Adam Tocek gave Molly Smith’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “Talk to you tomorrow.”
Winters should have been elated. He should have been ready to go out and celebrate.
Instead he was just sad. What a goddamned waste. Cathy Lindsay, her husband, her kids. Everyone caught up in this because of some smarmy bastard who wanted to be remembered as a killer smarter than a bunch of small town cops.
Right now he wanted nothing but to go home, but first he’d pay a call on Gord Lindsay. The guy deserved to know they’d caught his wife’s killer. He’d drop in on Mark Hamilton tomorrow and apologize.
Winters turned to Molly Smith. “You did good today. I’ll mention it to Al.”
“Thanks. Why don’t I feel good?”
“It’s not up to us to feel good, I’m sorry to say. We did our jobs. We caught the bastard before he could do any more damage.”
“Does it matter? He’s going to be dead in a couple of weeks anyway, you said.”
“Look at it this way. Suppose some other woman offended him tonight or tomorrow. Took his parking space, cut him off with her grocery cart. Didn’t bring his meds fast enough in the hospice. And he decided he had one more score to settle.”
Smith’s radio crackled. “Five-one?”
“Go ahead.”
“Sergeant Peterson is asking if you’re going to hang around the office for the rest of your shift, or intend to get back out there.”
“Message understood.”
Winters gave her a small grin. “I suspect you’ll be spending the rest of the night answering questions.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Chapter Forty-three
Mark Hamilton studied the object in his hand. Cold metal gleamed in the flickering glow of the gas fireplace.
The lights in the house were turned off, leaving only blue and yellow firelight to see by.
All he needed.
The radio blasted out heavy metal, cranked up loud. There’d been another shooting in Trafalgar, and earlier the reporter had called in from the scene, breathless, excited. In the background, sirens, people panicking.
Would the cops be here soon? Knocking down his door, breaking in, guns drawn, boots pounding on the floorboards?
He hadn’t killed anyone, didn’t even know the person they were saying had been shot this time. But what did that matter? Once again he had no alibi, no friend to say they’d been tossing back a beer together after work or watching a game on TV.
He’d come home from the police station a few hours ago, dropped off by the pleasant young woman. In the old days, he would have flirted with her, asked if she wanted to go out for a drink. Now, he muttered thanks as he got out of the car, and then he headed straight downstairs to run for an hour, lift weights for half an hour.
It hadn’t helped. All he could think about was going to prison.
Prison and Corporal Fred Worthing, dying in the dust so far from home.
Mark stroked the gun. Smith and Wesson J Frame. Small. Big enough to do the job.
He hadn’t lied to the police. Sergeant Winters had asked if he possessed a long gun, a rifle or shotgun. He hadn’t asked if Mark had an unlicensed, restricted weapon like a handgun. Which was a crime in itself.
He’d bought this revolver when he returned from Afghanistan. Ready to do himself in when it all got too bad.
Then, to his considerable surprise, he’d been accepted at university as a mature student. His mom had been so proud. The revolver had been tucked away in the back of the closet, mostly forgotten. But nothing could be forgotten forever. Over the months and years following the incident, he’d often dreamed that Fred was standing silently in the swirling dust, beckoning, telling him to be a man. To do it. To eat his gun.
To join him in hell.
Mark Hamilton owned one bullet. He didn’t need any more.
He lifted the gun. He opened his mouth. He tasted it, tasted the bitter, cold, harsh metal against his lips. His mom would never know he’d stopped coming to visit. He had enough to keep her in the home as long as she lived. He bit down on the barrel, closed his teeth onto it. He swallowed, fighting against his throat, which had closed against the intrusion. His finger twitched, sought the trigger.
“This just in!” The radio exclaimed, cutting Guns and Roses off in midnote. “Trafalgar City Police have made an arrest in the killing of popular teacher Cathy Lindsay. They report that the same person was allegedly responsible for this evening’s coldblooded attack on Mrs. Margo Franklin. Chief Constable Paul Keller has this to say.”
The Police Chief said something about an arrest, about good policing, about the two shootings being linked. Then over to the mayor to chatter about a safe community and a good place to live and raise a family.
Mark didn’t want anyone from the school to find him in his living room with his brains spattered across the back of the chair, so he’d stuck a note on the front door, warning them to call the cops and not come in.
“Now,” the radio guy said, “back to the scene of this evening’s shooting. Lorraine Quinn reporting live.”
“Thanks, Warren. I’m with Michelle Jenaring, a student at Trafalgar District High who heard the shots from her house and was one of the first to arrive. Michelle, what’s your reaction to the news?”
At first all Mark could hear was crying. Then the girl gulped and said, “I’m so glad. So glad it’s over and they’ve caught him. Now our lives can go on. I’m so looking forward to going to school tomorrow and hugging everyone. I was going to go into computers but after seeing how that doctor saved the woman’s life, I’ve decided to switch to medicine.”
