“Well, that’s all way beyond me,” said Agent Westmore. “Makes me glad that I just have to go out and round up bad guys. It sounds like they’ve got the right man for the job in solving this thing.”
Akash smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. And though the sheriff may have ‘nabbed your man first,’ as you say, you were on your way, and it appears the State of Washington also had the right person for the job.”
About six miles out from Cottonwood, they came to the state patrol’s roadblock. Akash flashed his I.D., but the state trooper wanted to know the identity of his passenger as well. Agent Westmore showed him his State of Washington Bureau I.D., and Akash explained that he was giving the agent a lift to pick up a captured escapee for transport back. They were motioned through the roadblock and headed on toward Cottonwood.
“Why are they being so careful about who they let through?” asked Agent Westmore.
“I think it’s probably all about security in the town,” said Akash. “I understand the sheriff still doesn’t have a car that functions, and the fire department doesn’t have any trucks. If something were to happen, I think there could be some real problems for the town.”
“It must have been an interesting arrest,” said the agent. “I wonder how the sheriff managed to pick up my escapee without a working patrol car. Maybe the town is small enough that he just walked right up to him and put the cuffs on him.”
Akash only nodded and smiled.
“Oh, by the way,” the agent said, “how soon do you think my prisoner and I will be able to get a lift back to Montrose?”
Akash looked at him. “I’m not sure. I assumed you had already worked that out. I’ll be staying in Cottonwood for several days and won’t be headed back toward Montrose until then.”
“I’m sure I’ll figure it out somehow,” the agent half-mumbled as he studied the road ahead. At one point, shortly after the roadblock, they passed a large brick building on their right. A sign in front read The Western Colorado State Home for the Developmentally Disabled. Akash paid no attention to the facility, and the agent gave it only passing interest.
Once in Cottonwood, Akash decided he would begin by meeting with some of the members of the local emergency committee. He parked the car in front of the town hall. Conveniently, across the street was the sheriff’s office where Agent Westmore was headed.
The agent grabbed his briefcase and the brown bag from the trunk and asked Akash if he could leave the suitcase for now.
“If you’re staying overnight, you’ll probably be staying at the Cottonwood Inn. It’s really the only place to stay in town,” said Akash.
“Maybe we can hook up for dinner later,” said the agent.
The two men parted in opposite directions, with Akash out to solve the mystery of the Cottonwood Dead Zone, and Agent Westmore heading deeper into a mystery of his own. Neither of them could know that their two mysteries were related, nor that the man who was the connection between the two was at that very moment watching them from his jail-cell window.
Sixty-Three
A Trusting Wife
Ernie Martinelli had been quiet all morning, sitting alone in his study. He normally would have left to work very early, but instead he sat motionless at his desk, still in his clothes from the day before, staring at a dark computer screen. The drapes were closed, the lights were out, and all the equipment in his office was turned off.
A hand touched him gently on the shoulder.
“Ernie,” his wife said softly, “why are you still here? Don’t you need to be down at the diner?”
Ernie remained silent but turned and looked up at his wife. It was then she saw the tears in his eyes. He held her hand, and she moved around to kneel on the ground facing him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking up at him with growing concern.
He was silent for a moment, and then with a trembling voice he said, “Nothing is wrong. I think everything may be just right.”
Annette looked down at the winter jacket and gloves lying on the floor next to Ernie’s chair. “What’s going on? Have you been down here all night?”
Ernie nodded his head.
Her voice was moving toward panic. “What’s happened, Ernie? Is someone hurt? Are you all right?”
Ernie faced his wife and held both of her hands. “Everything is fine. It is more than fine. I’m sorry not to have come to you last night, but I needed some time.”
“Time for what? Ernie, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!”
Ernie held her hands firmly and looked into her eyes. “A miracle is going on, Annette. A miracle—right here in Cottonwood!”
“A miracle?! Ernie, tell me what you’re talking about!”
Ernie told his wife everything—how his staff thought he was crazy when he walked into the diner with his winter jacket on, how he waited in the darkness of the walk-in, how it reminded him of going fishing, how with his own two eyes he’d seen the flash of light, how the milk miraculously appeared—he told her every single detail. She listened carefully to every word. She knew this man; she knew he’d never lie to her. He was a rock for her and their family. Eventually, toward the end of his fantastic tale, tears began to stream down Annette Martinelli’s face, falling and mixing with those of her husband’s. The two embraced and wept together for a long while. Blessed is the man who has a trusting wife, and blessed is the wife whose husband has never betrayed that trust.
Sixty-Four
Face to Face
When Agent Westmore stepped into the Cottonwood Sheriff’s Office, it was Marlene Anders who greeted him first. “May I help you?” she asked, looking up from her desk, glancing first at his briefcase and then at the brown paper bag he carried tucked under his arm.
“I’m Agent David Westmore,” he said. “Washington State Bureau of Investigation.”
“Welcome to Cottonwood, Agent Westmore. I know the sheriff’s been expecting you.”
