Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “I talked to Oakes,” Jed said, but his words were torn away by the spinning rotors as the helicopter settled down.

  Grant stayed long enough to greet the investigative support people, then swung his stiff leg over his borrowed horse’s back while the rancher mounted the dead man’s horse. The animals had to be damn cold, too; neither had a winter coat, which meant they at least overnighted in the stable at this time of year. He discovered that his butt was numb, too.

  “Thanks for coming, Mrs. Brown.”

  “Call me Irene,” she said briskly. “I’m responsible for the horses.” After a long silence she asked, “Do you know if he has, well, family? He never brought anyone along when he came out to ride.”

  “I’m told he’s divorced. I…don’t know if he had children.” Or other family? Grant tried to remember. A father had certainly come to games. “Once we locate next-of-kin, I’ll make sure they know about the horse.”

  “Oh, good.”

  Right this minute, Grant had trouble finding ‘good’ in anything about this situation, this day.

  *****

  “Who…talking to?” Cassie’s father asked.

  She had to tell him, didn’t she, since Grant would be here any minute. “Grant…uh, Sheriff Holcomb. I told you that, besides Paul, they found another body today.”

  Dad nodded.

  “This victim is – was – a Fort Halleck police officer. The sheriff called to let me know because—” Damn, she had to tell him this, too, since she intended to write about it in next week’s paper. “The killer left a little plastic bag on the back doorknob of the newspaper office. It had a bloody bullet in it. He was taunting the investigators.”

  Reading her father’s stare was impossible. Was he worried for her? Frustrated because he should have been there to receive the bullet, to write front page articles? Definitely that.

  He gestured awkwardly. “Why…coming?”

  Was his speech worse, or was she just tired?

  “The sheriff? He promised to tell me more.” She braced herself. “Also because he and I have started…seeing each other.”

  Dad choked, and she started forward – until she realized he was laughing. She recoiled, although fortunately he didn’t seem to notice. It was a really unpleasant laugh, something out of a horror film.

  “Sher’ff? You? ”

  Cassie knew scathing when she heard it. Unclenching her jaw, she said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Always hated police.”

  At least, that’s what she thought he said.

  “That’s not true.” Don’t make this a confrontation. “I have concerns about racial profiling and incidents of excessive violence,” she said, hearing how stiff she sounded, “but I believe most law enforcement officers are well-intentioned, and that they do a really difficult job. In fact, I have a good friend in Portland who is a cop. A woman.”

  Dad snorted. Spittle flew.

  The doorbell rang. Cassie had never been so glad of an excuse to leave her father to the TV and the remote he held in a claw-like grip. If a program didn’t interest him, she and the aides were out of luck. Although, come to think of it, that wasn’t any change over her childhood. For as long as she could remember, he’d been controlling and angry. Cassie didn’t have as many memories as she should from before Mom died, one reason as an adult she’d speculated on the chicken and the egg scenario. Had Mom’s depression and eventual suicide changed Dad into the man he now was? Or had it been the other way around? Maybe Cassie’s mother had been a fount of good humor until she married Henry Ward.

  Cassie had also long since realized that asking those questions was useless. And, really, what difference would answers make now?

  In her eagerness, she fumbled with the deadbolt on the front door before she could get it open.

  Grant stood on the doorstep, imposing in jeans, boots and a heavy parka, his hands shoved in his pockets. A few extra lines had been carved into his face today, giving her an idea what he might look like in another decade or two. Didn’t mean he wasn’t as sexy as ever, with his tousled dark hair, long legs and gray eyes.

  “Grant.”

  “Hey.” He stepped in and brushed a kiss over her mouth, his lips cold enough to make her squeak and him smile.

  Hurriedly closing and locking behind him, she nodded toward the living room. “If you don’t mind…”

  “Of course not.” He took off the parka and hooked it on the coat tree. Beneath, he wore a long-sleeve gray T-shirt that fit snugly over his pecs and the powerful muscles in his shoulders and arms. He started past her, and Cassie hoped he hadn’t noticed she’d been transfixed.

