The body was pliant, only just beginning to cool, but it was heavy, and shifting it was awkward. Sonora was aware that the men watched her. One of them stepped close and helped her turn the body. A deputy. Young.
“Thanks,” she said.
He stayed to watch up close.
The old man wore a brown uniform and a leather jacket that was drenched with stiffening blood. Sonora probed gently, saw two holes on the mid quadrant of the left side of the back. She picked up a limp, heavy hand, noted the gold wedding band, the curly white hairs on the wrist. No wounds on the palms or fingers. No blood. He hadn’t fought, or had time to react, which meant the first shot likely killed him.
She pulled the sheet back over the body and looked up to find Sam watching her.
“What you think, Sonora?”
“Hey, he was shot.”
Sam gave her a lazy look.
“Hard to tell with the blood, Sam, but looks like two shots with a twenty-two through the vena cava. He never knew what hit him, didn’t put up a fight. Makes sense. She’s a small woman, she’s not going to want to go hand to hand.”
Clemson opened his mouth, then closed it. “You said she?”
Sam waved a hand. “Deputy Clemson here tells me that the guard called in a fire, then went out to investigate. When he did, he left that back gate unlocked.”
Clemson shifted his weight. “What I can’t figure is why he, I mean she, would start that fire up in the first place. Just calling attention to herself.”
Sam stuck his hands in his pockets. “Car she took was parked over on the other side of the parking lot—which is where the body was found, right? She starts the fire as a diversion while she steals the car, only instead of putting out the fire, the security guard calls the fire department, leaves the fire to burn, and starts looking around the lot. He gets too close and she kills him.”
“Why here?” Clemson said.
Sonora waved a hand. “Locals in Donner wouldn’t know her, wouldn’t know she had no business with the car. And excuse me, but this is a small town for a television station. Seems odd to me they even have a car.”
Clemson pushed his hat farther back on his head. “It belongs to the owner’s son—a little prick who likes driving around with the logo on the side.” He glanced at the body, turned his face away. “This guy fought in World War Two, got four grandchildren. Wife’s been sick the last five years. This is like to kill her.”
“What was his name?” Sonora said.
“Nickname was Shirty. Shirty Sizemore. That’s her, right over there. His widow.”
The woman was small, figure wide and lumpy, shoulders sagging. She had a beaten-down air about her, a wilt that took years to acquire. Sonora met her eyes, saw intelligence, shock, and, oddly, relief. The same look she’d seen in her mirror the night Zack had died.
Another grieving widow.
Sonora leaned up against the hearse. “Still got his gun holstered.”
Sam gave her a look. “What’s bothering you, Sonora?”
“I was thinking about Bundy.”
“Ted Bundy? Theodore?”
She nodded. “Just the pattern. Plans carefully year after year, but then something changes or sets him off, and suddenly he’s going on a blitz. Taking big risks. Rampaging through a sorority house in Florida, with the cops on his tail up north.”
“Think she’s cutting loose?”
“I’m worried, Sam, I really am. They all do it, sooner or later. If this is her blastoff, we’re in for it.” Sonora rubbed the back of her neck. “Any sign of the murder weapon?”
Sam shook his head. “They’ll go through the Dumpster when the hot spots cool. Sheriff says the autopsy will be done in Louisville, and he’ll get back to me with results. And we’ve been officially asked to keep our murderers up north where they come from, and unofficially asked to be in on the kill if at all possible.” He yawned. “You still want an egg roll?”
23
Sonora went home and took a hot shower before she picked up the kids. She put on a black T-shirt, a pair of jeans, and worn boots, then threw on an old flannel shirt to cover the bluish swelling on her wrist. If the kids asked about it, she wouldn’t lie, but it was best to tone things down.
Her daughter clung to her when she picked them up, and even Tim gave her a hug. They kissed their grandmother good-bye, then climbed into the back of the car. They reeked of tobacco smoke and seemed subdued.
