by Sandra Brown
Laura hesitated, then said, “I was conflicted. And because I was, I would never have allowed myself to see him again.”
Ellie nodded, understanding.
“I would have stayed with my husband forever,” Laura continued. “Rearing the child as his, exactly as he wanted.”
“So what made it all go south?” Coach asked. “Let me guess. Griff.”
“Actually, Foster. I blame myself for not seeing how severe his OCD had become. I think I didn’t want to see it. Anyway, it, coupled with the accident, had changed him. He was no longer the Foster I fell in love with. I hoped a baby would bring that Foster back.
“In any case, I was committed to our marriage and our life together. If he hadn’t attempted to kill Griff, I would be with him tonight. And Griff wouldn’t be a fugitive.” She divided a look between them. “I swear everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
She had no doubt that Ellie believed her. Coach was gnawing the inside of his cheek, apparently unconvinced. Suddenly he turned and picked up the telephone.
“Joe, didn’t you hear a single word she’s said?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ears, Ellie.”
“Then how can you—”
“Because I know Griff,” he said. “He’s always looked out for number one. He’s never given a damn about anyone except himself. You, me, his teammates. Nobody.”
“You’re wrong,” Laura said.
“He may have been a little selfish before,” Ellie said. “But he’s different now. I saw the change in him when he was here. And if you weren’t so damn stubborn, Joe Miller, you’d—”
“Mr. Miller, please,” Laura said. “You’ll regret—”
“I’m calling the police.” He shouted it over their chorused protests, slicing his hand through the air. “Now that’s all there is to it.”
There wasn’t much traffic to slow Griff down. Rush hour at its heaviest was a couple hours away. He made good time to the Itasca exit. The town still slumbered, but he crawled through it, heeding speed limit signs, not wanting to get stopped now.
It wasn’t difficult to find Lavaca Road. He continued along it until it turned into FM 2010, a narrow, rutted road that seemed to have been traveled so infrequently as to have become completely overlooked.
After a couple miles, he began to fear that he and Laura had been wrong. But then he spotted a dilapidated farmhouse and barn, showing up as smudged shadows against a sky just turning pastel with the rising sun. But he knew he had the right place.
Rodarte’s car was parked in front.
Griff slowed and turned in to the gravel driveway, spotting them instantly—two dark figures silhouetted against the glow in the eastern horizon. He rolled to a stop, turned off the engine, and opened the car door. The early morning atmosphere was soft and silent, deceptively benign.
Keeping the two men in sight, he reached into the duffel bag and took out the policeman’s pistol. Impersonating a deliveryman, incapacitating the cops, his and Laura’s madcap escape from the estate, all seemed a long time ago. Those recollections were blurred.
But vivid in his memory was the look on her face when she realized that the baby was lost.
If…if…if…
There were so many of them, he didn’t even know where to begin regretting.
But one big if remained: if he didn’t live through this, he hoped Laura knew that he loved her. Bad timing or not, he wished he’d said it when he’d had the chance.
He stuffed the pistol into the back waistband of the navy blue work pants he was still wearing. When he got out, he left the car door open, just in case he had to make a quick getaway. He walked along the exterior wall of the house toward the rear, realizing what a large and easy target his white T-shirt made against the faded clapboard. Rodarte and Manuelo Ruiz stood as still as scarecrows in the fallow field.
But then Rodarte raised his arm and waved. “Hiya, Griff.”
Griff disliked guns. Didn’t know much about them. Knew even less about police-issue pistols. But as he crossed the littered yard and walked toward the other two men, he was comforted by the weight of the pistol at the small of his back.
He had to step over a barbed-wire fence that had been knocked down. Dirt clods and fossilized tractor tracks made the ground uneven. But he didn’t look down. He kept his gaze fixed on Rodarte. When he got close enough to make out the detective’s features, Griff saw that he was smiling with amusement as he held his pistol aimed at Manuelo.
