Reaction Shot (Caught Dead in Wyoming, Book 9)

by Patricia McLinn

  But this… this didn’t fit Lukasik. He would try to outsmart everyone — us, Shelton, the legal system. He wouldn’t just give up.

  “You? You killed him?” Scorn burned Odessa’s words. “And now you think you finally made right all the wrong you did?”

  Lukasik spun on her. “Hell, no. I killed him to get him off my back. A bloodsucker who’d been leeching off my blood — and money — far too long. I could never reach around to yank him off me until that day.”

  “I said it, I said it, I said it,” Hiram crowed, jangling the handcuffs like a percussion instrument suitable to a jig. “Said all along Norman Clay Lukasik was the killer. Could’ve had him in jail days ago. Nobody’d ever listen to me.”

  “Because all you did was say he did it.” Shelton said.

  “Can’t expect me to do all your work for you like the little lady does.”

  Shelton’s reaction was like feeling the earth tremble and crack as molten rock surged up inside a volcano, waiting for it to spew lava, ash, and flames.

  And then he had himself under control. It would have been a sight to behold, but I was relieved.

  We’d needed Shelton more than ever with Lukasik reacting so unpredictably.

  I needed to think. Adjust on the fly.

  Abruptly Hiram puffed up. “Hey! You meant to frame me.” He tried to get in Lukasik’s face, but was foiled by Lloyd Sampson’s hold and Lukasik staring over his head.

  “I had no need to frame you. You shoveled all the doubt yourself, then rolled in it like a pig in a wallow. I simply sat back and watched.” With Hiram sputtering himself toward apoplexy, Lukasik swept a contemptuous look around the circle. “You all did. Tom Burrell threatening him—”

  Had Lukasik picked the day to kill York because that dispute cast suspicion on Tom?

  “—over a few cows — or was there more behind his anger? There were rumors about his former wife and York… Or Clyde, sending Hiram to avoid the temptation of murder — so he says. Kesler would have risen to killing York if he’d known. The old cowman, revered by all — how could he not know? This woman. Of loving Gable in his own way disappointed she didn’t kill the man she proclaims murdered her sister — waiting for decades, she says, yet failing to act when he was right in front of her. Hiram threatening York as he has so many — did he hide a murderous tree among the forest of his threats?”

  This was more like it. This Norman Clay Lukasik we could have predicted. A thunderous offering of alternatives, deflecting from him. It’s how he’d started.

  When had he shifted? When had he stopped denying?

  Mike, Diana, Tom, Jennifer, even Shelton watched me.

  I should pound Lukasik with questions, get him to make statements, give him no time to regain balance…

  But my concentration shuddered.

  Something…

  “You’ve got what you need. I’ve said I killed him. I’m not making any further admissions.” Lukasik slashed the air with the edge of his hand. “I have no regrets for what I’ve done in my life, in my career. If I hadn’t won that case, I wouldn’t’ve had the career I’ve had. Wouldn’t’ve had my ranch to…”

  Leave to his son.

  Diana jumped in. “You haven’t told us about… getting York off.” Tactful of her to not bring up bribery.

  “Hah. You never figured that out, did you? It doesn’t take all the jurors to be with you—”

  The latest in euphemisms for bribery.

  “—to swing a jury. Juries have a rhythm. They get rolling, like a bicycle. Hit at the right time with a holdout, a vote that switches sides, and it’s a stick in the spokes. Instant crash. Right then, one, two in the right place and boom it’s your jury.”

  “One or two in the right place because you exploit weaknesses,” Diana said. “Someone’s greed. Someone’s desperation to keep his dying child alive. Not jurors being with you, not persuaded, but bribed. By you. To get a murderer off.”

  “The murderer of my sister.”

  “Not proven,” Lukasik snapped.

  “I know it,” Hiram shouted. “What it did to Earl. What he did.”

  Voices exploded. Hiram shouting about his friend. Shelton telling him to be quiet. Odessa not shouting, all the more chilling for it, telling Lukasik what punishment he deserved in this life and the next.

