by Misty Dietz
“We don’t have a warrant on him yet, sir.”
Barnaba parted his sport coat to put his hands on his hips and swung around to face Zack. “You gonna sign a release stating we can take a DNA swab off you?”
“My genes should be on record, but what the hell. Sounds like a good time.”
A hazmat-suited tech came running from the back room. “Anybody got a box? We got a feral cat back there.”
“Grab it!” someone yelled as a streak of gray shot through the house and outside into the night. Barnaba shook his head before he moved off.
Zack’s shoulders dropped and he looked at the floor until another tech came over. In no time, he’d signed the release and given his oral swab. What did it really matter? It would either clear him or it wouldn’t.
Most likely it wouldn’t.
Janklow nudged him toward the door. “Let’s go, buddy.”
Zack looked around desperately as the warm night air hit his face. Sweat trickled down his back and the sides of his face. The pain in his chest was no more.
Find a way out.
Officer Giles stood talking to one of the other cops. The swirling red lights of the squad cars cast monstrous visages on the faces of the gathered crowd. Sloane was nowhere to be seen. Had she given her statement so quickly? They’d better have let her go.
The closer they got to the waiting police vehicle, the faster the past reared up, flooding him with memories of his beating in that seedy alley so many years ago. He’d held his own with the first three gangbangers Kasey had hired. When four more joined in, he’d gone down in the worst beating of his life. The first responding officers had pulled the thugs off him, clubbing them back with batons, pepper spray, and Tasers.
Then Barnaba had turned up and his luck had hit the road.
History seemed to be repeating itself.
Fuck that.
When Janklow moved ahead of him to open the squad door, Zack brought his right leg up in a jackknife kick that bounced the officer against the car. Janklow went down, momentarily dazed. Zack didn’t wait to see if he drew his gun. He ran, weaving through yards, using the element of surprise, mature trees, and the dark to his advantage until his lungs screamed. Behind him he heard men yelling to each other as they spread out in pursuit.
He headed for the river where the trees grew denser, providing more cover. He wanted to go all the way into the water in case they called in the K-9 unit, but with the cuffs, he’d have trouble staying afloat. He continued on, hugging the bank, entering the water where it was shallow enough, putting distance between himself and the officers who didn’t have his experience with the terrain. His heart pounded in his throat and mosquitoes swarmed every exposed surface.
If only he could use his hands.
A small branch broke the skin below his eye as he stumbled through thickly tangled underbrush. He managed to right himself at the last instant, but pain shot up his chest through his left arm. He saw stars as he struggled for footing and pressed on toward his destination.
You’d better be home, Raessler.
Like Zack, Archie had always loved the Red River. Zack had never been happier his friend had built his wife’s dream house in such a private spot. A few miles later, he climbed the bank toward the Raessler’s backyard and sprinted for the patio door. It sucked that he had to involve his friends in any way, but once he got the cuffs off, he’d move on.
Zack heard Archie’s dogs barking madly inside the house. Archie had probably grabbed his twelve gauge and posted somewhere strategic. He prayed his buddy wouldn’t let the dogs out because they’d bite first and sniff later.
Zack used his foot to pound on the patio door. A light flicked on in the kitchen, and Archie flew outside, his shotgun pointed to the ground. “What the piss, man? Get in here!”
Twyla stood in the kitchen, a navy blue robe belted tightly above her rounded abdomen. Her eyes widened as she took in his swollen, bloody face and handcuffs. Then she turned to the sink to fill a tea kettle.
Zack’s torso and legs began to shake. “Don’t do that on my account. I’m not sticking around.”
Archie slapped a hand on the counter. “Stop that. What’s going on?”
“I need these off.” He lifted his arms behind his back and winced. “And some ibuprofen. Please.”
Twyla hustled to the bathroom and returned with six small pills. Archie lifted a glass of water to Zack’s mouth and the pills, then brushed a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “Go on back to bed, love. Turn off all the lights. I’ll be in soon.”
He grabbed a set of keys off the wall and didn’t say anything as they neared his workshop behind the house. Once they were inside, he shut the door and pulled the string affixed to the single bulb above the saw table. Then he put on his safety glasses, shoved another pair on Zack, and took an electric angle grinder off a shelf of meticulously arranged power tools. Zack turned around, bent over, and cranked his arms up to lay them on the table. “Hurry.”
“I’ll cut them apart, then we’ll worry about the rest.” Archie started the grinder and within seconds, the chain between the cuffs broke apart.
Zack shook out his arms, testing the pain in his chest, and laid his hands on the table. Free arms relieved the pressure in his midsection tremendously.
“I don’t know, man,” Archie said. “Your wrists are so big, I don’t have much leeway to cut.”
“I can’t leave with these attached. Come on, you’re a master with this thing.” Zack tried to smile, but failed. Besides, this was Archie. He didn’t have to pretend.
For a moment, he thought his buddy would refuse, but then he clamped down on Zack’s forearm so tightly he felt his arm tingle. “Lord Almighty, I don’t need a tourniquet.”
Archie looked up at him and grinned. “Case I nick you, I don’t want you to bleed to death on my table.”