The reporter thanked her and went to talk to more people.
Michelle Jenaring was in Mark Hamilton’s precalculus class. She wanted to get a degree in math. Her family didn’t have a great deal of money, and her older twin brothers were already in university. Michelle was on track for several good scholarships and Mark planned to write recommendations for her.
Thursdays he had the grade twelves right after lunch.
Would they have found him by then? Would a somber principal come to the class and tell them, tell Michelle, that their teacher had decided life was not worth living?
That hopes and dreams and ambitions were an illusion. They’d all be better off dead.
What would happen to Michelle if she didn’t go to university? What would happen to that brain which loved nothing more than solving a math problem?
He pulled the revolver out of his mouth. He took his finger off the trigger.
He spun the chamber and took out the single bullet. He got up from his chair and went into the kitchen. He studied the bullet for a long time, twisted it in his fingers, examined it. So small. So inert.
He dropped it into the sink where it landed with a clatter of metal on metal.
Mark Hamilton turned on the tap. He gave the bullet a nudge with his finger and pushed it into the drain.
It disappeared.
Tomorrow, he’d take the revolver around to the police station. Hand it in.
Maybe he’d see the pretty blond policewoman again. He’d smile at her and hope she’d smile back.
Then he’d go to school and teach math.
Chapter Forty-four
Eliza Winters peeked out from behind a huge bouquet of peach roses, her smile radiant. “We’re absolutely delighted to see you looking so well, aren’t we, John?”
Margo Franklin lay in her hospital bed, hooked up to beeping machines. Truth be told, John Winters thought, she didn’t look well at all.
She looked like a woman who’d been shot and had almost bled to death in the street.
Her husband, Steve, stood beside her, beaming.
Eliza put the flowers on the windowsill, joining other bouquets, cards, even a teddy bear with a red ribbon around its neck. “We’ve been told we can’t stay, but we did want to pop in and say hi. I’ve cancelled tonight’s reception. Ms. Reingold
wasn’t too impressed, but I hardly wanted to put on a celebration. I’ll reschedule for when you’re back on your feet.”
“We’ll look forward to that,” Steve said. “Won’t we, dear?”
“You got him?” Margo croaked. “The one who did this to me?” Her daughter, Ellen, lifted a glass of water to her lips.
“We did,” Winters said.
“Why?”
“Mistaken identity,” Steve said quickly. “Isn’t that right? He mistook Margo for someone else.”
Winters didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Margo’s eyes had drifted shut and she slept.
“I’ll walk you out,” Steve said.
“Thanks for coming,” Ellen said.
Steve had phoned that morning, to let Eliza know Margo was out of danger. She’d lost a lot of blood, but blood can be replaced. The shell had entered her side and exited without hitting any vital organs. The doctor was confident she’d suffer no lasting effects.
“Is he her son? The boy she called Jackson?” Steve asked once they were in the hallway.
Winters studied the man’s face. “It’s possible. I don’t know if she needs to hear it though.”
Steve nodded. “What a nightmare. All these years, searching for the guy, and then he shoots her.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. You can decide what to say.”
“Suppose she asks for a DNA test?”
“He’d have to agree to that. We have his DNA on record now, but it can’t be used for a private matter without his consent, even after death, simply because Margo asks for it.
“Eliza told me the date and place Margo said her baby was born. It seems to be the same as records show for Westfield. He was adopted immediately after his birth. There’s a shade of resemblance, particularly in the eyes, between the two of them, but I might see that only because I was looking for it. What you want to tell her is up to you, Steve, although I can’t imagine it will do Margo any good to believe her son tried to kill her.”
“The doctors here said they’d recommend a good therapist. Margo needs to get over this obsession. God, it almost killed her. Regardless of who Westfield might, or might not, be she has to realize she can’t go around telling strange men they’re her son.” Steve laughed without humor. “What a choice. If I tell Margo her son tried to kill her, she’ll know she found him and can stop seeing him everywhere she turns. On the other hand, what will that do to her head?”
“You’ll do the right thing.” Eliza placed her hand lightly on his arm. “I know you will.”
“Ellen was on a plane the minute I called. It’ll do them both good to spend some time together. Thanks for coming. And, John, thanks for everything.”
Chapter Forty-five
Gord Lindsay flipped pancakes. Bacon sizzled in the cast iron frying pan. Maple syrup and butter were on the table.
The kids were in their rooms, supposedly getting ready for school. He didn’t plan on fixing a substantial cooked breakfast every morning, but today he’d make the effort. Renee and Ralph had left yesterday morning, and Gord had put his mom on the afternoon plane. He hadn’t been sorry to see them go. He needed to have his house back, spend some time with Jocelyn, just the two of them. Spend some time with Bradley too, if the boy’d let him.
