Silence in West Fork: A small town police procedural set in the American Southwest (The Pegasus Quincy Mystery Series Book 5)

by Lakota Grace

  “If not you, then who? Thorn Malone?”

  “That poor girl. Jill could be cruel, especially when someone stood up to her and told her the truth.”

  “And Thorn did that?” I asked.

  “I had to mediate between them all the time. Once Jill asked Thorn to evaluate her executive management style in one of those 360-feedback exercises, where everyone participates. Jill thought it would be fun to have the intern’s opinion, too. Thorn could have said that Jill’s style was very impressive. But no, she declared that it sucked.”

  I hid a chuckle. That sounded like Thorn, all right.

  “But murdering your boss over a disagreement like that seems extreme.”

  “I hope you’re right, since Thorn was your friend,” Harriet said. “But then there was Gary Marks.” Harriet gave me a clever look, as though dangling this tidbit of bait would divert me away from the missing journal and blackmail.

  I already knew about Gary’s after-hours pastimes at Jill Rustaine’s house.

  “Who else?” I asked.

  “If there is a journal, perhaps I could read it and see if there were other people that Jill wrote about. If there was such a book, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Sooner or later, I’d hold that book in my own hands. But in the meantime, I needed to move slow so as not to spook this fount of knowledge.

  “How did Jill act those last few days before her death?” I asked.

  “Nervous. I questioned her about it, but she said it was just stress leading up to the IPO.”

  “But you didn’t believe her?”

  “It wasn’t that. I know, knew Jill,” she said. “Jill thrived on pressure. No, something was going on.”

  “Well, would you be willing to help me? Perhaps working together we might find who Jill’s murderer was. It would have to be unofficial, like. And anything found would have to be doubly corroborated through the usual channels.”

  “And if we found out it was someone else, then your friend Thorn would go free. I like that young woman. She has spirit.” Harriet thought for a moment and then said, “When would you like to start? I have all the time in the world at my disposal.”

  Harriet had switched back into a highly efficient individual. I was glad to see that. But I’d have to watch her. Much as I wanted to catch Jill Rustaine’s killer, I didn’t want to put another life at risk. Jill might thrive under high pressure, but from what I’d seen of this lady, she might crack.

  CHAPTER 25

  COOPER DAVIS took the Middle Verde entrance to I-17 after his meeting with Claire Marks. The road was grooved in spots where the semi rigs had shifted into low gear to make the grade. By the time he passed the exit to Sedona, the rain had started up again and the red rock cliffs at the horizon were obscured by heavy clouds.

  The windshield steamed, and Cooper put on the defroster and then wiped at the driver’s side when heat didn’trive fast enough. The digital display bar above the road warned of “winter driving conditions ahead.”

  Cooper wasn’t sure that this sheriff’s pool car had chains in the trunk. He should have checked. Who would guess he’d need foul weather gear this early in the season? It was only late October! In Florida right now, the temps would be drifting into the bearable range after the steamy summer months.

  He slowed and moved to the far right lane, letting the cars from Phoenix, emblazoned with Cardinals football bumper stickers, whip past him. He’d heard tales of these yahoos, who headed north when the snow fell to play on the bunny slopes at the Snow Bowl. A monstrous SUV tailgated him, following too close for safety, and then blinked its lights on high beam in passing. The vehicle fishtailed on the slick surface as it passed.

  So much changed in less than an hour’s drive time. Near the Stoneman Lake exit, there was a highway patrol blockade, slowing traffic and warning of icy conditions ahead. Cooper pulled over. He lowered his window and flashed his ID.

  “Coconino Sheriff’s Department. What’s the road surface like near Flag?”

  “Slick patches, especially this side of Munds Park. If you take it slow, you should be okay. We’ve got heavy snow predicted later, though. Good day to be inside.”

  The man rubbed his red hands together and stomped his boots as though that would bring feeling into his numb toes. They both watched as another Phoenician gunned away from the traffic-calming barricade.

  “Damn fools!” the patrolman exclaimed.

  His thought, exactly.

  The patrol waved him through and Cooper drove on. By the time he reached the summit plateau, the snow drifted across the road.

