to be a single low-wattage bulb glowed from back there. She made out a vintage chrome and Formica table with mismatched chairs around it.
She wrapped her fingers around the doorknob and turned. It clicked open. “I’m going in. You stay here.”
“You can’t go in there.” Patsy sounded on the verge of a full-blown whispered panic attack.
“Look. Wilford’s what? Eighty years old? I think I can take him.”
“What if he’s got a gun?”
“What if he’s got Harry?”
Patsy let out a muted version of a frustrated scream. “If you go in there, I’m going with you.”
“Fine.”
Zoe gave the knob a tug. The wooden frame must have swollen and warped with age because it dragged. And scraped. Then opened with a screech. She shushed the door as if that might help. She stepped inside with Patsy right behind.
The air in the dark living room was stagnant and dank as a quagmire. How could anyone breathe in this place? It reeked of mold and rotted tobacco. She paused a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. Scanning the room, she spotted what appeared to be a large ceramic ashtray on an end table. She picked it up and hefted it. Heavy enough to make a dent in someone’s head, the ashtray also seemed to be the only good impromptu weapon within reach.
As she moved closer to the doorway at the back of the room, more of the kitchen came into view. The rest of the table. Another chair. And a pair of knees.
Someone was sitting at the table.
Zoe turned to Patsy with a finger to her lips. Wide-eyed, Patsy nodded. Zoe sidestepped so she could no longer see the man’s knees. And he wouldn’t see her if he happened to lean forward. She tiptoed closer. Prayed the floorboards of the old house wouldn’t squeak with her next step. Another step. And one more.
She sidled against the wall next to the doorway. All she had to do was poke her head around and see who was attached to the knees. If only the room had more air circulation, maybe she could breathe. She swallowed. Took a deep rancid breath. And leaned into the opening.
The knees were still there. She leaned further, sticking her head into the room.
Harry.
His dazed eyes were fixed on the table in front of him. His hands folded in his lap.
Zoe took a final, quick look into the rest of the kitchen. Empty. She stepped through the door, bringing Patsy with her. “Harry? Are you all right?”
He looked up at her, no sign of recognition in his pale blue eyes. “I want to go home.”
Zoe let out a breath and went to him. She knelt at his side, setting the ashtray on the floor. “I know you do. I’m going to take you there.”
He smiled at her, but the same way she imagined he’d smile at a cab driver who’d made the same offer.
She took his hands and stood up. “Let’s go.”
A floorboard creaked. Without looking, she knew they had company. The voice behind her was raspy, but deadly. “Yes. Let’s.”
Zoe turned slowly. In the doorway she’d just crossed stood a man who looked as close to a walking cadaver as she ever hoped to see. His skin was so white, even in the low light she could see blue veins beneath it. But at the moment the most conspicuous part of Wilford Engle was the revolver in his hand.
The headlights of Baronick’s black unmarked vehicle revealed an empty driveway and a darkened house as they parked in front of Wilford Engle’s place. The flicker of distant heat lightning revealed Wilford’s sedan parked under a tree. Pete noticed a hint of light at the front door.
“It’s almost ten,” Froats said from the backseat. “He’s probably already in bed. Farmers are up with the chickens, you know.”
Baronick cut the ignition and shot a pained look at Pete. “Tell me again why we had to bring him along.”
Froats didn’t wait for Pete to answer. “Because you knew danged well I’d have followed you in my own car if you didn’t. If,” Froats held up one finger, “and I’m only saying if this mess is my fault, I intend to be around to make it right.”
Pete refrained from mentioning he also didn’t quite trust his predecessor yet, and he’d rather have Froats close where he could keep an eye on him.
Baronick reached across Pete to the glove box, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and handed it to him. “Just in case.”
Pete rammed it into his pocket.
Baronick and Froats climbed out of the car. Pete struggled with his crutches, but heaved himself up on the second try. Another flash of lightning gave them a momentary glimpse of the overgrown yard and dilapidated house. A muggy breeze hissed through the leaves of the massive silver maple.
Wilford Engle would’ve had to be deaf to not hear Pete’s cumbersome climb up the rickety steps. But no additional lights flicked on inside. Baronick pounded on the screen door’s frame. “Mr. Engle? Police. We need to talk to you.”
The only response was the wind whispering through the maple’s leaves.
