by Joseph Flynn
Ron paused to let Braddock respond, but the man remained silent.
“You killed a wonderful man in Isaac Cardwell but you couldn’t bring yourself to drive nails into a healthy tree. Or maybe it was just that instinct you have for making a visual statement. Either way, it put me on your trail.
“I found out you arrived in town after Jimmy Thunder did. You followed him here. I talked to Thunder’s next-door neighbor. You solicited their business, then let Jimmy see the wonders you worked for them. So he came to you. That was a very nice touch. The murder weapon you threw off the Tightrope is in a crime lab in Sacramento right now. It won’t surprise me at all to hear it has your fingerprints and tissue samples from Isaac Cardwell’s head on it. You never thought anyone would find it. Today I found a videotape of you buying the kind of nails used in the crime. Finally, tonight, I received a phone call from someone who identified you as Roger Braddock’s father.”
Now, Ron heard a sob come from the darkened house.
“I think you better come out now, Mr. Braddock,” the chief said.
Arthur Gilbert Braddock didn’t come out, though. He started shooting. He missed Ron, but he got him moving. That tripped the motion detectors and turned on the floodlights. The chief was an easy target now, even as he dove for cover behind a neatly clipped row of hedges.
Ron wasn’t the only one whose position was exposed. The beams from half a dozen police searchlights inundated the Gilbert house in a glaring wash of light. The white haired man stood revealed, tears running down a face twisted in despair and agony. He continued to fire a semi-automatic handgun until he ran out of rounds — but every shot was directed into the floor of the porch on which he stood.
The officers of the Goldstrike PD held their fire. Their orders were to shoot only if they were taking fire or an officer went down. Seeing that their chief was unhurt, they showed flawless restraint, not firing a round.
There wasn’t an officer among them who could have fired on Art Gilbert.
None of them believed in assisted suicide.
When his gun was empty, Gilbert ducked back into the house.
Ron ran after him. He wanted to take the man alive. Sergeant Stanley and several more officers were on the chief’s heels. Every cop had his weapon drawn. They crossed the porch and entered the house through the kitchen.
A light went on in a room just ahead. There was a scramble of grunting bodies as the cops pressed themselves against walls and ducked behind kitchen cabinets and appliances. There was no telling when somebody who wanted to end it all might change his mind, get mad, and decide to take someone else with him. But no shots were fired. Respiration and heart rates slowly fell back into normal ranges. Sweat cooled and trigger fingers relaxed marginally.
Ron poked his head around the corner.
Gilbert sat in a wing chair next to a fireplace. He had a gun in his lap. Not the semi-auto he’d had on the porch, but a revolver. Presumably loaded. Ron gestured to his people to stay back, and then walked into the room. He took a seat opposite Gilbert.
Arthur Gilbert Braddock pointed his weapon directly at Ron’s head.
Ron had his own weapon in his hand, but didn’t respond — and he prayed that nobody would open fire from the kitchen.
“You’re just not going to shoot me, are you?” Art Gilbert asked.
Ron shook his head and said, “I’ve already killed one man. I hope to God there won’t be a second.”
Gilbert nodded, and pointed his gun at his own head.
“Have to do it myself, then.”
Ron made no move to stop him, but for his own peace of mind he asked, “Why did you kill Isaac Cardwell instead of Jimmy Thunder?”
Gilbert blinked several times. Tears fell from his eyes, which he brushed away with the back of his gun hand. He let the hand fall to his lap. Ron didn’t take this as a weakening of suicidal resolve. The man could still shoot himself or Ron, for that matter, in a heartbeat.
“That was my original intention,” Gilbert said. “From the very moment I heard what happened to Roger, I had it in mind to kill Jimmy Leverette. Jimmy Thunder. To kill the bastard who murdered my beautiful boy. I never said a word about what I wanted to do. Never went to Thunder’s trial. Never spoke to the press. Didn’t even say a word to my wife … but she knew. Eventually, it cost me my marriage.