  In the freeway margin a small herd of elk, migrating from summer pastures on the San Francisco Peaks near Flag, stood bracing the storm. Their back pelts were white and their immense antlers held frostings of ice. Cooper struggled to keep the car steady against the wind gusts. The roadbed turned slushy and narrowed at the edges with drifts.

  Then Cooper saw a single light behind him, approaching rapidly. A motorcycle. The green bike accelerated smoothly and passed safely. Cooper gave a nod of approval. A young driver, he bet, but a careful one.

  The older guys chose Harleys—those expensive, heavy bikes. The younger men, more financially strapped, went for the used versions of the leaner machines like this Ducati. But at least the kid wore a helmet and protective leathers. As much protection as you could expect out in the open with a wind chill low enough to freeze your socks stiff.

  Cooper switched on the radio but got only static. The weather conditions must have dropped the FM reception. Just as well. He needed to pay attention to the road, but still missed the myriad of radio stations he’d been able to play in Florida. He missed the warm-city conveniences, too. This snow and ice was for the penguins.

  Then, descending the hill beside Kel Ranch Road, Cooper hit an icy streak followed by a curving road with too much snow on it. The tires lost their grip, and the car skidded out of control. The vehicle spun in a circle and then thumped to a halt at the road edge. His heart racing, Cooper turned on his hazard lights and got out to survey the damage.

  As he did, a pickup truck slowed and pulled in behind him. The man got out, a white-bearded, camo-wearing local. A hunter, most likely. And that beat-up truck looked pre-seatbelt vintage. But Cooper was glad for any assistance. His legs still felt shaky.

  “Hey,” the guy said, “Quite a spin you had. You okay?”

  “Yeah, lucky, I guess.” Cooper breathed out, hard, settling his nerves. “My right rear tire is stuck, though.”

  They both silently looked at it. The old codger rubbed his beard.

  “Well, my bumper doesn’t match yours, so we can’t use my truck. But I could hand push from behind while you steered. Or you could push while I steered.”

  The last alternative seemed less attractive to Cooper.

  They both studied the stuck car for a minute longer.

  “Or,” the guy said, “How ‘bout I get that chain out of my truck bed and tow you out?”

  The man drove the old pickup in front of Cooper’s car and attached the chain. It jerked tight, and with a lurch, the car humped onto the drivable part of the road.

  “I owe you one,” Cooper said, as the man unhooked the chain and dumped it in the pickup bed.

  “No problem. Pay it forward. Buy some homeless guy in Flag a cup of coffee.”

  “You got it.”

  Cooper watched the truck’s tail lights disappear into the swirling snow. The guy drove too fast for these weather conditions. He’d caught the mixed smell of marijuana and alcohol on the man’s breath during the rescue. Still, Cooper was grateful for the help in whatever package it arrived.

  He counted his blessings as he pulled carefully onto the main road again and resumed a careful highway speed. Second chances sometimes come in strange ways. Not long now and he’d be safe in his small apartment in Flagstaff.

  Only ten miles out of town, near Kachina exit, the snowfall intensified, creating near whiteout conditions.
Huge shapes moved like dark ghosts near the side of the freeway, another elk herd. Cooper eased on his brakes and slowed. Then the lead elk hopped on the road bank and started across the freeway. The rest of the herd followed. Within a matter of seconds, what had been a winter-peaceful snow scene erupted into chaos.

  Cooper watched in horror as a vehicle about a quarter mile ahead of him continued forward at full speed. It missed the first elk, but hit the second full on. The rest of the elk panicked, jumping between cars and onto the safety of the woods beyond.

  But a motorcycle rider seeking to avoid the accident laid his bike down and skidded into the side rail. The bike itself twisted at an awkward angle, the front bar bent.

  And then in a deadly cascade of events, Cooper’s Good Samaritan truck driver swerved to avoid the bike. The pickup hit the uncertain surface between the north and south lanes, and flipped, plowing the front end into a deep snowbank in the median. The truck wheels spun in the air, freed from their familiar surface.

