No Show

by Simon Wood

  Jake had Oscar’s club and was about to return the favor Oscar had dealt him. Oscar cowered, covering his head with his hands.

  Terry snatched Holman’s gun, just as the sheriff’s blood threatened to soak it. His grasp was clumsy. He’d never handled or fired a weapon before, but his instincts took over. Terry aimed and squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet halted Jake, freezing him in the moment. His arms were outstretched with the club over his shoulder, but he wasn’t moving. He didn’t deliver Oscar the fatal blow and he never would. For a long moment, he managed one thing and only one thing. He bled.

  Terry kept Holman’s gun aimed.

  Slowly, Jake turned. He tottered toward Terry, threatening him with the club.

  Terry fired again. And again.

  Jake absorbed each bullet, but three was his limit. He crumpled and struck the ground only inches from his slain father. He stared at his father and mumbled something. He clawed at the ground, sucking in an untidy lungful of air, but for all his tremendous efforts, he covered precious little ground. Jake came to a halt at his father’s feet, their spilled blood colliding.

  Terry wasn’t satisfied and never would be while Jake Holman still had the strength to breathe. He stood over the dying man. Jake looked up and managed a smile. Terry fired the gun and kept on firing until it dry-retched with every squeeze of the trigger. He wanted to make sure all six rounds stopped Jake, one round for each of his victims. And even then, he didn’t stop firing until Oscar grabbed the revolver.

  In a quiet voice he said, “It’s over.”

  Terry stared at Oscar. Oscar’s complexion was ghost white. Terry nodded and let his friend take the gun.

  Oscar took the revolver from Terry and dropped it, wincing. His dislocated thumb hung slack against his hand. Terry saw how his friend had escaped the handcuffs. With a sharp tug, Oscar snapped his thumb back into position.

  “Sometimes a disability isn’t always a disability,” he said, shaking the cuffs dangling from his other wrist.

  “She’s dead, Oscar.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, buddy.”

  Terry glanced over at Sarah. “I hope she isn’t disappointed in me.”

  Oscar rested a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How could she be? She loves you.”

  In the distance, sirens wailed, and Oscar held Terry as he cried for his dead wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The blue golf ball rolled in a shallow arc, catching the downward slope just right. The ball completed its thirty-foot journey, missing the bumpers guarding the hole, and dropped into the tin cup.

  “You jammy git,” Oscar announced.

  In the three weeks since Sarah’s murder, Oscar had rarely been out of Terry’s company. He had made sure Terry hadn’t been allowed to dwell on Sarah’s death too much. He’d also helped out with the police and the funeral arrangements. But in that time, he’d picked up a lot of English slang. The words sounded fine coming out of an English mouth, but when an American said the same words, they sounded comical, even juvenile. Terry wondered if he sounded as ridiculous.

  “Only you can turn a crappy first shot into gold.”

  Terry shrugged. He wasn’t enjoying the game. It was just something to do—something to take his mind off Sarah. Every moment he had alone, he replayed the events leading up to her death and how he could have prevented what happened. He still hadn’t accepted Sarah’s death. He knew that. And he wasn’t sure he ever would.

  Oscar took his shot and missed. He took a third and sunk his putt. He noted their scores on the scorecard, and they moved on to the next hole.

  Oscar lined up his ball to tee off. “Has Javier gone?”

  “Yes.”

  Terry had called Javier Rivera as promised to let him know he’d found Myda’s killer and that he was dead. Javier asked to pay his respects and arrived the day after the funeral. He’d said a prayer over Sarah’s grave and laid a wreath. Afterward, Terry took him to Jake’s grave and they spat on it.

  At the grave Javier said, “You’re my brother. If you need anything, it’s yours.”

  Then they’d drunk themselves into a stupor. They told each other stories about Sarah and Myda. They laughed, cried, and sat in silence, just remembering. They didn’t stop drinking until they’d drunk themselves sober. A tequila hangover felled Terry two days after their binge. The effects had only worn off today.

  “He went this morning. He asked if he could bring Myda’s mother to see Sarah. I said it was okay.”

  They played the next two holes without speaking. That suited Terry fine, but he could see Oscar still had questions.

  “What is it?” Terry asked.

