“Come on,” I coax. “What harm can it do to tell me if you’re going to kill me anyway?”
Colbert considers this and apparently agrees—not a good sign for me.
“Good point,” he says. “The way I understand it, Ackerman wanted to get rid of that Dunkirk woman and make sure he wouldn’t be implicated in any way. Apparently she got pregnant by him and was pressuring him about child support. He paid it for a while but he has no money of his own to speak of. It all comes from his wife. He was having trouble hiding the payments and he couldn’t afford to have his wife find out about his affair for fear she’d divorce him and cut him off. He knew about Dunkirk’s history with Hurley, so he did a little investigative work and uncovered the history between Dilles and Hurley. Once he learned how much Dilles hated Hurley, he came up with a plan that would take care of his little problem and also give Dilles a chance to get revenge.”
“How did you get involved?”
“I’ve known Connor Smith since I was a kid. Both of my parents were drug dealers and they had more than a few dealings with Smith because they got caught several times. Smith managed to get them off with light sentences the first few times, but eventually justice caught up to them. When I was thirteen they both ended up with convictions that led to twenty-year sentences. My father was killed by another inmate a year later, and my mother died of cancer two years after that. I ended up a ward of the state and did the foster home parade for a number of years, and got involved with a gang. After I got nailed and did time in juvie for a couple of robberies, Smith found me and made me an offer. He needed someone to carry out a plan for him and the men behind it had enough money to make it well worth my while. So he had one of his past clients create a new identity for me, pulled some strings, and got me into the police academy. Fortunately the Sorenson Police Department isn’t high on anyone’s list when it comes to job opportunities, and they always have openings. So it was pretty easy to get hired.”
“But why would Smith do that? Why risk his reputation and his freedom to help the likes of Ackerman and Dilles?”
“Two reasons. One, the same motivation I had: money. While Ackerman’s purse strings are tightly controlled, Dilles’s aren’t. The man has shitloads of money that’s of little use to him now, so he’s willing to use it to get the revenge he wants on Hurley. The other reason is that Ackerman somehow figured out that Smith was the man Dilles’s wife was having an affair with before she was killed. So he basically threatened to reveal that fact if Smith didn’t do what he wanted. The fact that Smith defended Dilles—unsuccessfully, no less—after boffing the man’s wife is an egregious violation of ethics. If it became known, Smith would lose his license, his community standing, his money, everything. Not only that, it might make him look like an alternative suspect and give Dilles cause for a new trial. And I think Smith knows that if Dilles found out the truth, he’d kill him.”
“A very clever plan,” I say.
“Yes, it is. Or at least it was until you screwed things up.” To my relief, Colbert takes his finger off the trigger, though the gun is still aimed in my direction. “Tell me something,” he says. “How did you know Hurley wasn’t behind these killings?”
“I know him well enough to know he wouldn’t murder someone in cold blood.”
“I see,” he says with a smirk. “And judging from what I’ve seen and heard, you’d like to know him a lot better. Not exactly an objective judgment but fortunately what you think won’t make any difference. By the time they find your body, there will be enough evidence to clearly implicate Hurley in three murders, one attempted murder, and the arson.”
It doesn’t take me long to do the calculations and figure out that the third murder will be mine. “What possible motive would Hurley have for killing me?”
Colbert looks irritated by the question and he waves the gun toward the bedroom door. “Enough with your twenty questions,” he says. “Let’s go.”
Reluctantly I get up from the bed and walk toward the living room. “What about my clothes?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question. But it’s the only way I can think of to try to get my hands on the gun again.
Colbert confirms my stupidity by jabbing me in the back with his gun and saying, “You won’t be needing them, so quit stalling and head out to the car.”
I continue toward the door, feeling like a red-shirted Star Trek character that just got beamed down to the planet. My mind is scrambling for a way out, for any solution that might save my life. But I’m doomed. As far as anyone knows, I’m at the motel being guarded by one of Sorenson’s finest.