“When Thunder was in prison, I made one allowance in my thinking. If someone else killed him in there, I’d be satisfied. Every day he was behind bars I prayed that somebody would knife him. But I guess there are some prayers God just won’t answer.
“I left home when we got the word that he was getting out. My wife begged me not to go, and when I did, that was the end for us. She was the one who put together that tape of how wonderful Roger had been. She thought if she could bring shame and public condemnation down on our boy’s killer that would be enough for me.
“What it did, though, was open all my old wounds, break my heart all over again, make me hate that bastard worse than ever. The other thing it did, of course, was to create Jimmy Thunder. The reaction to my boy’s death was to make his killer rich and famous. There was no way I was going to let that go unavenged. Not if it took me ‘til my dying day to get even.
“But it’s a lot harder to get close to a man who’s rich and famous. There’s always a pack of hangers-on around him. And to do it in a way where you have any chance of … of not going to prison yourself, that’s more trouble still. But I had faith. God might have let me down, but I wasn’t going to let Roger down. I knew somehow or other I’d get close to Reverend Thunder, and it took me the better part of five years to work everything out, but I did it.”
“Then why didn’t you kill him instead of his son?” Ron wanted to know.
“That’s the funny part,” Gilbert answered. “See, after I got close enough to the man to start making serious plans, I saw just how pathetic he was. What he called his ministry was just a sham. A scam, as you cops like to call it. And folks were starting to catch on. There weren’t as many buses coming to his TV studio as there once were. Him and that Deacon character, I heard them talking more than once about losing everything.
“Then that other fella showed up, and I heard him talking to Thunder about money-laundering. So I knew the man I hated was about to go broke or go crooked. If it was crooked, I figured I’d hear something soon enough to pass on to the police, and I could be the one to send him back to prison. Either way, broke or back behind bars, the bastard would be ruined and, to my great surprise, I decided that was enough for me. Then I could go home and try to make peace with my wife.”
A pained, almost wistful look flitted through Gilbert’s eyes, as he thought of what might have been. But it was soon replaced with an expression of renewed hatred and deep anger.
“Then that Isaac Cardwell had to show up out of the blue,” Gilbert said harshly. “I hadn’t even known Thunder had a son. But there he was, talking to his daddy in the garden I designed, and his boy was starting to convince Thunder that he had a true gift, a real calling, what could be the beginning of an honest ministry. All he had to do was give up the big house, the whores, and the scammed money. Do that, Cardwell said, and Thunder could save his own soul and a lot of others.
“Of course, that idea didn’t go down easy. The boy was asking a tiger to change his stripes, giving up all his high living. Then there was that money-laundering fella to think about, too. He didn’t seem the sort to take kindly to somebody backing out of a deal with him. But Cardwell kept after his daddy right up to the night he kicked him out of his house.”
Art Gilbert fell silent and his eyes went to the gun he held in his lap.
“But you knew Isaac Cardwell would ultimately succeed, didn’t you?” Ron asked.
Gilbert nodded. “Felt it in my bones. Knew it before the reverend did. That boy was going to banish Jimmy Thunder and redeem Jimmy Leverette. And that was the one thing I just could not allow to happen. There could be no redemption for my Roger’s k
iller. There could be only pain and misery. Just like mine.
“That was when the idea hit me. A son for a son. Let Thunder know just how I’ve felt all these years. What could be better? So the night Thunder threw his boy out, I followed him to St. Mark’s. I watched him a while from the back of the church, and when he came out I waylaid him.”
Gilbert gave a short, dry laugh and shook his head.
“You were right about instinct. I never thought about nailing him to a dead tree. It’s just that I’d seen the thing so many times driving past it, it must have stuck in my mind. Suggested itself as just the place for what I wanted to do.”
“But why crucify Cardwell?” Ron wanted to know.
This time Gilbert’s laughter was bitter.
“He wanted to redeem his father? That’s how you die to take away people’s sins.”
Ron nodded. Then he asked, “Who’s going to forgive yours?”
The look on Gilbert’s face showed he’d considered the question himself — and hadn’t arrived at an answer.
