“She was fine when I left an hour or so ago. Why?”
“I talked to her earlier today. We were both having the same feelings. I just hope she didn’t do anything stupid. Not sure if you noticed, but she sometimes acts on impulse, doesn’t think things through. Good kid, but…”
“We gotta go, Jimmy. Can you get in the Jeep on your own?”
“Sure.”
“Hustle. I gotta get my dog.”
***
With the van still blocking the way out, old man Walker gave me directions for another route back to Cave Creek. A little-used, pitiful excuse for a road that ran from behind the shed and across the mesa, onto a neighbor’s land and back to Cave Creek.
A fence of rough wood posts and barbed wire separated the Walker property from the next.
“Cover your head,” I shouted.
The Jeep plowed through the gate. Posts flew out of the way, wire screeched across the hood of the Wrangler and snapped. A post flew up, fell back and cracked the flat windshield, slid off to the side. The Jeep never slowed down.
The dirt road was better maintained on the neighbor’s side, and I sped up. We still had to cross the arroyo. I drove down into it without slowing down. The water had dropped a few inches. We skipped across mud and plowed into the stream, parting it in two brown waves. We were out the other side, slipping and climbing, then onto the mesa and finally on pavement a moment later.
The Wrangler slid to a stop in front of the Buffalo Hide. I told Jimmy and Solo to stay in the Jeep, ran inside and found the bartender.
“Gimme your phone,” I said. I must’ve been a sight, soaking wet, no shirt, blood on my hands.
He didn’t hesitate.
I punched in Madison’s number. She picked up on the second ring.
“Madison, it’s Quinn. You OK?”
“Of course I’m OK. What’s going on?”
“I found Jimmy. They were going to kill him. He’s fine.”
“What about my dad?”
I hesitated. I was ninety-nine percent sure Joe Mack was dead. I knew who did it. But I also knew who hired him to do it. No way to know how far they’d go.
“Quinn?”
I was just as sure Joe Mack’s body would be partly decomposed by now, likely chewed at by coyotes, pecked at by buzzards. Probably washed down the gully he was dumped in. I didn’t know if he’d be found at all. I didn’t want to tell Madison any of that.
“Quinn?” She was shouting now. I had to say something, and it had to be honest, but most of it needed to be shared in person, not on the phone.
“We’ll need to search the desert after the storm,” I said.
She didn’t say anything.
“Madison, listen. This isn’t over. Jimmy saw Bo, out at your mom’s house, and …”
She clicked off.
I shouted her name. Twice. Goddamn that woman. I dropped the phone and ran to the Jeep.
Chapter 27
It was a fifteen-minute drive from Cave Creek to the Mack’s house in Pleasant. Made it in twelve. Madison’s blue Tesla sat at a screwy angle in the driveway, a hasty park job. The garage door was wide open.
I told Solo to stay in the Jeep—he was breathing normally and the bleeding had stopped. If you didn’t know how badly he was injured, you wouldn’t guess. Jimmy and I ran through the garage, into the house, sprinted down the hall and into the living room.
Joanne Mack and Bo Rollins were sitting at opposite ends of the white couch. Their eyes went saucer wide at the sight of us. Madison stood behind the white club chair, legs shoulder width apart, pistol gripped with both hands. She pointed it briefly our way as we burst in, then trained it back on her mother, then Bo. We stopped ten feet away.
“Don’t,” I said.
“Give me one good reason why not.”
“They didn’t kill your father.”
She glanced at me, a quick look, green eyes cold and fierce.
I took a step forward and stopped. “The man who killed him is dead,” I said.
“Who?”
“Give me the gun, I’ll explain.” I took a step forward, reached a hand out.
“But you said…” She kept the gun trained on her mother. “The divorce. And...”
“No more killing, Madison. You’ll ruin your life.”
“It’s already ruined!” Her grief echoed in the cavernous living room.
“It seems like that now,” I said. “But it’s not.”
“Madison,” Jimmy said. “We can fix all this. I’ll help you. Anything.”
Her shoulders relaxed, just a degree. Her voice now lower. She eyed her mother, adjusted her grip on the pistol, waved it a bit. “They didn’t do it?”
“They didn’t kill anybody.”
Madison shifted her weight. I spoke her name, softly, reached out again for the gun. Slowly she lowered it, held it in one hand at her side. Her eyes got a faraway look. I moved in and with a quick but gentle move took the gun from her, put the safety on, ejected the bullets and put them in my pocket, tucked the gun into my belt at the small of my back. Holding the gun reminded me of chasing down Jess’ killer. The memories flooded back, Jess at the morgue when I had to ID her, one dark hole in her forehead, her killer’s face just before I shot him, all of it. Images that used to fill my mind every day, images that would never leave, but that were faded now, sepia instead of color, torn around the edges. Then Sam took over my thoughts. We’d woken up together this morning for the first time. Unlike the last case, I’d handled this one more on my own. But I needed Sam now.