I open the door, step outside, and head for the passenger side of Colbert’s squad car utterly terrified and fighting back tears. Off to my side I hear a twig snap and at first I think it’s Colbert who made the noise. Then I realize he’s directly behind me. In the next second I hear Bob Richmond’s voice holler out.
“Stop right there, Colbert.”
I turn and look in the direction Richmond’s voice came from, and out of the corner of my eye I see Colbert do the same. He instinctively points the gun that way and the second I realize its muzzle is no longer pointed at me, I know my time is now or never. I fling my entire body back and to the side, colliding with Colbert as hard as I can. The two of us go down like fallen trees and I hear all the air leave Colbert’s lungs in a giant whuff as my weight lands hard on his chest.
Then I hear the best thing of all: Hurley’s voice.
“Colbert, drop your weapon!”
I can tell Colbert is momentarily stunned, but he still has his gun in his hand. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I roll off him and scramble the ten feet or so to the still open door of my cottage. As soon as I cross the threshold I dash across the living room and into my bedroom, running low and hunched over to make a less obvious target. I half expect to feel the sting of a bullet in my back any second but I manage to make it to the bed without incident. I throw myself on top of it, grab the gun from beneath the pillow, and then roll off the other side, ducking down to use the bed as a barrier.
I hear shots outside: first one, then another, then a third. Instinct tells me to stay where I am, holding my gun at the ready in case Colbert comes back inside. I hear more shots exchanged outside and since this tells me Colbert is likely distracted, I scramble out of my hiding place over to the bedroom door and carefully peek around the corner. The front door is still wide open but I can’t see much because the couch is blocking my view. As quick as I can, I leave the bedroom and crawl over to the couch. Staying close to the floor, I make my way to the end of the couch closest to the door, and peer around it.
Colbert is squatting down—tensed and ready to spring—on the passenger side of his squad car, using it as a barrier between him and the other men. Movement catches my eye out the window off to the right of the door, and when I look I see Richmond making a dash toward the squad car. In the next second Colbert pops up, sees Richmond coming toward him, and fires off a shot.
Richmond drops like a ton of bricks.
I duck back behind the couch and sit there a minute, panicked and trying to figure out what to do next. With Richmond down I know time is of the essence, and in my gut I know I have to do something.
I look down at the gun in my hands and squeeze my eyes closed for a second to brace myself and muster up some courage. Then I open my eyes, stand up, aim the gun at Colbert, and pull the trigger. A nanosecond later, the driver side headlight explodes.
I duck back down behind the couch, expecting to hear another exchange of gunfire, but there isn’t any. Is Hurley shot too? If not, is he armed? Not being able to see what’s going on terrifies me because I realize Colbert could pop up on me any second. Like a turtle on speed, I thrust my head around the corner to look and then pull back. What I see reassures me a little. Colbert has moved down the side of the car toward its rear, farther from the house. His attention is focused on the woods and as I see him peer around the back end of the car, I raise myself up and l
ook out the window, searching for Hurley. I don’t see him, but I do see Richmond lying on the ground, groaning. At least he’s not dead. Yet.
When I look back toward Colbert, I see him start to rise in preparation for another shot over the roof of the car. Seconds later he fires and ducks back down. Once again I wait for Hurley to return fire, but nothing happens.
Emboldened by this lack of response, Colbert stands and steps around to the back of the car, his gun held in front of him. I run hunched over to the door, ducking down by the front grille of the car. When I look toward the woods I finally spy Hurley standing behind a tree, his side to the bark, facing me. He sees me and gives a little nod. I breathe a sigh of relief that he appears to be okay, but then he shows me his hands, which are empty.
Colbert fires a shot at the tree and the bullet bites into the bark, sending pieces of it flying. Hurley flinches and hugs himself in tighter to the tree. Richmond moans and tries to pick himself up from the ground. I see his gun lying in the dirt several feet in front of him. And then I watch in horror as Colbert raises his gun and takes aim at Richmond’s massive form struggling helplessly on the ground.