Sonora waved at her mother-in-law. Baba watched them from the doorway, cigarette dangling from her lips, her three little dogs jumping and scrabbling the screen.
Grandchildren were exciting.
“What’s for supper?” Heather asked.
“Whatever we pass on the way home.”
They rented a movie, and Heather and Tim curled up on the den floor while Sonora built a fire in the fireplace. Once the blaze was small, but steady, Sonora settled on the couch with two Advil, a Corona, and a heating pad for her wrist. Clampett put his head in her lap and licked the bottom of the beer bottle. Sonora pushed his nose away.
“You guys sure you don’t want to watch Witness first? It’s a classic.”
Tim rolled his eyes. “Mom, we’ve seen that movie so many times, we know all the dialogue.”
“Can we make popcorn?” Heather asked.
Sonora fed Clampett a mushroom. “Have to do it yourself, I’m not getting up.”
The doorbell rang, three times quickly.
Tim laughed. “Yeah, right. Want me to go?”
“Not after dark.”
“Probably just some lady with a gasoline can.”
Sonora pushed the dog off her lap and gave her son a look. She turned the porch light on and squinted through the peephole, in the arched wood door.
Chas stood on the front steps, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He wore new jeans, a shirt that had likely just been removed from an L.L. Bean box, and an Outback hat with a feather in the brim.
Sonora considered not opening the door.
Chas set a shopping bag on the porch, folded his arms, and shifted his weight to one foot, mouth small and tight. Really, it was amazing how much he was reminding her of Zack.
“Mama!” Heather’s voice was shrill. “Clampett’s eating your pizza!”
Sonora sighed. Opened the door. “Hello, Chas.”
He took off his hat, pushed back the straight black hair, silver at the temples. He had broad cheekbones, a dark complexion, blue eyes. “Hey, babe. You didn’t need to dress up, just for me.”
Sonora maintained silence.
“May I come in?” He said it with such meek politeness, Sonora felt guilty.
He was good at that, she thought. Giving guilt. She pushed the screen door open, and he stepped through just as Clampett came running, Heather right behind.
“Chas!” Heather wrapped her arms around his waist. Clampett pawed his leg, tail wagging, thumping the wall.
Chas stepped backward, patted Heather awkwardly on the top of her head, then nudged her away. He looked at Sonora. “We need to talk. Privately.”
Heather backed away, chin sinking to her chest. She pushed her glasses up on her tiny button nose, and Clampett licked her elbow.
Sonora squatted down next to her daughter, winked, and gave her a hug. “Go watch your movie, Heather. Take Clampett with you.”
“Will you come too?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Sonora saw Chas grimace. So handsome, she thought. Such a prick.
“Later, sweetie, you go ahead.”
Sonora watched her daughter trudge toward the den, head bowed, dog at her heels. Any doubts she might have had were gone. Chas bent close to kiss her hello, but she turned her back and led him up the stairs into the living room.
“Sit down, if you want.”
He paused by the back of the couch. Heather and Tim had been playing with Tim’s miniatures, and the floor was covered with plaster-cast mountains, fake trees, painted archers and dragons. One of the pil
lows had bite marks, and Clampett had clearly had an accident beside the coffee table.
Sonora sat on the edge of the couch, stiff backed and regal—queen of her domain, God help her. “You want to sit down?”
Chas curled his lip. “You need to do something about your dog.”
Sonora felt her cheeks turn red. “He’s just old.”
“Maybe it’s time to put him out of his misery.” Chas sat close to her on the couch and gave her a confident smile. It dawned on her that he had a habit of sitting too close, standing too close, grabbing hold of her arm. “You’ve been dodging me, Sonora.”
Time for a dramatic pause, Sonora thought, waiting it out.
Chas frowned, leaned back against the couch, closed his eyes. “I’ve had a long day. Hell, I’ve had a long week. I’m dead tired and mega-stressed.”
“Aw, gee.”
He opened his eyes, folded his arms. “Okay, so you’re mad. I’ve talked to Sam and your dad. Even your mother-in-law.”
