Live Wire (Maggie #1)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Then she takes her foot off the accelerator. Louise cocks her head. The Tahoe slows to a crawl. Is she ready for the Sibleys yet? Poised with her foot over the pedal in indecision, she suddenly mashes it down. She hopes Hank’s there, hungover and squirming with his shiner, busted lip, and chewed-on ear. Time for him to face the music, she thinks.

  Two deputies are already walking to the door when she gets out behind their vehicle. One has a unique, skipping limp, the other a three-inch-long beard like half the other men in the state.

  She calls after them. “Hello! I’m Maggie Killian.”

  They turn and stop.

  The unique deputy frowns. “Yes?”

  “Aren’t you here to see me, about my intruder and the things that have been stolen?”

  He puts his hand on his gun. “No, ma’am. Do you live here?”

  Maggie stops, eying his gun hand. What the hell? “No. I’m in the guest cabin.”

  “I need you to head back there, then. This doesn’t concern you.”

  “But I don’t understand. We had an appointment.”

  “Ma’am, get back in your vehicle and leave, please.”

  Hank opens the front door and steps onto the porch. Even after an ass-whupping, he sets off electric butterflies in her belly. Framed in the doorway is his mother in her wheelchair, Laura behind her with a hand on each handle and a frown on her face.

  “Can I help you?” Hank says.

  “Are you Hank Sibley?” the limping deputy asks.

  Hank’s battered, swollen face folds like a squeeze box. “George, that’s a stupid-ass question. You know I am.”

  The other deputy approaches Hank and halts a few feet away.

  George holds up a hand. “Gotta do this by the book. Hank Sibley, you’re under arrest for the murder of Patrick Rhodes.”

  Maggie gasps, earning her a glare from George. Patrick is dead? Hank is being arrested for his murder? Her heart drops to her knees, and the rest of her almost goes with it.

  George shakes his head at her. “I told you to get along.”

  No way in hell is Maggie leaving. Hank searches her face through his one good eye. For what, she isn’t sure. She reaches toward him, and his hand rises as if to touch hers, but ten feet separates them.

  “Hank, Ernie’s going to snap the cuffs on you now while I read you your Miranda rights.”

  “Is that really necessary in front of my mom?” Hank lowers his voice. “She has Alzheimer’s. Can’t I just agree to come along with you and sort this out in town?”

  “I’m sorry. Procedure. Put your hands behind your back.”

  Hank holds his wrists in front of his waist. “Come on. At least do it where she can’t see. And could you keep your voices down, please?”

  The two deputies share a long look, Ernie questioning, George giving a grudging nod. Ernie snaps cuffs over Hank’s wrists, then puts a hand on Hank’s elbow as George recites the Miranda warning in a low monotone.

  From the doorway, Mrs. Sibley’s voice is screechy. “You boys. What do you think you’re doing? Mr. Sibley has work to do. You go on, now, and let him be.”

  “It will be fine, Mom. Let’s go inside.” Laura pulls back on the wheelchair. To Hank, she says, “I’ll be half an hour behind you.”

  Maggie suddenly loves Laura for the anguish in her voice.

  Mrs. Sibley pushes her feet to the floor and drags them. “No. I’m not going.” Her eagle talon fingers grip the armrests. The veins in her neck pop like a weightlifter on a world-record dead lift. The flesh around her eyes suddenly sinks and darkens. “Goddammit, I said no!”

  The deputies walk Hank toward the white truck.

  “Hank,” Maggie calls. She’s choking on something. She can barely get his name out. “Hank.”

  Mrs. Sibley has fought Laura to a standstill. She points at Maggie. “That woman. That woman is trouble. Take her. She’s the one you want.”

  Maggie can’t disagree. If she hadn’t gone to Winchesters with Patrick, if she had remembered to get the driveshaft from his truck before she drove to the ranch, then Hank and Patrick wouldn’t have fought. If she hadn’t told Hank what Patrick had said, then Hank wouldn’t have torn off into the wild blue last night, to do God knows what, God knows where.