“He has?” asked the agent. “How’s that?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” said Marlene. “I think he got a call over the weekend from someone at the state—”
Before Marlene could finish her answer, Sparky, who had been listening to the conversation, got up from his desk and moved across the room to shake the agent’s hand. “Cottonwood Deputy Sheriff Sparks,” he said.
The agent set his briefcase down and reached out to shake Sparky’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Deputy,” said the agent. “So I suppose then, you must know why I’m here?”
Sparky smiled. “Not only do I know—I’m proud to say that I was involved in bringing your man in.”
“You don’t say. Well, I guess I need to give you a big ‘thank you’ on behalf of the State of Washington.”
Sparky looked over at Marlene who had picked up her phone and said something very quickly to someone on the other end and hung back up.
“Of course, while I was the one who found the wanted bulletin on the NCIC, I didn’t go arrest Mr. Duncan all by myself,” said Sparky as he looked back at the agent. “Sheriff O’Neil and I made the arrest together.”
At that moment, the sheriff’s office door opened, and out stepped the sheriff. All eyes were on him as he walked over to where Sparky and the agent were standing. “Sheriff John O’Neil,” he said, shaking the agent’s hand.
“Agent David Westmore,” responded the agent.
“Well, you folks don’t mess around, do you? I only arrested him Saturday, and then I got a call at home yesterday from the state’s emergency office saying you would be coming down here today. Did you fly into Grand Junction this morning?”
“Actually, no, I was in Montrose when I found out you had arrested Mr. Duncan. I was headed here to make the arrest myself—but I thank you for your efforts.”
The sheriff looked over at Sparky. “Well, it was Sparky here who saw the warrant on the Internet—all I did was go and pick up your escapee.”
The agent looked at Sparky and then back to the sheriff
. “Well, it looks like it was a team effort. The State of Washington appreciates it greatly.”
“Just doin’ our job,” replied the sheriff. Then after a pause, he added, “I suppose you’re anxious to go visit with Mr. Duncan. We’ll get you in to see him in just a moment. First though, if you don’t mind, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you in my office.”
The sheriff motioned with a wave of his hand toward his office, and the two men went inside. The sheriff closed his door and sat behind his desk as the agent took a seat across from him.
“There are some things going on here that you need to know,” began the sheriff. “You see, things are pointing to the fact that Mr. Duncan may be involved in a missing person’s case we have here in Cottonwood.”
Agent Westmore said nothing, though the sheriff had paused long enough to allow for a response.
The sheriff finally said, “I’m thinking this missing person could turn up any day now, and I’d like Mr. Duncan around when that happens.”
“Why would that be?” asked the agent. “Then there wouldn’t be a crime, would there?”
“Oh, there’d be a crime all right,” said the sheriff, looking right at the agent. “I don’t really think this missing person will turn up alive.”
“A murder case?” asked the agent.
“It sure looks like it might be. Depends on what the autopsy tells us. If the victim’s head is smashed in, I think I have a strong case against Mr. Duncan for that crime. Hell, I think I probably have the murder weapon right here.”
The sheriff reached over and picked up Old Blind Carl’s cane, which had been leaning against the wall and was now wrapped in plastic. Through the plastic, it was easy to see that it was some kind of stick or cane.
“What is that? A cane?” asked the agent.
“It is, and it belonged to the victim. Mr. Duncan was carrying it around with him the night the victim disappeared. Pretty stupid, if you ask me.”
“Mind if I take a look at it?” asked the agent, reaching out for the plastic-wrapped cane.
“Not at all,” replied the sheriff, leaning across his desk with the cane. “Of course, please leave the plastic on.”
“Of course.” The agent took the cane and rolled it around in his hand, plastic and all. “I take it then that the victim was elderly?”
“Elderly, yes, but more importantly—he was blind.”
The agent raised his eyebrows. “Blind?! Matthew Duncan killed a blind man? I knew this guy had screwed up his life, but this just gets better all the time. He comes all the way back to Colorado to kill a blind man?” The agent shook his head while handing the cane back to the sheriff. “So what are you asking me for?”
“Just a few days—maybe three, at the most—to give us a chance to see what turns up,” said the sheriff. “As much as I’m sure Washington is a beautiful state, I’d hate to have to come all the way up there to bring Mr. Duncan back here to Colorado—once we find the body of his victim. Why don’t you take a few days and see the sights around here. There’s a hell of a waterfall close by. It’s quite a thing to see.”
The agent stared at the sheriff as he thought for a moment. He then said, “I’m not much for sightseeing and all that, but I think I can give you at least a few days. I’ve been on the road all summer it seems, so I’m not opposed to taking it easy for a few days. Besides, while your state emergency office was gracious enough to give me a ride down here, I’ll be damned if I know exactly how I’m going to get back to Montrose and my car. It’s parked at a place called the Slumberjack. Ever hear of it?”
“I think I’ve seen some billboards for it,” replied the sheriff.
The agent smiled. “I think they’ve got axes under their mattresses—at least, that’s what mine felt like last night. I think I’ll be glad to rest up here for a few days until I can get a ride out.”
The sheriff smiled. “Well, I guess our transportation mess has at least bought me a bit more time to find the body that I’m sure is gonna turn up any time now.” The sheriff stood up and reached out and shook the agent’s hand. “Good, then we have an agreement. I bet you’d like to see Mr. Duncan now.”