“You talked to my dad?”
“I know you don’t get along, Sonora, but I wanted to let him know my intentions.”
“Which are?”
He rummaged in his bag, pulled out a Dove bar, and smiled.
No, Sonora decided, a smirk, not a smile.
“Chocolate. And better than chocolate. Diamonds.” Chas held a black velvet box up in the air, just out of reach. “Make me happy, Sonora.”
“I’m supposed to jump for it?”
His lips tightened, and he leaned close. “Stop playing games, Sonora, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
She took a breath. “You remind me of my dead husband.”
His mouth opened, then closed, and he swallowed. The smirk came back. He had decided to be amused. “Is that all?”
“Let’s just say it’s not a compliment, and I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”
“Maybe he’s better off dead,” Chas muttered.
“Maybe I’m better off.”
He shook his head slowly. “I thought you’d be happy to get married, I know you would. There’s got to be more to this. Something’s going on you’re not telling me.”
“Maybe I don’t like the feather in your hat. Or that you whistle Carmen all the time. Maybe I don’t like it that you play competition Frisbee.”
“What’s wrong with Frisbee?”
“Nothing, unless you call it ultimate Frisbee and get intense.”
“It’s that incident with the car, am I right?”
Sonora cocked her head to one side. “Reason enough, don’t you think?”
“I promise, I promise you. Nothing like that will ever happen again.”
“You’re right about that, Chas.”
“It wasn’t that big a deal, Sonora.”
She leaned forward, into his face. “It was a big deal. You went off. For no reason, out of the blue, you go nuts behind the wheel. You hit that Volvo on purpose and had the unmitigated gall to get out and tell the driver it was my fault for making you mad. You used the car like a weapon—”
“Oh, I can’t believe I’m hearing this. So now you’re abused?”
“Go home, Chas. You make me tired.”
“Just like that, huh?” He stood up, walked three steps, then turned around, smoothing the thick black hair, his pride and joy. “You’ve got someone else, don’t you?”
“This discussion is over.”
He tossed the velvet box on the floor by her feet. “Don’t you even want to look at it?”
“No.”
“I have champagne in the bag. You want to keep it to celebrate your aloneness tonight?”
“Take it and go.”
He grabbed the bag and the box, but did not notice the Dove bar wedged between the center couch cushions. Sonora followed him to the door.
He looked back at her over his shoulder. “I take back my marriage proposal, Sonora. But we could have been a dynamite couple.”
She inclined her head in the direction of the den and the kids. “I’m past the couple stage, Chas. I’m a family.”
“Be picky if you want, Sonora. But it’s not going to be easy to find someone willing to put up with a pissy dog and two kids.”
“What’s difficult is finding somebody worthy of the privilege.”
She closed the door in his face. Heard applause. Tim stood on the staircase next to Heather, who ran and put her arms around Sonora’s waist.
Tim shook his head. “Good going, Mom. You’ll never get married at this rate.”
Sonora was aware of thunder, and a tiny tap on her shoulder. Lightning cracked and lit the room. Heather stood beside the couch, eyes wide, thumb in her mouth. She was neatly belted into a white bathrobe with pink, rosebuds and wearing her favorite kitty slippers—two sizes too small. She had likely been roaming the house for a while, trailing her favorite blanket.
The room went dark again, dimly lit by the glow of the television and the tiny green lights on the VCR. Harrison Ford was on screen, fixing a broken birdhouse.
Sonora moved Clampett off her feet, shoved the half-eaten Dove bar out of her lap, and raised the end of the quilt to let her daughter under.
“Scared of the storm?”
Heather nodded, crawled onto the couch, and laid her head on Sonora’s shoulder.
“Mommy?”
Sonora yawned, closed her eyes. “Hmmm?”
“Will you be home when I wake up in the morning?”
The phone rang, and Clampett opened his red-rimmed brown eyes. Sonora pulled her arm out of the cocoon she’d made with the heating pad and reached for the cordless, realized her hands were shaking. Flash calling? Who else, this time of night. Phone taps were in place. She swallowed.