  In full oral sail, Lukasik dismissed them, but did not deny his guilt.

  He had been denying, confident he could not be touched … and then he stopped. When?

  I turned my back to shut out the whirling emotions, so I could think. I had to think.

  The wind tossed confetti rose petals against the faded house, my thoughts scattering with them. Memories coming instead.

  Mike and his family ranch.

  Tom, carrying Tamantha’s bag.

  Tamantha saying, You need roses here. Like the grazing association has.

  Not now, not now. I needed to think, not remember. Not feel. I needed to figure out when Lukasik stopped denying.

  Mom’s voice. Until you’re forced to face it.

  Had Lukasik been forced to face something? Forced to feel…

  Tamantha’s hand in mine. The slide of her thumb.

  In that instant, thinking had no power against what burst open. Whatever I felt for Tom, for Mike — and I felt so much for each of them — I loved Tamantha Burrell.

  I would do whatever I could to ease her way.

  For this girl, I would sacrifice anythi—

  My mind flooded with an incongruity — Norman Clay Lukasik and the concept of sacrifice.

  When had he stopped denying?

  After he told Gable to shut up, which followed…

  Words about proof of blackmail, then his son saying He said—

  Those two words and Lukasik knew.

  He knew York. He knew the hold the man reveled in. He knew he would not let it go. He knew York had told his son he would carry the blackmail into the next generation.

  In that moment, he knew that his son also knew the burden of this legacy he would carry.

  And Norman Clay Lukasik had been forced to face what he felt.

  I spun around.

  “You didn’t kill him. Gable did.”

  * * * *

  Odessa gasped.

  But the voice that said, “No. Tell them you didn’t,” was Asheleigh’s.

  Gable didn’t respond. Might not have even heard. He stared straight ahead.

  His silence absorbed all other sounds.

  As I’d seen before, the planes of his face shifted, drawing tauter, as if the skeleton of his father surged closer to the surface of the fuller and — even in this moment — kinder face.

  I remembered then…

  Remembered him saying York must have gotten up early because his truck was gone when Gable left … yet he’d never answered whether he’d seen York.

  “He ordered you to come here that morning,” I said quietly.

  “Don’t answer,” his father ordered. “Don’t say—”

  “Usually it’s no problem to avoid him, but he was up early that day. He made me climb up here to get my orders. He pointed that gun of his to where two pastures meet and told me to tear down fence so the cattle would mix. I said that would mix Lukasik brand and Circle B. He laughed. Nasty. Said I was a bright one. Started bragging he’d have everybody thinking Tom Burrell was trying to steal Lukasik cattle before he was done. Then he said to get started, because he was the foreman and I was just a hand. I said no. He got—”

  “Be quiet, Gable. Shut up now.”

  I don’t think his son heard.

  “—real mean and said I’d be taking his orders on more than fences from now on. He said when my father finished dying it would be my turn to take care of him the way he expected, or he’d see to it that everything blew up in my face. I told him I wouldn’t pay him blackmail the way my father had for—”

  “There’s no basis— It’s false. He had no knowledge. No basis in fact. Shelton. No motive.”
<
br />   As far as I could tell, no one looked at Norman Clay Lukasik.

  Gable held this audience.

  “—all these years. All these years him holding the ranch hostage. And there he stood, saying he’d go on doing it. He said he had proof that would take everything away. Everything. The ranch.”

  I heard Tom’s words echoing beneath Gable’s.

  …like your heart’s too big for your chest because it’s yours. You’re its, too, though. It holds you…

  “I said I’d kill him before I let him interfere with the life Asheleigh and I want. He laughed again, the way he did. Then he raised his shotgun and pointed it at me, and said, ‘Who’s going to kill who?’

  “I grabbed it. I suppose that surprised him. Surprised him enough that I got a good hold on it, even with my work gloves on. He—”

  Those unlovely work gloves. Spattered and stained. Not only from cows.