  If Cooper had been driving faster, he could have been the car hitting that elk! He pulled to the side of the road. He yanked on his emergency brake and hit the hazard lights. He took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline charging through his system. Clicking on the radio, he called in the accident to the sheriff’s dispatch.

  “Half mile south of Kachina, northbound lane. Collision with elk. Multiple vehicles involved. Possible fatalities.”

  Traffic started to stop, pulling over behind him. One guy struck hazard flares, relieving Cooper of that duty. He pulled the big first aid kit out of the trunk and ran across the road, slipping and skidding.

  The biker was most vulnerable and Cooper stopped there first.

  “You okay son?”

  The young man yanked off his helmet and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “That idiot! Didn’t he see the elk?”

  “EMTs will be here soon. Stay quiet.” Cooper helped the young man to a sitting position against the guardrail. “I’ll be back as soon as I check the others.”

  His Good Samaritan truck driver next. The snow in the median was deep, and Cooper plunged to his knees in fresh drifts. The truck door had broken open on impact. Cooper reached in and turned off the ignition.

  He checked the pulse, but the bearded guy’s eyes were glazed over, and his head canted at an angle. Broken neck. The windshield shattered into a spider web where the man’s forehead had smashed into it. Older truck, no seat belt, no airbags. The man was dead; nothing Cooper could do for him.

  Cooper rose to his feet and steadied against the still warm hood of the car. Damn! If the man hadn’t stopped to help him, he would still be alive.

  Cooper assessed the other vehicles. Both people in the car that had hit the elk were on the roadway inspecting the damage to their car. The interior of their car was a white maze of deployed airbags. The vehicle itself was totaled, and the elk was not moving.

  Another two cars pulled over. A driver carried a blanket to the woman in the elk-car. He put the cover over her shoulders as Cooper strode by. She seemed alert, with nothing apparently broken. The EMTs would check her out when they arrived.

  Cooper returned to the motorcyclist. His daypack had spun away when the cycle toppled, spilling junk food onto the highway. Mr. Goodbar, Cherry chunks, and corn chips created a mosaic against the white snow. Cooper picked up what he could and shoved it back in the pack.

  The young man rose, staggering dizzily, and Cooper caught him by the shoulder.

  “You better settle back down. Help will be here soon.”

  The cyclist had a dazed, blank look in his eyes. “Where am I?”

  “You took a nasty spill.”

  Cooper had seen this before, a shutting down as the mind refused to accept the severity of the experienced trauma.

  “It was a mistake. All a mistake. I have to get this food to—”

  At that, he crumpled. Cooper caught him and lowered him gently to the ground. He pulled a space blanket out of his emergency kit and wrapped it around the young man. In the distance, the warbling sirens of the emergency vehicles drew closer.

  CHAPTER 26

  I’d just left Harriet Weaver’s house when my phone buzzed. I pulled over to the side of the road and checked the caller ID. It was Armor Brancussi, Ben’s uncle.

  “Peg, Ben’s been in a crack-up on that damn motorcycle of his. He’s in the hospital in Flagstaff.”

  “Flagstaff? What’s he doing up there?”

  Then I knew. Ben had seen the weather coming in just as I had. He was going up to get Thorn.

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  “They won’t let me know over the phone. Just tell me they’re monitoring it. I’ve got to get up there.”

  I’d been keeping an ear on the weather reports up in that part of Arizona since Thorn’s runaway. And they weren’t positive. Rain and fog at Mingus often translated to snow and ice in the high country.

  I had a notion why Armor was calling. He didn’t have any transportation. He didn’t need any, he said, living behind the Bar in a small room that Ben shared. Unfortunately, my Jetta had a ground clearance of four inches. I’d get stuck before we were halfway to Flag. But I knew someone who had a vehicle that would have no trouble with snow.

  “Armor. Pack a bag with whatever you think Ben might need. Stick his laptop in it. That kid goes into withdrawal without access to the Internet. I’ll be by as soon as I can.”

  Then, I dialed Rory Stevens’ number. He was half-way between Mingus and Prescott, on the winding road separating the two towns.

  “Peg? What’s wrong?”