“Sonora Blair.”
“Sonora. I’m sorry, I know it’s late, I’ve been on the road all night.”
She recognized his voice immediately, as well as the cadences of panic. “Keaton? What’s wrong?” She glanced at her watch, squinting. One-thirty A.M.
“I just got home, to the town house. And there’s another one of those envelopes. Like the other one, you know?”
“I know, Keaton.” Use his name. Keep him calm. She pulled Heather close.
“It feels like there’s two pictures in there this time.”
“You haven’t opened it?”
“No.”
“Don’t open it, okay? Keaton?”
“Okay.”
“Look, I’m coming over, just sit tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She rang off.
Heather sucked her thumb, blue eyes stoic. “You got to go again, Mommy?”
“Yeah. But I’ll get Uncle Stuart to come keep you safe in the storm.”
“Mom?”
Sonora looked up. Saw Tim in the stairwell, still in blue jeans. She looked at her watch. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
Clampett padded up the stairs, licked the boy’s bare toes.
Tim scratched the dog’s ears.
“You got to go to work, Mom?”
“Afraid so.”
“Don’t forget your gun.”
“I won’t. I’ll get Stuart to come.”
“I can take care of things.”
“I know. But he’s still coming.”
Tim nodded. Seemed glad. He was young, Sonora thought. And it was the middle of the night. And Flash was out there, somewhere.
24
The town house was dark, though a light glowed from the back. Sonora parked at the curb and shut the car door softly. The street was still, the houses dark and silent. In the background came the roar of the highway.
Sonora’s boot heels were noisy on the sidewalk. The front door was open, the storm door shut. She rang the bell and waited—tried the handle, found it unlatched, and went inside.
Keaton Daniels had left a trail. A canvas briefcase had been dropped in the foyer, a tie unknotted and hung over the banister that curved into the living room. The kitchen light was on. Sonora could see a stack of mail on the tab
le, a curling newspaper.
A bottle of gin was open, next to a half-filled glass.
The mail was scattered. Men’s Health, Gentlemen’s Quarterly, Highlights for Children. A MasterCard bill, good news from Ed McMahon, pizza coupons, something official from the legal firm of James D. Lyon. A bill from Hallock Construction. A cheap white envelope next to the one from the legal firm, torn across the top.
He hadn’t been able to wait. Sonora glanced at her watch and saw that it was 2:40. She had left him alone too long.
The pictures were Polaroids, one sitting crooked. Sonora resisted the urge to straighten it up. She focused on the pictures, shivered, sat down slowly, and put her head in her hands. Then looked again.
In the picture on the left, Mark Daniels struggled with the handcuffs. Sonora could see the sweat rolling down his temples. She looked closely. Something odd, something in his fingers.
The second picture was the bad one, taken just as the fire licked the top of the car window and Mark Daniels faced death. His mouth was closed. He was not screaming.
Sonora went to the back door and looked out at the tiny, sloped yard that was enclosed by an eight-foot privacy fence. She flipped the porch light on. Keaton Daniels had his back to her, hands jammed in his pockets. He was looking over the fence to the city lights below.
The rain had not come, but there was thunder crowding close. Sonora walked across the yard, grass curling around her boots.
“Keaton?” she said softly.
He didn’t seem to hear. She touched his shoulder with her left hand, and he laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
“Don’t say anything.” His voice was thick, as if he’d been crying.
Sonora moved in front of him.
He had changed in some subtle way that troubled her, as if once he was there, and now he was here. The funeral, just that afternoon, seemed miles and years away. She squeezed his hand, took a step toward him, her shirt just a hair’s breadth from his. He did not back away. She took his face between her hands and stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.
He hesitated, and her stomach tensed and fluttered. Then he bent close. He grabbed her hard, his tongue in her mouth, and she felt the sandpaper bristles of his unshaven cheeks, the soft chill wetness of his tears.
Flashpoint Page 15