  She puts the mental brakes on. She has no idea why they’re arresting Hank, but nothing she knows proves he killed Patrick. So he drove off. So he was mad. It proves nothing.

  Nothing.

  She follows the men to the Sheridan County truck.

  “Stay back, ma’am. If I have to tell you again, you’re coming in, too.” George opens the back door.

  Ernie assists Hank inside.

  Hank stops half in, half out. “Maggie, have Gene send our lawyer.”

  “Of course.”

  He shakes his head. “This is all a big misunderstanding. You know that, right?”

  “Yes.” Maybe. “Do you need anything else?” Sheila?

  “No. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  “Come on, Hank. You can talk to your girlfriend later.”

  Maggie almost says, “I’m not his girlfriend.” Instead, she blows Hank a kiss.

  His lips form a kiss back, then he climbs the rest of the way in the vehicle, and George shuts the door behind him.

  Thirty-Six

  Maggie runs to the barn. No Gene. Andy and Paco are unloading bags of feed.

  Out of breath, her words burst out between gasps for air. “Have. You. Seen. Gene?”

  Paco tips his hat back. “He went out to doctor an injured horse. He should be back soon. Can I help?”

  Maggie hears an ORV coming toward them. “No. I need Gene.”

  “Lily misses you. Do you want to take her some sweet feed while you wait?”

  She can’t think about Lily right now. Or anything but Hank. “Later.”

  Andy tosses a fifty-pound bag onto a stack as high as his head, making it look no heavier than a pillow. “Hey, Maggie, do you think I could maybe have another guitar lesson tonight?”

  Gene steers the ORV into the barnyard. Maggie doesn’t answer Andy. She charges out the door, meeting Gene before the engine stops running.

  “Hank needs you.”

  Gene puts an empty Cheetos bag in the ashtray and grabs a big leather veterinarian bag from the seat beside him. He climbs out. “What’s new?”

  “I’m serious.” She lowers her voice. “Patrick Rhodes is dead. Some Sheridan County deputies arrested Hank. He asked me to have you send the attorney.”

  The vet bag lands in the dirt. “Paco, you’re in charge,” Gene calls out. “Thank you, Maggie.” Then he jumps back in the ORV without another word and roars off.

  The sound of a vehicle rattling over the cattle guard comes from the direction of the front gate.

  Paco joins Maggie. “What’s going on?”

  Another white county truck approaches the barn. Adrenaline courses through her. Maggie pulls her jacket tighter. Now what? Are they here to arrest her, too?

  A lone occupant idles the truck outside the barnyard. He rolls down his window. “Deputy Travis, Sheridan Sheriff’s Department. I’m looking for Maggie Killian.”

  Maggie raises her hand like a student who has to tell the teacher she forgot her homework. “I’m Maggie.”

  “Where were these break-ins Hank called about?”

  Fight or flight fades, leaving Maggie weak. The deputy isn’t here about Patrick Rhodes. Thank God. “I called, too.”

  “You going to show me or not?”

  Maggie points. “The last cabin. That way.”

  “Want a ride?”

  A walk will give her time to pull herself together. “No. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Suit yourself.” Travis rolls up his window and drives ahead.

  Maggie sees nothing but the toes of her boots on the walk to the cabin. She rubs her arms and chants aloud to herself, “Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right.” When that doesn’t work she switches to “Not about Hank
. Not about Hank.” Gene passes her, driving like a bat out of hell toward the gate. Toward Sheridan and the sheriff’s department. They raise hands at each other, salutes rather than waves.

  Maggie’s almost to the torn-down tape gate when she remembers the missing rifle. She’d been planning to tell the deputy about it, but now she isn’t sure. Hank could have taken it when he was waiting on her. It belongs to him, after all, and he has a key to her cabin. She needs to ask him about it. She can’t bring it up to Travis. That or anything related to Hank and Patrick’s altercation. Too risky.

  She pastes on a smile—she goes for relaxed and welcoming—and steps over the tape on the ground. “Deputy Travis, thank you for coming.”

  On terra firma instead of in his truck, the deputy reminds her of a grizzly bear. Big, hunched, lumbering, with dark hair and a sizeable belly. He’s marking in a spiral notebook and looks up at her. But when he speaks, it isn’t to her.