The tableau confirmed what Griff had feared—Rodarte didn’t plan to use Manuelo Ruiz as an eyewitness. Even if Griff allayed Manuelo’s fear and persuaded him to return to Dallas and tell the truth about Foster Speakman’s accidental death, Rodarte would never permit it. Because Rodarte didn’t want Griff to be exonerated. He didn’t even want him locked away for good. He wanted him dead.
And now Griff understood why. He knew why Rodarte had been waiting for him outside Big Spring FCI. He understood why he’d been tailing him and monitoring his every move since his release. He’d thought Rodarte was trying to scare him into making either a mistake or a confession. Fact was, Rodarte was scared of him.
The ground at Rodarte’s feet was littered with cigarette butts. At Manuelo’s feet lay a shovel. Behind him were a mound of freshly turned dirt and a wide hole. The implication sickened Griff. The bastard had made the Salvadoran dig his own grave while he stood there, smoking and smiling.
Probably, Griff thought, he and Manuelo would share the grave.
Manuelo stood as still as a statue carved of teak. His eyes were as hard and impenetrable as polished stones. Griff couldn’t tell if he was afraid, resigned, or waiting for an opportunity to pounce. He had no idea what his arrival would signify to the Salvadoran. He wished he had the Spanish-language skills to tell him that Rodarte was their common enemy, not each other.
“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Rodarte said when Griff halted about ten yards away from him.
“You were expecting me?”
“Hoping. What kept you? Bet I know.” He winked. “The widow’s hot snatch. Hope you got a piece of it, ’cause it’ll be your last.” Leer still in place, he said pleasantly, “Hand over the pistol.”
“Pistol?”
“You want a knee blown out?”
“You can’t aim at both of us at the same time. If you take your gun off Manuelo, he’ll be on you before you can blink.”
“Okay. What say I shoot him first, then blow your knee out just for giving me lip?”
Griff reached behind his back.
“Easy.”
With exaggerated slowness, Griff pulled the pistol from his waistband. He could kill Rodarte without remorse. Marcia was reason enough, not to mention the rest of it. But even with a fatal wound, Rodarte might have time to get off one shot. Griff couldn’t risk Manuelo dying. He still needed the aide’s testimony about Speakman. He held the pistol far out to his side.
“Toss it over.”
Griff did as told. The pistol landed among the butts at Rodarte’s feet. “Thanks. Now we can all relax.”
Nodding in Manuelo’s direction, Griff said, “Let him go.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“He’ll head straight for El Salvador. You’ll never see him again.”
“Probably. But why should I lose sleep over it? He might develop a guilty conscience about running out on you.”
“So you know he killed Speakman?”
“Must have, or you wouldn’t have told me where he was at.”
“I realized that mistake too late.”
“Lost your famous timing, Number Ten?” The detective formed a sad face. “Gee, that’s too bad. And just when you needed it most.”
“Let him go. Your quarrel is with me, not him.”
Rodarte chuckled. “Well, you’ve got that right.”
“You want me to go down.”
“What gave me away?”
“You want me to go down for Bill Ba
ndy. But not because you think I killed him. You know I didn’t.”
Rodarte grinned. “You’re getting warmer.”
“You know I didn’t because you did.”
“And they call jocks dumb.” He snorted. “Of course, it did take you five years to figure it out.”
“The Vista boys hired you to muzzle him permanently.”
“It was sort of an audition. There was word going around that Bandy’s days were numbered. The Vista trio were afraid he was going to turn them over like he did you. I’d been wanting to do some moonlighting for them, but they’re a tight little clique. It’s hard to win their trust.”
“So you seized an opportunity.”
“I offered my services.”
“Thinking that if you rid them of Bandy, they’d welcome you into their fold and put you on their payroll.”
Rodarte beamed his ugly smile. “Who better to help out with problems like Bandy than a homicide detective who can steer murder investigations in the wrong direction?” He began to laugh, deep inside his chest, then out loud. “It was a great plan, and then it got even better. Swear to God, Burkett, when you showed up at Bandy’s place, I nearly pissed my pants. I couldn’t have planned it any better.”