Something wasn’t right. Tension gnawed at Pete’s shoulders, and it was more than the crutches causing it. “Baronick, take the back.”
The detective bounded down the steps. Stopped. Turned back. “What about him?” He heaved a thumb at Froats.
“He’s with me.”
Baronick snorted. “It’s your funeral.”
Pete and Froats leaned against the house, flanking the doorjamb. Pete shifted both crutches to his left side and unholstered his Glock.
“You should have let me bring my gun,” Froats muttered.
“If old man Engle shoots me, you can use mine.”
Froats grunted.
The walkie-talkie in Pete’s pocket crackled to life. “I’m in position,” Baronick said.
Gun in one hand, crutches in the other, Pete released a growling breath. He holstered his Glock, dug out the walkie-talkie, and tossed it to Froats. “Make yourself useful.”
When Pete was set once again, he nodded to Froats.
“Go,” the retired chief barked into the radio.
Wilford Engle sat in the passenger-side backseat of Patsy’s Tundra with his gun aimed at Harry, who sat to his left. “Pull over here.”
“Here?” Patsy squeaked. “There’s nothing here.”
Every time they’d passed a car going the other way, Zoe, who sat sideways next to Patsy, had a clear view of Engle, his gun, and Harry. Headlights provided snapshots of Harry’s blank stare. Engle’s dark, hard eyes. The evil glint of metal.
Zoe could also make out the strain in Patsy’s face from the glow of the dashboard instruments. What Zoe didn’t need to see was the spot along the game lands road where Engle had ordered Patsy to stop. Zoe knew it intimately. This was where her dad had gone over the hill to his death.
But that memory was a lie. Her dad had already been dead—gunned down by the same old revolver now aimed at Harry.
Engle leaned forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun into Patsy’s neck. “Pull over now.”
Patsy let out a small cry, over-steered, and nearly sent them down the hill. But she jammed the brakes, and the Tundra lurched to a stop.
“Turn it off,” Engle ordered.
Trembling, Patsy obeyed.
Zoe’s eyes burned, but she had no time for the luxury of tears.
Harry appeared oblivious, as if he’d been drugged. Had Engle given him something? Or was he simply immersed in his dementia fog?
“Let Harry go.” Zoe held her voice steady. “He’s got Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t remember who you are or where he saw you before.”
As if his name had awakened him, Harry blinked and looked at Zoe.
Crap. This was not the time for a moment of clarity.
“Nadine? Is that you? Thank heavens. Will you please take me home?”
Zoe sighed in relief. “I’m working on it, Pop.” To Engle she said, “See what I mean? He’s harmless. Even if he did say anything, no one would believe him.”
Engle leaned back against the seat, again taking aim at Harry. He appeared to consider it. “You people have been a pain in my ass.”
Puzzled, Zoe asked, “What people?”
The gun stayed on Harry, but Engle’s dark gaze flashed to her. “You’re kin of them Millers, ain’t you?”
“They were my great uncles.”
Engle sniffed in disdain. “They weren’t so great. That son of a bitch Vernie went and seduced my little sister. Got her knocked up. Then he flat out refused to make an honest woman of her. He even had the gall to offer her money to get an abortion. Now tell me. What’s so great about that?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Poor sweet Mae.” His voice wavered. “She’s been gone from this earth forty-four years as of this coming Friday. Mae Flower, I used to call her. Figured she was destined to be an old maid. She was thirty and never had no man make a fuss over her before. But along came that Vernie Miller.” Engle said the name as if it tasted rancid on his tongue. “He was a good ten years older than Mae, more wise to the ways of the world. She thought she loved that son of a bitch. And he broke her heart. Worse. He broke her spirit.”
Zoe tried to imagine. It wasn’t hard. She’d had a few heartbreaks of her own over the years.
“What was I to do? I was her brother. It was up to me to make him pay for what he’d done to her.”
“You killed him?”
Engle sat straighter. “Wasn’t my intention.” As if that made it all right. “I just went to beat on him some. Make him hurt like he’d hurt my sister. But he was a smug bastard. Next thing I knew, my hands were around his throat and he wasn’t moving no more.”