Madison was crying. I put my memories back in their mental box and put my arms around her.
Solo barked, just once. I hadn’t heard him come in. Hobbling on three legs, he went past us, around the coffee table, got in front of Bo to block any exit he might try to make from the couch, and barked three more times. That was three more than normal. Then he just snarled.
“Let me see your arm, Bo.”
“Fuck you.”
“Dog can finish what he started. I just say so.”
“OK, OK.” Bo put his hands up, ever the tough guy with, in the end, no spine. Solo did that to people. He rolled his left sleeve up, revealing a forearm wrapped from the elbow to wrist.
Solo barked one more time, looked over at me to make sure I heard him.
Joanne bolted from the couch, toward the front door. Jimmy Mendoza could’ve simply stood in her way, maybe grabbed her arm. She wouldn’t have had any chance of getting past him. Instead he wound up and clocked her square in the face. Joanne tumbled into the coffee table and shattered it. Glass flew everywhere and she hit the floor with a thud. Jimmy grabbed his hand, which was almost surely broken.
Madison’s whole body jerked. I held her tighter.
Blood spilled from Joanne’s nose. She blinked, looked over at her daughter, opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed her eyes, laid back and covered her face with both hands.
Solo had stopped snarling. Bo hadn’t moved. Joanne’s shoulders shook—maybe, possibly, a sign of grief, but who knew.
Madison had stopped crying. She lifted her head and searched my face. She looked scared, vulnerable, for the first time. A thin trickle of makeup ran down one cheek. She pushed back, wiped tears with both hands, spoke in a level tone. “You said they didn’t do it.” She didn’t sound angry. Just confused.
“I said they didn’t kill anybody.”
“Who killed my father?”
“Bo and your mother hired a guy, ex-Marine who owed Bo a lot of back rent. Leverage. Probably offered to wipe the debt and maybe kick in some more cash.”
“You lied to me,” she said.
“Technically, I didn’t,” I said. “But yeah, we’re even. And you’re not going to jail.”
Madison stared at me without glaring. She looked at her mother.
“I’m sorry,” I said. What I meant was I understand what it’s like to lose the most important person in your life, and right now it feels like your life is o
ver. But I promise, it’s not. You’ll find a way forward, eventually you’ll have closure, and you’ll be happy again. The weight of sadness will always be with you, but happiness isn’t something that exists in a vacuum. It’s the flip side of sadness, and you need one to know the other. Instead, I just said “I’m sorry” again.
Madison Mack’s face collapsed. Every feature seemed to sink or sag. I knew what she was feeling. Hollowness, nothingness. She would not want to talk or listen right now. She pursed her lips and nodded, understanding, then closed her eyes, let her head sink forward and shook it slowly, either in recognition or disbelief or both.
Chapter 28
Sam Marcos was curled against me, head on my chest, arm over and around me. She was naked. I wanted to be.
“Hey sleepy,” she said.
“What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty.”
“Impossible. I never sleep this late.”
“You had a rough day.”
Sam had met me at the sheriff sub-station, where I was stuck past midnight explaining everything that had happened, or at least what I knew of it. We’d left the Jeep there and she drove me home, got me showered. I don’t even remember crawling into bed.
“You been here all this time?”
“Nope. Been up since six. I ate, went to the paper to help them with this story.”
“You’re not writing it?”
“Zee says I need to lay off writing about your exploits, now that we’re a thing.”
Nick Zee, managing editor of The Arizona Republic. Great guy. “Smart decision.”
“Then I met Beach for a quick coffee at Lulu’s. He says hi and congratulations.”
“But you’re not wearing anything,” I said.
“Not now. I was earlier. I have a plan now that doesn’t call for much attire.”
“Good plan,” I said.
The haze in my head cleared and the warm and comfortable feelings of Sam gave way to thoughts of Clive Walker’s face as I’d rolled him onto his back and left him on the ground, knife stuck in his chest. Madison Mack’s sadness. Her mother’s busted face. Jimmy Mendoza smacking her. Bo Rollins’ utter ineptitude. All the nudity, greed, death.
“Where’s Solo?” I asked.
“Still at the vet. I called and they said he’ll be fine but it’ll take a while. The cut was deep but clean. Hopping out of the Jeep at the Mack’s house wasn’t the smartest thing to do.”
“Solo picks right over smart sometimes.”
“Like someone else I know,” Sam said. “Anyway, you can pick him up this afternoon. He’ll need to be really lazy for a while.”