“You were there when I arrived.”
“In the back room. Before I snapped his neck, he swore up and down he didn’t have a secret stash, but have you ever known a bookie who didn’t lie? If I returned some skimmed funds to Vista in addition to getting rid of Bandy, think how pleased they’d be.
“So I was back there tossing the place when I heard the door. You came barging in like a bull elephant with a grudge to settle. When I realized it was you, I could barely contain a fit of the giggles. While you were woe-is-me-ing over Bandy’s body, I sneaked out back.”
“And called in an anonymous nine-one-one.”
“At a pay phone around the corner. Soon as it went out over dispatch, I radioed in, said I was in the neighborhood, volunteered to check out the alleged homicide.” He grinned. “You know the rest.”
“You had a golden opportunity to kill me, too. Why didn’t you?”
“I was afraid to, afraid that would piss off the Vista boys. I thought they might have special plans for you, and it wouldn’t sit too well if I robbed them of the pleasure. In hindsight, I should have taken you out.”
“Those five years were awfully long for me, but they must have been torture for you,” Griff said. “As long as I was alive, you were vulnerable. You’ve been scared shitless I would figure it out. That’s why you’ve been hassling me, pretending you were acting on behalf of Vista, knowing all along I hadn’t stolen from Bandy. You didn’t find anything in his back room, did you?”
Rodarte shrugged. “Maybe he wasn’t lying after all.”
“You’re still not in Vista’s fold. Apparently they weren’t impressed.”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re hoping that killing me now will win their approval.”
“It can’t hurt. They don’t like you.”
“They like you even less.”
“We’ll see.” He laughed abruptly. “You know what’s really funny? I didn’t even have to bring about your downfall. You did that all by yourself. Fucking a paraplegic’s wife. That’s low, Burkett. Even for the likes of you. The only thing,” he said, pulling his face into a pucker of concentration. “What was that half mil for? Was he trying to buy you off?”
Griff just stood, glaring at him.
“Not going to tell me? Okay. Doesn’t matter anyway.” He leaned forward and casually picked the pistol off the ground, then turned and fired a bullet directly into Manuelo’s chest.
Without a sound, the Salvadoran fell backward into the makeshift grave.
CHAPTER
38
GRIFF GAVE A STRANGLED CRY AND LURCHED FORWARD. “You killed him!”
“Not me, Burkett. You.” Rodarte pitched the pistol toward the open grave, where it landed in the dirt. “You ran the man down. By the way, remind me to ask Mrs. Speakman how you learned about this place. Anyway, you ran Ruiz down here, forced him to dig his own grave, then, using the weapon of a policeman you assaulted, you shot Ruiz in cold blood so he couldn’t testify against you at Foster Speakman’s murder trial.”
Griff was still staring at the empty spot where Manuelo had been standing seconds before. He looked at the pistol, much too far away to retrieve. His gaze coming back to Rodarte, he held up his clean hands. “They’ll know I didn’t fire the pistol.”
“Oh, you will. After you’re dead. Don’t worry. I’ll set it up to look convincing.”
“Laura knows the truth.”
Rodarte winked. “I have ways that’ll convince her otherwise.”
Forgetting every rule of self-preservation, Griff lunged.
Rodarte reacted, getting off two shots before Griff grabbed the wrist of his gun hand and wrenched it. Rodarte screamed in pain and dropped the pistol.
Payback time, Griff thought as he slugged Rodarte hard in the mouth. He swung his left fist at the detective’s cheekbone and felt the skin split. But his satisfaction was short-lived because of the pain in his left shoulder, like a branding iron being gouged deep into the flesh. Only then did he realize that he’d been struck by one of Rodarte’s bullets. However, the pain only fueled his rage. He struck mercilessly.
Rodarte fought back with a vengeance. He landed a punch in Griff’s gut, and when Griff staggered back, Rodarte sidestepped and threw another at his kidney. The angle wasn’t good, so the blow didn’t have full impact, but it was enough to cause Griff’s knees to buckle.