  “—didn’t let go. We fought for it — I don’t know how long. And then I had the butt in my hands and got my finger—”

  “Ridiculous. I told you. I killed him. I shot Furman York.” Even now, Norman Clay Lukasik was really good. The right amount of dismissal, utter conviction. But his words came too late. Far too late.

  His power was gone. Shattered by his son.

  “—around the trigger and pulled it. He went down to his knees. Exactly like he was praying. Only he never prayed. And he stayed there the longest time, but his eyes… There was nothing in his eyes. Not the meanness, not the calculating. Just… the darkest night you’ve ever seen, without a single star.”

  Asheleigh sucked in oxygen, as if she’d held her breath until she couldn’t hold it any longer. She hardly seemed to move. No one did.

  “I dropped the gun. And when he started to fold down, I pushed it with my foot, under him. Get it out of sight, I guess. And then I looked all around and nobody was there. Nobody else was anywhere. But all those marks in the dust… Didn’t look like anything to me, but science can do all sorts of stuff. So, I took my hat off—”

  His hat.

  “—to brush the marks away. I said I wouldn’t let him ruin everything. But in the second I pulled the trigger … I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to make up for… Maybe I wanted him gone so her life could be free of him, of my father, of the trial, of her aunt, of her mother, of all of it. Even of me.”

  “No, Gable. No.”

  Odessa jerked Asheleigh around by her arm. “You told him?”

  Her daughter pulled free.

  “Of course I told him. He loves me and I… I love…” Turning to Gable, Asheleigh’s voice rose, the words tumbling together. “I do love you. Whatever they did, whatever they planned, it’s not us, Gable. It’s not us. Don’t leave me. Please, please, don’t leave me.”

  Odessa Vincennes stared at her, her mouth open, her eyes dead.

  Jerry said it when he showed us her footage — It’s all reaction shot.

  Epilogue

  My phone rang as I returned to the editing booth with a food delivery to keep us going to finish our special on the murder by and the murder of Furman York.

  I checked caller ID, then answered.

  “Hi, Danny. It’s Mel,” came the familiar voice. “Having a good visit with your parents?”

  “It’s okay, Mel. No need to worry. I’m still here.”

  “You’re still—? What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m still here in Wyoming. Not on my way to Illinois to strangle you.”

  “Strangle me? Wh—What—? Ha, ha, ha. You’re always joking.”

  “I’m not joking. Mom and Dad told me they know about the murder investigations. Have known. And how they know.”

  A silence that I dearly hoped was painful on his end followed.

  He deserved it for betraying my trust, betraying my confidence as a client. He was lucky — almost as lucky as I was — that it turned out well. But he couldn’t have known it would. He was supposed to follow my wishes. No one else’s.

  I could sense the pressure building in him, until he burst out, “You are more and more like Catherine every day.”

  I didn’t laugh until he ended the call.

  * * * *

  Thurston Fine repeated to anyone who didn’t get away fast enough that Cottonwood County should be grateful star citizen Norman Clay Lukasik was cleared of murder.

  Fine was happy he got to air another part of his interview with Lukasik. Didn’t faze him in the least that it was out of date after being held for breaking news, then our special report. Also didn’t faze him that Audrey edited out several bits that made no sense in light of later events. Because Fine didn’t watch it.

  He also didn’t care that cleared was an overstatement.

  The county attorney moved cautiously on the son’s admissions, while the father maintained he did the crime. It was for the legal system to handle now.

  Once, Fine tried to corner me — shortly after I’d delivered more brownies and Hamburger Heaven coffee to Jerry — apparently forgetting I was the leader of the Norman Clay Lukasik for Murderer campaign … until the instant I wasn’t.

  But I escaped.

  And, thus, Thurston avoided me telling him I’d have traded the older Lukasik for the younger one as murderer a hundred times over.

  I almost wished…

  Except I couldn’t wish against the truth.

  I thought of Tom’s question about whether I’d ever held two contradictory feelings at the same time.

  “He could have a case for self-defense,” I said to the others when we’d finished the special report and had breath to expend on anything else. “Or manslaughter. He didn’t take a weapon. If they can prove a scuffle, that would help.”