“Solo’s good at being lazy,” I said.
“Solo’s good at a lot of things.”
I smiled at that. “What else?”
“They found Joe Mack’s body. About a quarter-mile down from where you said.”
I sighed. “Madison know?”
“Beach told her.”
“He’s good at things like that.”
“He is.”
We lay still for a moment. I squeezed Sam’s shoulder. She nuzzled into me.
“I’ve never killed anyone before,” I said.
“You almost did once before,” she said. “On Murder Mountain.”
“But I was able to stop myself.”
“You did what you had to do this time. It was the right thing.”
“Doesn’t make it feel good.”
“But it feels better than if you killed someone for no good reason.”
I nodded.
“It might happen again, Quinn. This is what you do now.”
I nodded.
“And you’re really good at it.”
“I didn’t want to kill him,” I said. “But I’m glad it wasn’t the other way around. I can’t imagine not being here with you. I can’t imagine us not being us.”
I expected Sam to say something. Instead she twirled a finger on my chest.
“Quinn?” She sounded timid. It was something Sam never sounded.
I waited.
“The Times called.”
I closed my eyes, felt my stomach surge into my throat. She waited for me.
“Which Times?”
“You know which one,” she said.
Life is funny. When things are tough, it slogs along in slow motion, a movie with no apparent end. Sadness, strife and stress are life’s favorite bedfellows. Let a little sunshine in, and suddenly life speeds up, a raucous comedy in fast motion that you know won’t last long.
“They want you working remote or in the office?”
Sam breathed in deeply, breathed out long. Of course I knew.
“Nobody better than you,” I said. “It was only a matter of time.”
“I don’t have to go,” she said.
I opened my eyes. She looked up at me. Her finger stopped twirling. I wanted to agree with her. I wanted to come up with a million reasons why she should turn them down.
“You can’t not go,” I said. “It’s what you’ve aimed for your whole career. It’s what you’re best at. It’s what you do. And you do important things, good things. They need you. The world needs you.”
Sam Marcos stared at me with the most amazing brown eyes anyone has ever seen, sad and happy and confused and in love all at once. I took a mental snapshot to hold onto forever.
“We should make love first,” I said.
“You mean now.”
“And later.”
“Good plan.”
5 DAYS TO LANDFALL
COMING NOV. 14, 2016 FROM
ROBERT ROY BRITT
“A vigorous tale in which a violent, inescapable storm terrorizes everyone, even the villains. Perspectives from multiple characters are a worthy setup for an exhilarating final act, with a relentless hurricane and a frighteningly high body count.”
— Kirkus Reviews
“A page-turner … 5 DAYS TO LANDFALL masterfully blends a fictional thriller with science and history.”
— Bestsellerworld.com
This novel, Britt’s first thriller, is based on real hurricane science and the state of technology, politics and preparedness of 1999. The book jacket blurb:
Amanda Cole, the nation’s top hurricane forecaster, understands nature’s biggest storms better than anyone. And this one terrifies her. New York City is completely unprepared.
The year is 1999. History has been largely forgotten. Residents dismiss the risks, and officials have no evacuation plan. Yet the storm long feared by scientists is barreling toward the city. Meanwhile, a mysterious plot is afoot to sabotage the forecast and any last-ditch efforts to evacuate.
With both her daughter and father in the hurricane’s path, Amanda must unravel the mystery while she races ahead of the fast-moving monster to save her family—and all of New York.
5 DAYS TO LANDFALL will be out in paperback and ebook Nov. 14. You can preorder the ebook now or sign up for the author’s newsletter for updates.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Roy Britt is the author of First Kill, Closure and Drone, the first three books in the Eli Quinn detective mystery series, and the short prequel Murder Mountain. His thriller 5 Days to Landfall will publish Nov. 14, 2016. He lives in Arizona with his wife, their youngest son and two dogs. You can visit his website at robertroybritt.com or follow him on Facebook or Twitter. Or sign up for his newsletter.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Writing can be a lonely occupation. But at many stages in the creation and completion of a story, the help and encouragement of others is vital. I’m grateful for the insights and suggestions big and small from my fellow authors at the Internet Writing Workshop: Silvia, Dave, Virginia, Mark P., Mark K., Jennifer, Elaine, Bob, Mairhi, Carmel, Michele, Bill, Francene, Elma, Carolyn, Lee, Brent and others. A huge thanks to my sharp-eyed editor, Lauren Craft, who waded through more than normal on this one and was instrumental in providing direction and polish. And to the most helpful reader of early drafts, S.L.B., I hope the fi
nished story lives up to expectations.
First Kill: An Eli Quinn Mystery Page 11