  “Ben’s been in an accident. He’s—”

  “Wait a minute, you’re breaking up. Weather’s iffy up here on the pass. Let me call you back when I reach the top of the mountain and can pull over.”

  I waited impatiently for five long minutes, and then the phone rang. Rory’s voice came belling over the airwaves. I explained what the issue was, and our need to get to Flagstaff.

  “No problem. I'm turning around now. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. Hang tight.”

  Bless that man!

  I drove to the Spirit Bar and collected Armor. We went back to my cabin to wait for Rory. Armor lapsed into an uneasy silence and I did the same. We had to wait without doing anything, not a skill that I practiced well. I paced from one end of the small room to the other and looked out the window. Where was Rory?

  And worse, where was Thorn? With Ben injured, what was going to happen to her?

  “It’ll be okay.” Armor reached over and squeezed my hand.

  Funny, him giving me comfort when Ben was his relative. But sometimes family was bigger than blood. Ben felt that way to me. And Thorn did, too.

  Finally, Rory’s horn blasted, and we piled into the big Hummer for the drive north.

  The sky cleared for a moment as we started out, showing sun through the clouds. Was the storm threat behind us?

  Then I looked north. On a clear day you could see the San Francisco Peaks beyond Flagstaff, but today they were buried under a mass of clouds that turned bruise purple at the edges and snow-cloud white in the center. The drive up the Interstate to Flag would be challenging.

  The rain started again at the Cliff Castle Casino interchange, a steady drizzle. A half-mile up the grade from the Sedona exit, the rain changed to sleet, banging against the windshield with machine-gun cracks.

  The highway patrol set a barricade at the Stoneman Lake exit, and semi drivers were pulled off, checking brakes and loads. A crew of young guys started an impromptu business, putting chains on the Phoenicians’ cars. Kids piled onto the hillside, throwing snowballs and making snowmen.

  But the patrolmen were turning back half of those cars that had ventured this far without winter protection. It was too risky to let them drive farther up the road.

  Rory stopped and lowered his window, proffering his sheriff’s ID. The patrolman knew Rory, and they exchanged greetings.

  “Nice wheels,” the off
icer said admiringly. “You can buy that on a detective’s salary?”

  “Thanks. My rich uncle died.”

  It sounded like a joke, but actually, Rory did have a rich uncle, and a trust fund besides, although he didn’t often advertise the fact. People were more important than money, and Rory’s heart encompassed us all.

  “You got chains?” the patrolman asked.

  “If I need them,” Rory confirmed.

  The high clearance on the Hummer plus Rory’s four-wheel drive and winter driving skills meant he might not have to break them out. It was always a balancing act. Chains made the driving more secure, but slower. Where we wanted to go, speed was the best option.

  And hey, it was only another forty miles. How long would that take? Forty minutes in good weather. But an hour and a half, or more, if the storm slowed us. I crossed my fingers that Ben was going to be all right.

  Armor had called the hospital when we reached the Interstate, but they had nothing further to report. We’d have to wait.

  “At least the elk have bedded down. I heard they’d caused an awful accident earlier,” the patrolman said. “Stay safe up there.”

  He waved us through. We entered a long upward grade that the truckers hated. No level spots, just up. Descending on the other freeway lane was worse, of course, and I saw several semis that had pulled off the divided highway on the other side, hazard lights flashing. Electing to spend idle hours until the plows arrived was often the wisest choice in rough weather.

  The cinder trucks, rather than salt, would be close behind the snowplows. Flagstaff was a green town, with a hatred for materials that degraded the environment. For a while, they’d tried a new type of salt on the roads in winter, one that was guaranteed not to hurt the forest trees lining the freeway.

  Then the city fathers and the ski bums, both united for a change, noticed the ponderosa pines dying by the roadsides. The company supplying the salt swore it was bark beetles killing the trees. But they had no rejoinder when the opposition noted that the trees only died on the downhill side of the road where the runoff of the salt slurry occurred. So it was back to cinders again, harvested from cinder cones north of Flagstaff, remnants of ancient volcanoes in the mountains.