  Diana nodded. She’d had the difficult task of telling her son about Gable’s arrest. He was taking it hard. “You know, represented by a good defense attorney, Gable might…”

  “Not his father,” I objected.

  Asheleigh Vincennes had been to see James Longbaugh. Not necessarily to defend Gable on criminal charges, but to ensure his desires weren’t swamped by his father.

  Odessa remained in the apartment, seeing no one. Except for one visit from Gisella Decker.

  “No, definitely not his father. Still, his father has the money and the connections to get him the best,” Diana said.

  “The money. But the connection might work against Gable. No lawyer would want Norman Clay Lukasik looking over his shoulder every second.” Mike said.

  Jennifer sighed. “I kind of wish it stayed with Norman Clay being the murderer.”

  “Sure seems like the son and daughter paying the price for the sins — or at least the obsession in the case of Odessa — of the father and mother,” Mike said.

  “You can’t mean you would rather Elizabeth hadn’t figured this out.”

  Mike didn’t respond to Diana’s statement, but Jennifer pursued it. “Well, the father is dying—” We’d confirmed that in reporting for the special. “—while Gable has a lot of years ahead of him.”

  “I wonder how much of Lukasik taking the blame was recognition of that,” Diana said.

  “Whatever else Norman did in his life and whatever lies at his door for setting up the situation, he did not pull the trigger. Gable did.”

  The silence that followed my grim reminder, spread darkly.

  Jennifer brightened abruptly. “You could claim the reward, Elizabeth. It would serve Norman Clay Lukasik right to have to pay when it was his son. You could use the money for something good.”

  “I’m not claiming the reward.” After a moment, I added, “I do hope Gable gets a good lawyer.”

  I might make a few phone calls myself.

  * * * *

  The day after the special ran, Mom, Diana, Jennifer, and I took Tamantha to Cody for a girl’s day, including going to a salon.

  Persuading her was the easy part. Her father was the tough part.

  I left that to my mother. I was working on being around him without the ache
swallowing me whole. I’d get there. I had to get there. I wouldn’t deny myself Tamantha — or Tom’s friendship. I wouldn’t deny him, either.

  He watched his daughter climb into my SUV like snatching her back was his first choice.

  “Nothing fancy. I mean it. Nothing fancy.”

  Mom patted his arm. “Trust me.”

  I almost laughed, because he clearly didn’t trust her. Or any of us.

  While the others loaded up, I said quietly to him, “A haircut won’t change who Tamantha is.”

  I didn’t add it wouldn’t make her who she wasn’t, either — her mother. He’d figure that out eventually, as the changes came over the next decade and he adapted to Tamantha’s individual brand of womanhood.

  I did add, “Some new clothes won’t, either.”

  If he’d been a horse, he’d have gone wild-eyed and shied like crazy. Instead, he looked grimmer than ever and muttered another, “Nothing fancy. Elizabeth, are you driving or Diana?”

  “Me, of course. Why?”

  I waited to hear how much safer Tamantha would be with me behind the wheel.

  “You’ll be gone longer.”

  * * * *

  We took the salon by storm.

  The stylists had as much fun as we did.

  Though the energetic young woman who did my hair was disappointed I wasn’t willing to change much. I knew my hair, I knew this style, I knew how to make it work in wildly variable circumstances.

  Radical experimentation would have to wait until I retired from in front of the camera.

  She did a nice job within my list of limitations, even if she did sigh more than strictly necessary as she watched other stylists giving Jennifer and Diana newer looks. Even Mom, who stuck with her same cut, went for a stylish blowout.

  The one we focused on was Tamantha.

  Something different, not too different. Flattering, could not require a single styling tool for everyday wear. Satisfying to her and us, yet wouldn’t set off a skittish father.

  The salon owner pulled it off with a face-framing cut with a few layers to help straight hair curve and move. It played up Tamantha’s dark eyes … which grew larger in a heart-swelling moment when she saw herself in the mirror.