He caught himself before he fell and, acting reflexively, kicked backward, connecting solidly with Rodarte’s shinbone. That slowed the detective down long enough for Griff to come around to face him again and catch a fist in his ribs rather than his kidney.
They hammered at each other until Griff lost all sense of time and place, till his hands hurt almost more than the bullet wound, more than any other bleeding part of him. Rodarte’s mouth was a ghoulish maw, from which he continually spat blood. His eyes were crazed with hatred. And Griff knew that Rodarte would fight till one of them was dead.
Not long ago, he would have thought, Fine. I’ll kill the bastard, or he’ll kill me, and either way it won’t matter much. But now he wanted to live. He wanted to live for a long time, and with Laura. That hope kept him fighting even after the fight had gone out of him and every effort was tremendous.
The sweetest sound he’d ever heard was the wail of sirens. They were coming from far away but rapidly approaching. While they were a relief to Griff, they seemed to madden Rodarte and renew his flagging strength and determination.
He bared his blood-covered teeth and charged. Griff feinted left, then right. Rodarte plunged forward headlong, tripped over a deep rut made by a tractor tire, and fell facefirst into a nest of coiled barbed wire.
He shrieked like a banshee, but later Griff wondered if it was from the pain caused by the vicious barbs, or from fury over being defeated.
Griff stood watching as Rodarte struggled to free himself, but his frantic attempts to escape the wire only increased its hold on him. The barbs became embedded in his clothing, his flesh.
The sirens were closer now. Griff shouted down at Rodarte. “Stop fighting it! It’s over!”
“Fuck you!”
Miraculously, the detective managed to roll onto his back, but he was wrapped in wire. Strands of it were stretched taut across his face, the barbs digging deeply into his contorted features. Still his arms and legs thrashed. He managed to get a knee up, although his shoe was trapped in a snare of wire.
“Give it up, Rodarte,” Griff gasped as he wiped his bleeding nose. “For God’s sake.”
The sirens couldn’t have been more than half a mile away. Griff scanned the road for the approaching police cars. Across the flat, fallow fields, he saw the flash of colored lights. One minute, two at the outside and—
“Kiss your ass
good-bye, Number Ten.”
Rodarte was aiming a small pistol up at him; only now Griff could see the ankle holster beneath his pants leg. The detective was bleeding from countless puncture wounds, but he seemed unaware of them. The hand holding the pistol was scraped and bleeding. But the finger around the trigger was steady, and so was his aim. The wire across his face made his ugliness even more grotesque. Although it had pinned down one side of his mouth, he still managed a distorted smile.
Griff registered all this in a millisecond. He knew this was his last heartbeat. His final thought was of Laura.
And then Rodarte’s smile went slack. He gave a short cry at the same instant Griff was knocked to the ground. Manuelo Ruiz was a blur moving past him, and so was the edge of the shovel as it arced down from high above the Salvadoran’s head directly into Rodarte’s cranium, cleaving it in two.
After talking almost nonstop for an hour, Griff settled tiredly against the hospital pillow and stared at the acoustical ceiling tiles. His new lawyer, who’d come recommended by Glen Hunnicutt, spoke from across the room. “Gentlemen, my client has answered all your questions. I suggest you leave now and let him get some rest.”
The two Dallas detectives ignored the lawyer and remained where they were. Griff supposed they were waiting to see if he had anything to add. One of them was gray haired, taciturn, and weary looking, a veteran. The other was younger than Griff. More aggressive and edgy than his partner, he’d done most of the talking.
Griff couldn’t remember their names. He wasn’t real sure about the attorney’s. Hunnicutt had made arrangements with him while Griff was still in surgery to repair the bullet wound in his shoulder, which had been nasty and painful but not too damaging, certainly not life threatening.
After a lengthy silence, he asked, “Is Ruiz gonna make it?”
“Seems so,” the younger detective replied. “He’s a tough customer, I’ll say that for him.”
“He is that.” Griff could remember how it had felt having the life squeezed out of him. “He won’t be charged for killing Rodarte, will he?”