The chief continued, “You want to kill yourself, go ahead. But you’ll be closing the book on your own story. And what you’ve done to Isaac Cardwell will probably eclipse what Jimmy Thunder did to your son. Maybe it’ll even let Thunder have the last word on the matter. On the other hand, if you stick around, you get to tell your side to the public. Torment Jimmy Thunder for years. And as screwed up as our courts are, who knows what your ultimate sentence will be?”
Arthur Gilbert Braddock needed less than a minute to consider his alternatives. A grim smile formed on his face. He carefully handed his gun to Ron.
Gilbert was informed of his Miranda rights and taken to police headquarters. He was placed in a cell with a suicide watch, in case he had second thoughts about what he wanted to do with the remainder of his life. The Alta County D.A.’s office was informed of the arrest. They were pleased to hear about the arrest, but concerned that Ron had let Gilbert spill his guts before he’d been Mirandized. Ron pointed out that Gilbert hadn’t been placed under arrest at the time he’d confessed … but sorting out the legalities was up to the lawyers now.
Ron, meanwhile, had a call to make. He picked up his phone and tapped out Jimmy Thunder’s number. The man answered the call himself. Ron told him, “We have your son’s killer. Why don’t you come talk to me … and leave Marcus Martin at home.”
The reverend arrived fifteen minutes later, looking even worse than the last time the chief had seen him. But he took his seat and came straight to the point.
“Who killed my son?”
“Art Gilbert.” When Ron saw the look of complete bafflement — Thunder really hadn’t known who he’d let inside his gate these past two years — he elaborated. “Arthur Gilbert Braddock.”
Recognition was immediate. The circle was closed. What Jimmy Leverette had begun in a hotel bar in Dallas had ended on a mountainside in California. The man seemed to wither in his chair. Tears formed at the corners of Jimmy Thunder’s reddened eyes, and for a moment it seemed to Ron as if he were crying blood.
The reverend hung his head. In a voice almost too soft for Ron to hear, he confessed, “I saw Isaac nailed to that tree. I must have been the first one to see him. After I kicked him out, after I called off my card game early, I went out looking for him. I wanted to ask him to forgive me. To tell him he was right, and I was wrong. To tell him I wasn’t strong enough to do what he wanted of me. To say I was sorry for sending him away.
“When I found him on that tree, I knew God was punishing me. I got out of my car and fell down to my knees and wept. I begged for God’s forgiveness … but I was sure even Jesus couldn’t forgive me. I got back in my car and drove away as fast as I could, as if I could run from my sins.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Ron wanted to know.
Jimmy Thunder looked up. “I was afraid. Afraid that I’d be blamed for killing Isaac. I knew that Mahalia Cardwell would make sure of that.”
Ron couldn’t argue with that assessment.
“And … I thought if I was blamed the real killer would get away. I didn’t want that.” Jimmy Thunder raised his hands in front of him and formed them into fists. “I wanted vengeance. I wanted to lay my hands on my son’s killer and choke the life out of him. My son had come to save me. To warn me about Colin Ring, who thought Isaac would spy for him. But he didn’t. He tried to show me the way to salvation. He persuaded me to abandon the idea of profaning my ministry by using it as a shell for Didi DuPree’s schemes. He did this even though he knew I’d beaten his mother and abandoned him as an infant.”
“He believed in his calling,” Ron replied quietly.
Thunder nodded, tears sliding off his chin.
“That’s just what I have to do now. Follow the path my boy marked out for me. Be the man Isaac urged me to be, prayed for me to be. I’m going to start a new ministry. One that renounces the tithings of Caesar and offers praise to God.”
Meaning Art Gilbert helped to bring about just what he’d feared most, Ron thought. The salvation of Jimmy Thunder.
Then Thunder surprised Ron and made it indelibly clear that the reverend was sincere in his new mission.
Jimmy Thunder told him, “And to honor the spirit of forgiveness and love that Isaac showed me, I’m going to start my ministry by pleading for clemency for his killer. Art Gilbert. The man whose life I ruined.”