He heard the news on the radio last night, a shooting in Trafalgar. He’d almost flown across the room to turn it off, not wanting Jocelyn to hear. Not wanting to hear any more himself. Another shooting. Gord couldn’t imagine another family going through the pain he and his children were.
If the killer was the same person, then it couldn’t possibly be Elizabeth. He’d called her at the house in Victoria, and she’d answered. He heard a man’s voice in the background.
Gord muttered something about putting the money together and hung up.
He’d pay Elizabeth her twenty thousand. And hope to hell he never heard from her again.
Sergeant Winters had stopped by. It was late, Jocelyn asleep, Bradley watching TV, Gord sucking on a beer, mindlessly munching potato chips, and wondering how he was going to live the rest of his life without Cathy. When Gord opened the door to see the man standing there, for a moment he thought Winters had heard he was going to pay Elizabeth the blackmail money and had come to warn him against it.
Instead Winters said, “Have you heard the news?”
“Yeah. Another shooting. God, man, what’s happening here?”
“I knew you’d want to hear it from me. We got him, and he’s confessed to killing Cathy.”
Gord’s legs buckled. Winters grabbed his arm. “Steady there.”
“Who? Why?”
“A stupid, stupid thing. He was a student in Cathy’s night school class and took exception to the mark she gave him.”
“What?”
“He killed my mom over a grade!” Bradley stood in the hallway, dressed in jeans, sloppy but not too oversized, and a Vancouver Canucks T-shirt. His feet were bare and his hair tousled.
“Your dad needs to sit down,” Winters said.
Gord was aware of his son’s arm around his shoulders, a strong hand under his elbow. They went into the living room and Gord dropped into a chair. “You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not going to get off, is he? Not on some stupid technicality.”
Winters rubbed his chin. “The biggest technicality of them all.”
And he told Gord and Bradley that Cathy Lindsay’s killer would be dead before this time next month.
In a way Gord was glad the bastard would never come to trial. He, Gord, wouldn’t have to face him, day after day. See his ugly mug in the paper, listen to everyone in town talking about the case.
Spend the next forty years fearing the guy would get out on parole and come back to Trafalgar.
Gord lifted bacon out of the frying pan and placed it on paper towels to soak up the grease. “Breakfast,” he called, tossing pancakes onto plates.
“Yeah, pancakes.” Jocelyn bounced into the kitchen, hair trailing behind her, Spot at her heels. Yesterday, she’d clung to her grandmothers and begged them not to leave. Ann and Renee wept, but Ralph had said, in his gruff voice, that they all had lives to lead and he’d be at the other end of a phone anytime Jocelyn needed him.
This morning the girl’s eyes were clear as she pulled a stool up to the breakfast bar. The dog’s nose twitched at the scent of bacon.
“Go and get your brother,” Gord said.
“I’m here,” Bradley said. “That smells great, Dad.”
“Maybe we can go skiing on Saturday,” Gord said to Jocelyn. “Would you like that honeybunch?”
“Yeah. Can I ask Leslie to come with us?”
“If you’d like to.”
Bradley grabbed a slice of bacon off the tray. He broke it in half, tossed one half into his mouth, the other to the dog. “My old equipment should be good for another run. I’ll have a look after school, Dad.”
“That’d be good, son,” Gord replied.
Chapter Forty-six
Lucky Smith delayed going into the store this morning. She lingered at the breakfast table while coffee cooled at her elbow, reading the online newspapers. Another shooting in Trafalgar. It scarcely bore thinking about. Lucky lived here, alone, out in the woods. She owned twenty acres of mostly trees and rocks; the nearest neighbor wasn’t within shouting distance. It had never occurred to her to be the least bit worried, either when the kids were young and Andy might be away, or since he’d died. She didn’t lock the doors most of the time. Her friends knew they could pop in and out whenever they wanted. She’d often arrive home to find a magazine with an article marked or a gift of vegetables from someone’s garden on the table.
Once Moonlight became a police officer she began nagging her mother to lock the doors and take more care. She even suggested motion detector lights and a security system. Lucky put that down to police paranoia, and said she’d think about it.
Last night, she’d put her book to one side and gotten u
p from her comfortable chair by the fireplace in the living room after she received a phone call telling her about the shooting in town.
She locked the doors and instructed Sylvester to be on guard. Sylvester yawned.
Moonlight phoned later, a quick call from the police station, to let her know they’d caught the guy, and were sure he was the one who’d killed Cathy Lindsay.
Lucky breathed a sigh of relief but did not unlock the doors.
A Cold White Sun: A Constable Molly Smith Mystery (Constable Molly Smith Series) Page 31