  “Sheila. How are you?”

  Maggie stiffens and glances in the direction of Travis’s gaze. Her blonde nemesis is walking up, right behind her.

  “Travis, hello.” Sheila gives Maggie a wide berth.

  To Maggie, Travis says, “Pardon me for a minute. Sheila and I grew up together from the time we were in kindergarten.”

  “Seems like yesterday.” Sheila stands on tiptoe to hug him.

  “How is little Phoebe? She still the spitting image of your mother?”

  Sheila smiles up at him. “Yes, and my parents spoil her rotten. Got her another pony for her ninth birthday.”

  The two keep chatting, but Maggie tunes them out. She’s staring at Sheila. Remembering her staring at Chet and whispering to Gene’s date, June, the week before at the Occidental. Wondering how many little Phoebes there can possibly be in the Sheridan area. Realizing Sheila has to be Chet’s baby mama, the one he was fighting for custody of their daughter.

  The one with a compelling motive to see Chet dead.

  Sheila’s voice slices into her thoughts like a hot knife through Jell-O. “Maggie, did you hear me?”

  “Sorry. What?”

  “I said I came by to see Hank on my way back from a school thing in Sheridan. I can’t find anyone. Do you know where he is?”

  Maggie’s blood boils with hatred for this woman who has sat by and let the police hound Maggie about Chet, when she has vital information for them that she’s kept to herself.

  Well, two can play hide-and-seek. “I haven’t the foggiest.” And she gives Sheila a sweet, wide-eyed smile.

  Thirty-Seven

  Several hours later, Gene knocks on Maggie’s door. His olive skin is pasty, his eyes hollow.

  Maggie pulls Gene into the cabin. “How is he?”

  “Subdued. Exhausted after his interview.”

  “What makes them think he did it?”

  Gene shakes his head, sighing. “Hank went over to Patrick’s last night. They had a noisy fight. Several of Patrick’s hands were there. They’re saying Hank was drunk and promised to kill Patrick. Multiple times.”

  “It’s just an expression. Lots of people say it.”

  “But not right before the person they say it to is murdered.”

  Maggie drops her face into her hands. Beside her, Louise whines.

  Gene takes Maggie’s shoulders. “Look at me.” She lifts her head partway and lowers her hands. “Hank swears he didn’t do it.”

  “I know.”

  “Patrick was shot with a rifle. And everyone in Wyoming has a rifle.”

  Maggie turns from Gene, walks into the kitchen area, leans on the counter palms-first. “Last night, though . . .”

  “What about last night?”

  Maggie shakes her head.

  Gene urges her again. “What is it, Maggie?”

  She straightens and takes two glasses from the cabinet. “Want a drink?”

  Gene scrubs his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Sure.”

  She puts ice cubes from a freezer tray into the glasses, then pours each of them roughly two shots of KO 90.

  She hands Gene his drink. “Hank lent me one of his rifles. For my protection.”

  “Yes?”

  “When I got home from Buffalo last night, it was gone.”

  Gene’s face furrows. “And?”

  “And Hank was here. On my porch.”

  “Hmm. Do you think he took it?”

  “I have no idea. Right after you left this morning, Deputy Travis came, about the thefts and break-ins. I told him about the belt buckle and the guitar strap. About the person running out and under the fence. But I didn’t tell him about the rifle. I don’t know why. I was just . . . afraid to.”

  “Maggie—”

  “Gene, what if it’s the rifle that killed Patrick?”

  Gene’s expression is grim. “There are some things you need to know.” He motions for Maggie to follow him, and they go out to the porch.

  Louise flops inside the door. An afternoon storm has rolled in. Lightning flashes. A few seconds later, thunder shakes the roof over the porch. The air is greenish black and heavy. Maggie smells the sweet odor of ozone, like someone has dumped a bucket of chlorine into the clouds. Hail strikes the roof, small and high-pitched at first, then bigger chunks fall with deeper and deeper tonality. Rain joins in. Maggie remembers her piano lessons as a child. Adagio speeds up to allegro, until the sound is continuous, like a snare roll with a bass drum backbeat. Overspray mists the porch. Maggie wipes moisture from her cheek.