Desperate, I rise up, take my stance again, and try to line the sights on my gun up with Colbert’s chest. My hands and body are shaking like I’m in the spin cycle of a washer but I pull the trigger anyway, knowing it’s now or never.
I see sparks fly up about ten feet to the front and left of Colbert and realize the bullet has struck a large decorative boulder in Izzy’s yard. I line Colbert up in my sights again and prepare to pull the trigger a second time, figuring if nothing else I might be able to rattle him enough to distract him, but then the most amazing thing happens; Colbert slumps to the ground.
At first I think he’s merely trying to avoid my shots, but he’s lying very still, not moving at all. Not trusting him, I keep my gun pointed at him and step around the front of the car.
Hurley peers around the tree, takes in the scene, and steps away from his protection, too. Slowly the two of us approach Colbert, who remains utterly still. Then I see the blooming red stain on the left side of Colbert’s shirt and realize that when my bullet ricocheted off the boulder, it hit him.
Hurley closes the final gap with a few long strides and kicks Colbert’s gun off to the side. Then he looks over at me. “Take your finger off the trigger and lower the gun, Mattie,” he says in a calm reassuring voice.
I do as he says and he walks over and takes the gun from my hand. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod, staring down at Colbert. “Is he dead?”
Hurley kneels down and places his fingers along Colbert’s neck, feeling for the carotid. After a few seconds he looks up at me and says, “He’s got a pulse.” As if to confirm this fact, Colbert moans. “Good thing he’s a reckless, stupid rookie and wasn’t wearing his vest.”
Off in the distance I hear sirens approaching, and though I should feel relieved that the craziness is over and help is on the way, all I can think about is the fact that I just shot a man.
I shake it off and shift my attention to Richmond, who is lying on his back looking up at us, blood seeping from his belly. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing a vest either and I suspect it’s because he couldn’t find one that would fit. Kneeling beside him, I start to undo his jacket so I can look at his wound.
“Will this get me out of going to the gym for a while?” he asks with a grim smile.
I smile back at him. “A little while,” I say, ripping his shirt apart. The bullet hole is in his right lower abdomen and though there is a fair amount of bleeding, it appears to be slowing. “But I’m not going to let you off the hook forever,” I add.
Cop cars come screaming up the drive, parking willy-nilly wherever they can. Junior Feller is the first out of his car and after quickly taking in the scene, he radios for a couple of ambulances. I take off my jacket and push it against Richmond’s wound to further dampen the bleeding. The night air is bitterly cold but when I shiver, I’m not sure if it’s nerves or the chill that triggered it.
As Hurley briefs Junior on what happened, I have one of the other cops come over and take over Richmond’s wound management. Then I shift my attention to Colbert.
I move over to him but Hurley stops me. “Let him lay there,” he says.
“I can’t, Hurley. I’m a nurse. I have to try.”
He frowns and sighs heavily. “Fine,” he says. “But let me cuff him first.”
I wait as one of the cops puts Colbert in handcuffs and removes his utility belt. When I’m finally able to open Colbert’s jacket and shirt, I find a sucking chest wound on his right side. But he’s breathing and his pulse, though very fast, is strong.
The ambulances arrive and I turn Colbert’s care over to the EMTs. They load Colbert first and take off, then with the help of several cops, they manage to get Richmond on a stretcher and loaded into the second rig.
Hurley walks back over to me as the ambulance prepares to leave. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I nod even though I’m trembling uncontrollably due to the cold, my nerves, and lots of excess adrenaline. Hurley takes my chin in his hand and turns my head, forcing me to look at him. “You did good, Mattie. You saved my life. You saved all our lives.”
I nod again. Then I burst into sobbing, body-wracking tears and let Hurley hold me in his strong, very capable arms.