The agent stood, picked up his briefcase, and tucked the paper bag under his arm a bit tighter. “Before we go, I do have one question for you,” said the agent. “Does the prisoner have any knowledge that I was arriving today?”
The sheriff shook his head. “We sure haven’t said anything to him. I’m sure he must know someone would eventually come for him to take him back to Washington, but I’m thinking your quick arrival will really give him a jolt.”
The agent nodded his head and smiled. “Good,” he said. “I always like to keep ‘em guessing.”
“Especially this one,” said the sheriff. “He’s a real smart ass who talks crazy. I hope he shits his pants when you walk into his cell.”
“He will when he sees what I brought him,” said the agent, looking down at the bag under his arm.
“What is it?”
“It’s a Washington State Department of Corrections prisoner uniform—Mr. Duncan’s, to be exact. He left it behind on one of his stops in Oregon. It was just a fortunate coincidence that I got it back. It was all just a streak of good luck for me—and bad luck for Mr. Duncan.”
The heavy locks on the cell door clicked with a solid and loud mechanical sound as the twin keys were turned, and the sheriff pushed open the door. Agent Westmore walked into the room, and Matthew was standing near the window, not looking out, but simply staring at the agent and then at Sheriff O’Neil as they walked into the room.
“You’ve got a visitor, Mr. Duncan,” said the sheriff.
“Hello, Mr. Duncan,” said the agent. “I’m Agent Westmore with the Washington Bureau of Investigation.”
Matthew smiled kindly. “My first real visitor,” he said. “Welcome to my temporary home. I apologize for the lack of decorations around here. I really didn’t plan on staying long.”
“It seems your intuition was right, Mr. Duncan. I’ll be taking you back to Washington State in just a few days.”
Matthew just stared and smiled. “I’ll pass on your kind offer, but I’ve been there, done that—you understand, I hope.”
The agent looked over at the sheriff and said, “I see what you mean,” and then added, “Sheriff, do you mind if Mr. Duncan and I spend a few moments together?”
“If you’d like,” said the sheriff. “I’ll be right outside if you should need my assistance or anything.”
The agent pulled back the front of his sport coat just enough to reveal the Glock 21 pistol hidden underneath. “Thanks. I think things will be just fine.”
The sheriff left the room and closed the door. The agent walked across the room, away from Matthew, stopped suddenly, and turned around. “Now then, Mr. Duncan,” said the agent, “you’re a pretty resourceful guy, you know that?”
“I guess you could say that,” said Matthew as he remained by the window.
“I’ve read all about your case. You seem to have this knack for getting around security. It’s been a pretty handy skill, in your case.”
“You mean the prison?” asked Matthew. “No real skill involved. I just walked right out the front door.”
“I’m sure the superintendent there—what is his name? Superintendent Tremont? Remember him? I’m sure he’d take issue with your assertion that it took no skill to walk right out the front door of his prison. He’s very upset by your leaving his little party up there.”
“I wrote him a nice letter,” said Matthew. “I told him not to blame himself—but driven perfectionists like that are trapped by the way they respond to things. He’s in his own prison, and I feel sorry for him, really.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied the agent. “Superintendent Tremont doesn’t want your pity. He’s just wants you back in his happy little home…and soon, you will be.”
“David,” said Matthew calmly, “I will never be going ba
ck to that prison—that much I can promise you.”
“That’s a pretty bold statement to make for—” Then the agent stopped and looked right at Matthew. “Wait a second, how did you know my name? I don’t recall you being told my first name. I’m sure you’ve never heard it.”
Matthew smiled. “I haven’t.”
“Then how did you know it?”
“You’re not ready to know that yet.”
The agent set his briefcase on the chair by the table but kept the paper bag underneath his arm. “You know, the sheriff told me you were a real smart ass, but he was wrong. There’s nothing smart about you. You’re a complete idiot.”
Matthew continued smiling.
The agent opened the paper bag, pulled out the orange jumpsuit, and tossed it at Matthew, who caught it in his arms.
“A blind man could have tracked you back here to Colorado, Mr. Duncan,” said the agent. “There really is nothing smart about you—nothing at all.”
Matthew held up the jumpsuit. “A blind man did track me down here,” he said, tossing the jumpsuit back to the agent, “and orange isn’t my color, but thanks.”
The agent glared at Matthew, tossing the jumpsuit aside. It fell from the table and onto the chair, next to the briefcase.
“Maybe they got it wrong,” said the agent with increased volume. “Maybe you really are a psyche case, and you shouldn’t have stood trial for manslaughter. You should have gone right to the nuthouse.”
“You’ve been reading my case history. You know all about me.”
“I know nothing about you except that in a few days I’m draggin’ your ass with me back to Washington.”
“Is that your plan? Is that the best you’ve got? Drive all this way to pick up Matthew Duncan and take an innocent man back to prison? Is that what your life has amounted to?”
“It pays the bills. I get paid to take assholes like you back to prison. I don’t give a shit if you were guilty or not.”
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