Chapter 54
Friday
The next morning, Ron drove out to Clay Steadman’s house to pick up Mahalia Cardwell and take her to the bus depot for the trip back to Oakland. The mayor had already bid the old woman farewell, and he had left for Los Angeles to begin pre-production on his next movie. When Ron arrived at the house, Clay’s houseman escorted the chief to the bedroom where Mahalia Cardwell was finishing her packing.
Despite the arrest of her grandson’s killer, she was not in the same forgiving mood her former son-in-law had been. On the contrary, she was more angry and bitter than ever.
“Mountain lion’s dead, Mrs. Cardwell,” Ron told her. “You think that means God knows we got the right man for Isaac’s murder?”
“I’m not talking to you,” the old woman said.
That was okay with the chief. He didn’t want her to talk, only listen.
“I read Colin Ring’s manuscript and notes. That let me know just how consumed by hatred you really are. You wanted Jimmy Thunder to be the killer so badly it must be eating you up inside. For what you thought he did to Isaac, and what you know he did to your daughter. And when you told me you thought I was the right man for the job, you were just hoping that a white bigot like me would simply kill him somehow, if I couldn’t get him any other way.”
“That’s exactly right, Mr. Chief of Police,” the old woman said acidly. “You’re a real disappointment to me.”
Ron gently elbowed Mahalia Cardwell away from her packing, and started poking through her belongings.
The old woman shrieked, “Hey, you stop that! You can’t take my things!”
“Just helping lighten your load, Mrs. Cardwell.”
The chief pulled a semi-automatic handgun from the case. He looked at the pistol’s make. “A Webley,” he said. “British. Now, where would you get something like this?”
Mahalia Cardwell had nothing to say.
“Ring’s notes say he bestowed a ‘measure of protection’ on you before Mayor Steadman took you into his home. Just in case someone confronted you personally about the curse you laid on the town. Of course, you could have used this gun, too, if you felt a certain rich black man was beyond the reach of justice. My deputy chief thought Ring was looking for a big ending to his book, and he was right. Having you kill Jimmy Thunder certainly would have filled the bill. But Colin Ring is dead now, Mrs. Cardwell. And all of Jimmy Thunder’s dirty laundry has been hung out in public. He’s using his son’s memory to try to become a better person. Why don’t you see if you can put your hurt behind you, and try to do the same?”
&
nbsp; As before, Mahalia Cardwell had nothing to say to Ron Ketchum.
The media mob filed their stories about the arrest of Arthur Gilbert Braddock and the shooting of the lion. Braddock and his relentless quest for vengeance, and now Jimmy Thunder’s amazing plea for leniency for him became the focus of the lead story. Warden Cordelia Knox’s heroic shooting of the mountain lion became the focus of the other story.
Chief of Police Ronald Ketchum was mentioned in both stories, but he was given no particular credit for the happy outcomes in either case.
Rumor had it that Ben Dexter was planning a special on FBI Special Agent Francis Horgan’s relentless pursuit of racist church arsonists.
And a manila envelope arrived from the Berkeley Library. The harried librarian, in the conscientious fashion of her profession, had come through for Ron. Included among the material she’d sent was a photocopy of an article from Sports Illustrated on the death of Roger Braddock. Included in the story was a photo of the graveside service. Captured in the photo — and named in the caption — was the victim’s father, Arthur Gilbert Braddock.
The man had gone to great lengths to avoid the media, but they’d nailed him anyway. And Isaac Cardwell had seen his picture seventeen years later.
The horde of reporters cleared out shortly before the Labor Day tourist crowds arrived.
Corrie Knox finally caught up with Ron in the gym at the rec center. He’d just drilled his ninety-fifth free throw in a row when she walked in. She wasn’t wearing her new gym shoes.
“Just wanted to see you before I have to go,” she told Ron.
“You have to leave right away?”
“Have to get that mountain lion to the lab for the necropsy. See if there was any biological reason for why it acted the way it did. I thought we might have had time for a bite to eat, but I had to keep answering questions for the media.”