Chapter 46
William walks into my mother’s dining room carrying his pride and joy: a perfectly browned, crisp-skinned turkey. Thanksgiving was yesterday and I have to admit I’m a little bummed that I wasn’t able to celebrate on the only day of the year when big thighs are thought to be a good thing. But it couldn’t be helped. I spent the entire holiday in debriefing sessions with detectives from the county sheriff’s office, trying to fill in the blanks about the Ackerman-Dilles-Colbert debacle.
At least most of my favorite people are here with me: Hurley, Izzy, Dom, William, and my mother. Okay, my mother isn’t really one of my favorite people but she is my mother and I’m kind of stuck with her.
Hoover is here too, and he’s hovering at our feet beneath the table, knowing that Dom and I are likely to be good for a dropped scrap or two.
William sets his pièce de résistance in the center of the table, which is well laden with all kinds of other fattening goodies, and after we all ooh and aah over the turkey, we dig in like a horde of locusts. As William starts carving, the rest of us grab dishes full of food and begin the big pass-around until our plates are piled high.
Everyone, that is, except my mother, who clearly didn’t pass her appetite on to me. She takes tiny dribs and drabs of each selection while eyeing the turkey with a worried eye. “Are you sure we can’t get the Asian bird flu from eating that thing?” she asks.
“It’s an American turkey, not an Asian one, Mom,” I say, knowing I’m wasting my breath.
She sighs, shakes her head, and declines William’s offering when he tries to put a slice of the meat on her plate. William gives us all an “Isn’t she cute?” smile and continues his duties. Clearly the man is smitten.
As soon as we all have our plates loaded up, everyone but Mom digs in with gusto. She pushes her food around and eyes the rest of us with disdain.
“I don’t know how you people can eat after everything that’s happened,” she says. She drops her fork with a clatter and puts the back of her hand to her forehead. “I’m not feeling very well. Why isn’t David here?”
“He had a date,” I tell her. “Apparently he and our insurance adjuster hit it off. He’s moved on, Mom. Get used to it.” I knew something was up when David suddenly capitulated on the divorce thing. I should have known there was another woman involved; some things never change.
My mother lets out a sound of disgust, no doubt to mourn the loss of her personal family physician.
William says, “Mattie has filled us in on most of what happened, but the one thing she didn’t tell us i
s how Bob Richmond figured out Colbert was involved.”
“The e-mails,” Hurley explains. “There were a couple of them that seemed to reference the same material as the ones between Smith and Ackerman but they were between Smith and another, unknown e-mail address. So Richmond called the Internet provider to find out who that e-mail belonged to. Apparently Colbert wasn’t smart enough to sign up for an e-mail account using a phony ID. I’m surprised he didn’t use the Leon Lindquist name Dilles gave him like he did for the car rental.”
“How did you end up at my house with Richmond?” I ask Hurley. “I thought you were under arrest.”
“I was,” Hurley says. “The sheriff’s deputies brought me to Sorenson and turned me over to Richmond right after you and Colbert left. Richmond was about to lock me up when he got the information about the e-mail address. Once he knew Colbert was involved, it didn’t take Richmond long to fit the pieces together. He sent Junior and another cop over to the motel while he and I went to your place.”
“Thank goodness,” I say, the memory of how close I came to death making me shudder.
“Of course,” Hurley goes on, “the full extent of Dilles and Ackerman’s involvement wasn’t clear yet, but fortunately Colbert sang like the proverbial canary yesterday when they offered him a plea deal. Now he and Ackerman are likely to end up as Dilles’s prison mates. And the cops have arrested Smith, too. Between the damage to his SUV and the e-mails, they can hit him with both conspiracy charges and the attempted murder of Trina.”
“How is this Trina woman doing?” Izzy asks.
“She’s stable and they were able to save her leg,” I tell him. “Her recovery will be long and hard, but it looks like she’ll be good as new eventually.”
“Well,” Izzy says, bestowing me with a smile, “it looks like your faith in Hurley was justified after all. Congratulations on solving a very complicated case.”
Frozen Stiff Page 31