Zoe risked glancing at Harry. He’d retreated into his mental fog again, his head lowered. In the dark, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she guessed they were either closed or looking at his hands. In that moment she realized while searching for her dad, she’d come to love Pete’s as if he were her own. She had to get him to safety. She and Patsy might stand a chance—somehow be able to jump old Wilford—disarm him—but she would not jeopardize Harry’s life. “What about Denver?” she asked. Keep Engle talking.
“He walked in right about then. Must’ve heard the commotion. Saw I’d killed his brother. He had a gun.” Engle held up the revolver. “This gun, as a matter of a fact. We fought over it. It went off and there he was. Dead.” He brought the muzzle back down toward Harry. “You see? I didn’t intend on killing neither of them boys. It was all an accident.”
From the tone of his voice, Zoe figured he didn’t believe that any more than she did.
“I called my brother Jim, and he came over and helped me string Vernie up to look like he’d hung himself. We set it up good. Spread the stories about them boys fighting over that other girl. And I kept this gun as a souvenir. Never know when someone’s gonna need killin’.”
Like her father. Zoe closed her eyes. Slowed her breathing. “Why would Jim go along with it? Why didn’t he tell the truth?”
Engle fell silent for a moment then said, “He wanted to. But he’s my brother. And moreover, Mae was his sister, too. Then when she died giving birth to her daughter, we both hated Vernie even more. It was his fault she died. He deserved what he got.”
A daughter. Mae had a daughter. “What about the baby?”
Engle swung the gun toward Zoe. Even in the darkness, she could make out the gaping black maw aimed at her. But a flash of lightning emphasized the reality of being mere inches away from death.
“Enough with the questions.” Engle waved the gun toward the door. “Get out.” He turned the gun on Patsy. “You, too. And then you help this old buzzard-bait out.”
Zoe released the latch. Eased her door open. This might be her chance. When Engle was climbing out behind her, she could ram his door closed on him. Maybe slam his arm—the one with the gun—in it.
But, no. As Patsy held the driver’s side back door open for Harry, Engle kept the gun aimed at him and slid across the seat to get out on Patsy’s side, too. Zoe stood alone on the passenger side, guardrails and the hill where her father had died behind her. She listened for the sound of an approaching car. Nothing. No one was coming to their aid. And no one knew where they were. She could make a break for it. Run like hell into the night. But that meant leaving Harry and Patsy to fend for themselves. No. Escape w
asn’t an option.
“Move.” Engle herded Harry and Patsy toward Zoe. “I want this whole mess to be over. I don’t know why folks can’t leave well enough alone.” He pointed the gun at Zoe again. “First your daddy starts asking questions. Gets everyone wondering about that night. He just wouldn’t shut up. Until I made him.”
The heat rising up Zoe’s neck had nothing to do with the steamy night air. Her fingernails sliced into her palms. Gun or no gun, she wanted to pummel the life out of Wilford Engle.
“And then Kroll started poking around, trying to get Jim to talk,” Engle muttered. “I had to shut him up, too. But the old fool didn’t die. At least not yet. Then this old lamebrain went and spotted me at the hospital—” Engle brought the gun to Harry’s ribs. “I could’ve handled him. He’d have been easy. Knock him over the head. Toss him in a ditch somewhere. Another old mental case wanders off, falls, hits his head, and dies. Happens all the time. Except you two have to show up at my house before I get it done. Now look at the mess I’ve got.”
Harry, oblivious to the conversation going on about him, gazed into the night, his hands shoved into his pockets. The same man who’d killed Zoe’s father now intended to take Pete’s dad from him, too. She could not—would not—let that happen. “Don’t hurt Harry. Let him go. Look at him. He’s not a threat to you.”
“Like hell. He may not remember now, but he might start remembering later. That’s why I had to get rid of Carl. And it’s why I’ll have to finish what I started with Marvin Kroll.”
“But it’s different with Harry. His memory isn’t going to get better. He’s got Alzheimer’s. His memory, what’s left of it, is only going to get worse. Let him go.”
For a moment, Engle seemed to consider it. But then he shook his head. “The only reason I’ve been able to live my life the way I want is because I made sure no one talked.” He gave a raspy sigh. “I can see, though, that I’m going about this all wrong. I was going to take care of the old man first and then you two. Now that’s not gonna fly. You’re right. He’s fairly harmless. But I don’t think you two gals are gonna stand by while I club him like a baby seal.”
2 Lost Legacy Page 28