  “Dead?” her father said first thing, when he saw Grant.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He rolled his shoulders. “Guy I went to school with. Chad Norman. He was part of my offensive line on the football field.”

  Dad scowled at him. “All three.”

  She was reminded again that the stroke hadn’t impacted his formidable intelligence. He had good reason for taking offense at being treated like a young child, even though his physical limitations made it hard for others to stand back and allow him his dignity.

  Grant kneaded the back of his neck. “Unfortunately, that’s true. I withheld judgement after Curt and Travis were killed. It might have been chance they were the same age and had gone to school locally. Now?” He shook his head.

  Cassie intervened. “Dad, I offered to feed Grant again, so we’ll be in the kitchen.”

  The glower, whether intentional or a product of his twisted face, turned to her, but he nodded.

  They reached the kitchen before Grant said in a low voice, “Does he always look so…”

  There was no polite way for him to finish.

  “Yes.” She stole a glance toward the living room. “He’s not regaining control of his facial muscles the way we’ve all been hoping. It’s possible he can’t help the expression. He’s mad and frustrated, though, so…” Her turn to trail off.

  Grant just reached for her. She gladly went into his arms, holding onto him tightly, feeling raw need in the way he clutched her. For a minute, all he did was press his cheek to her head. She reveled in the heat of his body, the strong, steady beat of his heart, the strength of those arms enclosing her.

  “God, what a day,” he muttered finally, then tipped up her chin and kissed her. She knew immediately that this was different from his other kisses, less urgent, more as if he needed something other than passion from her. She could only hope she gave it to him. She tried to give him everything.

  And wasn’t that an alarming thought.

  When he lifted his head, she was gripped by an intensity in his eyes that wasn’t quite familiar, either. Some impulse had her laying her hand on his angular, clean-shaven cheek. He turned his face into it, kissing her palm, before finally smiling crookedly.

  “I kept thinking about you today,” he said unexpectedly.

  “Me?” she said, startled. Although why? She’d thought, and worried, about him all day, too.

  “Yeah. Things you’ve said. How much I like looking at you, holding you. Worrying about you.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “Yeah, I do.” A nerve below his left eye twitched, and he continued harshly, “I don’t like having this sick fuck even know you exist, never mind thinking he has some warm connection to you. Or that you’re a puppet, dancing from his fingertips?”

  A trickle of ice in her veins made her picture that smiley face sticker on the note. She was glad her hands were still splayed on Grant’s chest.

  “Puppet,” she murmured. “That’s what he thinks.”

  Grant’s dark brows drew together. “I’m…not as sure.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked in alarm.

  He shook his head. “A gut feeling, that’s all.”

  Cassie could tell he didn’t want her to pursue the subject, so reluctantly she backed away and set to warming the leftover homemade baked beans in t
he microwave. As it hummed, she heated a pan on the stove and shaped a big patty of hamburger.

  Her back to Grant, she asked, “Was there anything new this time?”

  “Besides him giving you the bullet, you mean?”

  “Besides that.”

  “Yeah. There was something different.”

  His tone had her turning, shocked by an expression both grim and weary.

  “Cassie, this can’t be for public consumption. I shouldn’t tell you, but you’re part of this now, whether either of us like it or not.”

  She hastily washed and dried her hands. “So…it’s something else that you don’t want me to write about.”

  “Maybe it would be better if I don’t tell you.”

  She huffed. “Now that you’ve said this much, I’d go nuts wondering. Was it the balloon?”

  “No, that was identical. One end of the ribbon tied around a rock.” His eyes never left hers. “This time, he took the shot close up. Handgun.”

  “You mean—”

  “Really close. Unless Norman had dismounted for some reason, they probably met up on horseback. Probably stopped to talk, no more than an arm’s length or two apart. The killer took one hell of a chance, given that Norman is a cop.”