  Water beads on Gene’s forehead as he stands, hat in hand, at the railing. “Hank killed a man once.”

  Maggie sinks into the porch swing. She’s surprised, but she’s not shocked.

  “It was self-defense. He was never charged with anything.”

  Maggie blinks away spots in her vision. She concentrates on her breath. “Tell me.”

  “Hank owed some people money once. Back in Cheyenne.”

  “Cheyenne.”

  “Yes. You remember?”

  Of course she remembered. Hank had agreed to lose in return for increasing payments each round, so that Cristiano Valdez, the son of a Brazilian crime boss, could win at bull riding at Frontier Days. Then she and Hank met, and she’d told him she’d go out with him if he won. She’d only been flirting, hadn’t realized the deadly serious price of her demand. A lovestruck Hank had double-crossed the Valdez family. He and Maggie spent a night on the run from them, before Maggie left for Nashville. Then Hank and Maggie hadn’t spoken in fifteen years.

  “I remember.”

  “They came after him. More than once. The first time was right after the head injury that retired him. After he was home. His dad was sick. His mom was overwhelmed, depressed. Two guys ambushed him coming out of the Mint Bar in Sheridan. Hank made it to his truck and held them off with a length of pipe. Took a chunk out of one of them.”

  “Don’t mess with Hank.”

  “You have no idea.” Gene smiles without mirth. “The second time was here on the ranch. Again, two guys. His mother was in her garden. One of the men grabbed her. The wind was blowing in the right direction, so Hank heard her scream. He had a rifle with a nice scope, and he sighted them in it from out there.” Gene points into the pasture north of the main house. “He saw his mother clobber the guy holding her and break away. The guy pulled a gun on her, so Hank shot him.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “His mother got away. The other guy ran.”

  “And then what?”

  “The guy he shot had fired his gun as he went down. Died with it in his hand. Hank had his mother to testify. The sheriff’s department wrote it up as self-defense and the county attorney declined to prosecute. As far as I know, the Valdezes left Hank alone after that.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “Yeah. But it sure isn’t going to look good now. Especially because Patrick used to work for them.”

  “Them who?”

  “He was the go-between for the Valdez family with Hank, back when this
all started. When Hank reneged on his deal, he ended up on Patrick’s bad side, too. And vice versa. Then Patrick got into stock contracting and moved his operation here. It’s been an uneasy peace ever since.”

  Maggie’s mind goes whirling and tumbling back in time, to the Hank she knew fifteen years before and the choices that led to this moment. To the Valdez family—the record deal they’d dangled in front of her if she chose Cristiano—and their long reach. “Oh God. There’s history. And the rifle.” Maggie’s heart plummets. “It will look like his weapon of choice. And that he doesn’t have a problem pulling the trigger.”

  “Maybe. That’s what I’m afraid of. Even worse if it turns out that Patrick was shot with one of Hank’s guns.”

  The hail suddenly stops. In its wake, Maggie’s voice sounds unnaturally loud. “You don’t think Hank would . . .”

  “Kill someone unprovoked? In cold blood?”

  “That.”

  Gene stares into the rain like he’s searching for a truth that may wash away. “Maggie May, I’ve known him for more than twenty years. And, no, I don’t think he’d kill unprovoked. Give him a good reason, though, a real good reason, and he’d do what he had to do.”

  Maggie weaves her hands together in her lap. Gene’s words cut both ways, toward the good Hank and the bad. But Hank swears he didn’t kill Patrick, and that’s what matters. “I’m glad I didn’t tell the deputies about the rifle.

  “Me, too.”

  Gene’s phone rings. He rips it from his pocket so violently it falls to the porch. He crouches to get it. “This is Soboleski.” He listens, nods. “On my way.”

  “Hank?”

  “The judge expedited bail. I’m heading back into town to get the money and pick him up.”

  Maggie squeezes her linked hands. Surely they wouldn’t spring him this quickly if they really believed he’d murdered Patrick. Would they?