  “Holman. I know blood’s thicker than water, but I still can’t believe Holman would kill, lie, and plant evidence for his son.”

  “I don’t know that he did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For sure, Holman wasn’t playing it by the numbers that night, but I wonder if it was all for Jake’s benefit.”

  “To get Jake to drop his guard, you mean?”

  “Maybe. We’ll never know for sure. I don’t even know how he ended up here that night. He either followed me or he was following his son. But I know Holman didn’t plant the evidence in my house.”

  “How?” Oscar asked, retrieving his ball from the hole.

  “It was Sarah. She’d been coming back and forth for days. I think she was taking and hiding evidence in the crawl space as and when she needed it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “More than once I came home to find something in the house moved. Osbourne claimed he’d seen Sarah entering the house. And do you remember the old Honda that opened the garage?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When Sarah and I were outrunning Holman at the mall, the car she drove off in was the same old Honda.”

  Terry holed his putt and they moved on. They skipped the next hole. It was the windmill hole. They always skipped the windmill hole. He was sure a psychologist would tell him that when his emotional scars were healed he would play the windmill hole again, but Terry didn’t think so. As long as he lived, he knew he would never play it.

  “Do you regret coming to America?” Oscar asked. “It’s hardly been a fairy-tale welcome.”

  No, it hasn’t, Terry thought. The company he’d worked for had broken the law and he’d brought them down. People had been murdered and he’d avenged them, but not in time to save Sarah. He never could have conceived this nightmare. But was that America’s fault? Hardly.

  “No, not at all.”

  “That’s good.”

  Oscar paused for a long moment before asking, “Do you regret marrying Sarah?”

  That was a question that required no deliberation. Sarah had taken his breath away when they’d met and had never given it back to him. She made him more than he was without her. Even now, with her gone, he was still a better man for knowing her. He touched their wedding rings on the chain around his neck and smiled. It was the first to cross his face in weeks.

  “I don’t regret marrying Sarah, regardless of how short a time we had together. One day, one minute—it’s not important how long we were married. I’m proud to have been her husband. She may have done some questionable things, but I fell in love with the Sarah I met in Costa Rica, and she fell in love with me—that can never be changed.”

  “I’m glad for you, buddy.” Oscar smiled. “Let’s blow this game and do something else. Whaddya say?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good man,” Oscar said and headed for the arcade.

  In the arcade, Oscar handed Terry a drink, and they sat at the same table where they’d first met. Oscar pushed his drink to one side.

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “I don’t know at the moment. There’s still some insurance stuff and other of Sarah’s affairs I need to sort out. My family and friends have asked me to come back to England. I suppose I should.”

  “You’re not
going to stay and find another biotech job?”

  Terry shook his head. Genavax was finished. The FDA was all over the company. Evidence was being gathered and charges and arrests would be announced soon. There were rumors that one of the international drug conglomerates was waiting in the wings to buy Genavax for pennies on the dollar and absorb it into its operations. He hoped the rumor was true. He didn’t want to see his innocent coworkers lose their jobs. Out of respect, he’d resigned.

  “I’m finished in the biotech industry in this country. I’m a corporate leper. No one will want to employ a whistle-blower.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But dammit, buddy, I don’t want to see you go. I’m just getting used to having you around.”

  “I don’t really have a choice. What else could I do?”

  “I guess…” Oscar stopped himself midsentence to flash a naughty-boy grin. “I know what we need and I know what you could do.”

  Terry was puzzled. “What?”

  “We need a new sheriff.” Oscar could barely contain his excitement. “Are you up for it?”

  The End

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The city of Edenville and the county of Santa Rita are wholly fictional. Those familiar with the I-80 corridor between the Bay Area and Sacramento might recognize some of the locations stolen for this book.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Barry Evans Studio, 2003

  A former racecar driver, licensed pilot, animal rescuer, endurance cyclist, and occasional private eye, Simon Wood is also an accomplished author with more than 150 published stories and articles under his belt. His mystery fiction, which has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, has earned him both the prestigious Anthony Award and a CWA Dagger Award nomination. In addition to No Show, his books include Accidents Waiting to Happen, Working Stiffs, Asking for Trouble, Paying the Piper, We All Fall Down, and Terminated. Originally from England, he lives in California with his wife, Julie.