  She frowned. “He could have been armed.”

  “He was armed. His holster was unsnapped, which makes me think he’d started to go for his gun.”

  “How did the killer get out there without anyone at all seeing him?”

  “Rode, but not past the stable where Chad kept his horse. I didn’t see any sign of ATV tracks. It’s a pretty deserted corner of the county, and he could have ridden cross-country from damn near anywhere. We’ll search for witnesses, but I’m betting we don’t find one.” He shook his head. “It may be as well if he didn’t happen to run into someone.”

  Because that someone would be dead, too, like Paul.

  Cassie found it daunting to see Grant so discouraged. It infuriated and scared her, too, because this was exactly what this serial killer – he qualified now, didn’t he? – wanted. To run circles around the cops. Or was it to run circles around Grant? The quarterback who called the plays, the star of that accursed football team?

  She was afraid she knew.

  *****

  The last call-out of Scott’s shift was for a car accident out on Renegade Road. He was still absorbing the news he’d just heard when the rig rumbled to a stop on the shoulder of the road, icy in patches. This stretch was shadowed by a prow-shaped escarpment built of layers of volcanic deposits and thrust up by some violent geologic event. Not much else out here, not even cattle.

  It appeared the sedan had skidded and gone off the road to plummet ten feet to end up tangled in old barbed wire. Scott jumped down from the truck and studied the car below. He couldn’t see the driver or any passengers. Unease crawled up his spine. Who had called this in? What if the car had been stolen and ditched here as bait?

  He turned his head, not liking the view. Except for the road itself, rotting fence posts and rusty, sagging barbed wire, there wasn’t a sign of human occupation as far as he could see. No animals, either, but plenty of places to hide, given the mix of crumbling basalt and sagebrush dotting the mostly flat land beyond the car. A sniper could have climbed the escarpment, too, to have a bird’s eye view and a straight shot.

  What if the call and an abandoned vehicle served no purpose but to get him out here? Not alone, but exposed? Vulnerable.

  “Mathison?” his lieutenant bellowed. “What are you standing there for?”

  Zimmerman was already slithering down the bank, riding the loose cinders. Scott gave himself a shake. As a first responder, he was used to opening himself to potential danger.

  But not as cold and calculated as this might be.

  Zimmerman had already reached the car by the time Scott was halfway down the bank.

  “We’ve got an injured man in here!” the other firefighter called. “Medics on their way? I need blankets. Damn it, he’s trying to move. Get me a C-collar.”

  Relief wasn’t the right thing to feel in this situation, but Scott let go of his skin-crawling awareness of his surroundings. Catching the blanket and then collar, he joined Zimmerman to help warm and immobilize the patient until the EMTs arrived.

  Seeing the slumping airbag and the man whose body was twisted sideways, Scott thought, This wasn’t an ambush. Not today.

  But on his next shift? Or the one after that? And what about all the other guys, who maybe didn’t even know yet about the third murder?

  Not until they were cleaning up after the ambulance pulled away and started toward town with lights flashing did Scott’s thinking coalesce into determination.

  He needed to sleep today…but he’d make calls, too. Do what Holcomb hadn’t yet bothered to do.

  *****

  The first to arrive that evening, Scott pulled out a chair at a table in the back room of his favorite tavern. Damn, he wished he’d had three or four more hours of sleep today. He probably looked as ragged as he felt, although a pretty blonde employee carrying in a tray holding a dozen glasses gave him a saucy smile. He smiled back, but didn’t get a chance to say anything before a bartender he knew set down two pitchers of beer on the long table, one right in front of Scott.

  “That do you?” he asked.

  “For the moment. Thanks.” The blonde, who was new, was hovering, but before he could try anything, voices reached him. “Catch you later,” he told her, and stood to greet the two men who walked in. “Hey! Good to see you, Brian. It’s been a long time. Greg.” He nodded at the other.

  Others followed on their heels. A few brought their wives or girlfriends, a couple of whom he’d known since high school, or even earlier. By six o’clock, thirteen members of the championship football team had arrived. Fourteen, counting him.

  Amidst the initial greetings and conversations, he was struck by what an average looking group of men they were. Rob Fullerton was losing his hair, Greg Mills packing on the pounds – and the new pounds weren’t made of muscle. At six foot two, Scott was the tallest guy here. Most were at least a couple inches under six feet. They’d thought they were such hot shit that year, but they’d have been creamed on the football field if they had played up even one level from their school’s designated 4-A. Juan Estrada…well, kickers and punters were often small. But Justin Addington played even though he couldn’t weigh a hundred and fifty pounds – although he did get hammered. Another small guy, Rick Oberg weighed even less. He at least had been a second stringer. He and Justin and a couple of the other guys should have joined the cross-country team instead.

  And yet we won, he marveled. Ah, their long ago glory.

  Juan and Rick were both here, but Scott hadn’t been able to contact Addington. No one seemed to know where he was these days.

  Shaking his head in bemusement, Scott ordered a couple more pitchers before raising his voice over the din of conversation.

  “Everyone, take a seat.”

  Chairs scraped. A last man walked in wearing jeans, a Stetson and a shearling jacket. Grant Holcomb didn’t look pleased, but he paused to leave the jacket and hat on a hook inside the door before exchanging high fives with several of the guys, accepting some razzing and taking a seat. Scott was no longer the only big man in the room.

  “So, the reason I asked you to come.” He scanned the crowd. Some of these people were friends, a few he would’ve never given another thought to if he hadn’t stayed in town and therefore saw them regularly, and there was one that had been an asshole in high school and hadn’t improved any since. Didn’t matter. “You all know about Curt Steagall and Travis Burke.”

  Nods all around.

  “What you probably haven’t heard is that Chad Norman was shot and killed yesterday.”

  A hubbub arose. “What?”

  “But he’s a cop!”

  “How do you know?”

  “What’s going on?”

  Holcomb leaned back and cro
ssed his arms, drilling Scott with cold gray eyes. He hadn’t poured himself a beer.

  Scott finally said, “I can’t answer most of your questions. I doubt even Grant can. We’re here because any one of us could be next on this sick creep’s kill list. You need to know that so you’ll take precautions.”

  That stirred them up again. The women gasped and clutched their men. Eventually Scott asked Grant to address them.

  Grant slowly rose to his feet. “I’d have given you all a call by tomorrow night.” He looked from face to face. “We haven’t received any written or verbal suggestion that this killer is targeting high school classmates or members of the football team. However, what the victims have in common kind of jumps out at you. Keep in mind, there may be more to it. As you know, Curt and Travis were both ranchers. Chad wasn’t, but he did keep a horse and ride regularly. Curt was a year younger than Chad and Travis. All three stayed in the area after high school and may have developed relationships that we’ve yet to uncover. Right now, Detective Jed Dawson and I are looking to talk to all of you and any other teammates. We’ll also be sitting down with other folks who were at the high school at the same time as the victims. Once Scott—” his eyebrow flick appeared ironic “—has completed his agenda, I’d appreciate it if each of you stop and speak to me for a minute.” He tipped his head at Scott and started to resume his seat.

  “Why haven’t we already heard about Chad’s murder?” Rob Fullerton demanded belligerently.

  “We did not discover his body until late afternoon yesterday. As you can imagine, it was a long night. I admit, getting the news on the radio wasn’t high on my list of priorities. Doing a thorough, careful and respectful job of recovering Officer Norman’s body and scouring the crime scene was more important.”

  Whether the rest of them knew it or not, this was the sheriff now speaking, not the Grant Holcomb they’d once known. Though he was still the quarterback, in a manner of speaking.

  “What kind of precautions are we supposed to take?” someone else asked. Scott didn’t turn his head quick enough to be sure who that was.