Great. Zack closed his eyes as the grinder started spinning. The heat of the disc ripping through the metal burned so bad he thought his skin would melt. Archie held his arm in a death grip, the grinder unyielding in his other hand. Bile rose in Zack’s throat and he wanted to look away, but couldn’t help himself from watching as the disc chewed through the metal, closer and closer until it was almost all the way through.
When mere millimeters held the cuff together, Archie laid the grinder aside and reached for metal clippers to finish the task. The other cuff fell off in quick succession, and Zack was free. He slumped onto his forearms against the work table, and managed the ghost of a smile. “Thanks. I owe you big.”
Archie grunted and walked over to his shop fridge and pulled out a water bottle and half a sandwich. “I’m going to clean this up and then lay back down beside my wife where I’ve been all night. Come tomorrow, if anybody asks, I never moved. What else do you need?”
“Would you check on Kiefer and Maya and get me a phone? I lost mine somewhere. Either in my truck or on the ground at Ann’s. Either way, the cops’ll find it.”
“No problem. I’ll bring the mutts here. You go to ground, then let me know where I can get a phone to you.”
When Zack started to thank him, Archie held up his hand. “Shit goes down, we pull together. I saw the news orgy earlier about the poor woman by the river. It’s all the media’s been talking about all night. And now you find O’Neill dead at Ann’s? Leaves a lot more questions, I know.” He swept the table with a hand broom, then sprayed it with cleaner. Something spattered on the metal roof of the Quonset, and both men froze. But one drop quickly followed another until it became a steady patter. Zack saw Archie’s shoulders loosen up and tried to make his do the same. The rain would help cover his tracks.
“I don’t know how this has gotten so messed up, but if something happens to me—”
“Shut your damn mouth. This’ll be okay. We always land on our feet.”
Zack recognized the look on his oldest friend’s face. Fear masked by anger. “But if I don’t, make them rush me to surgery. Have them take both kidneys—put one on i
ce or something. Just in case. Hand me some paper. I’ll write a note.”
Archie slapped the small broom against the table. “Stop it before I turn you in myself.” His eyes communicated what he couldn’t say. What it meant when someone saw your darkness and fought for you anyway. The unshakable bond born of desperate circumstances and even more desperate despair. The gut-level awareness that your life had meaning beyond death.
Knowing you would leave a hole in someone’s life should you go.
It was all there in Archie’s expression, so thick with memory Zack nearly choked on it.
“My kids need a goddamn uncle.” Archie cleared his throat roughly and emptied the dustpan into an Arby’s bag, which he buried at the bottom of a garbage can. He reorganized a few tools that didn’t need reorganizing before turning back to Zack. “Friend of mine has a beat up El Camino down behind the Curling Club shack. Keys are under the back fender for emergencies. I guess now qualifies.”
Zack didn’t know how his stomach would be able to handle any food right now, but he held up the sandwich. “Thanks again. I don’t know what—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call in some IOUs when the baby comes along and Twyla and I need a night out.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Zack’s throat suddenly felt tight. The two men stared at each other a moment before Zack grabbed the remains of the handcuffs then quickly slipped out the door and vanished into the night.
It wasn’t until a few miles down the river that he chucked the handcuffs into the sluggish water, wondering how Archie already knew the identity of the man who was murdered in Ann’s bedroom when there was no way in hell it could have been released to the public yet.
Chapter Nineteen
TUESDAY, 1:28 A.M.
The world had gone crazy in forty-eight hours. Sloane had just pulled into her parking lot when she’d heard of Zack’s escape on the radio. Now, her windshield wipers slapped at the rain, sending it flying as quickly as it landed. The black tourmaline seemed to burn a hole in her jeans pocket. Somehow, she’d gone from easygoing business owner to card-carrying psychic freak show whose boyfriend had a price on his head.
Not that said fugitive would consider himself her boyfriend.
Not that Sloane No-Strings-Attached Swift had ever called any other man her boyfriend before.
Awesome. She’d clearly lost touch with reality sometime around seven o’clock Sunday morning.
“Where are you when I need you, Tori?” She gunned it southbound on University Street. Shouldn’t need to worry about getting pulled over. All available law enforcement was on a man-hunt for Zack.
The only way to help him was to find out who’d killed Dallan O’Neill. How was she supposed to do that? CSI groupie she was not. She was more of a Modern Family kind of girl, but she doubted any witty one-liners would score her re-entry to Ann’s condo. Especially since the investigators were still on site. No, there was no way she’d get into Ann’s.
So, time to see Colette O’Neill. She was willing to bet her livelihood that the put-together society wife knew something about her husband’s illicit activities.
The rambling, brick rectory was set so far back from the church proper that Sloane normally wouldn’t have seen it at this time of night. Yet, as she approached the five block campus, not only was the rectory ablaze with light, the church was as well. Cars filled the parking lot like it was broad daylight on a Sunday morning.
She parked and ran through the rain into the church. A tall, trim woman in matching green slacks and pumps approached her, her thin lips pursing in a web of vertical lines as she quickly assessed Sloane from head to toe.
Yeah, soaked shorts, frayed sweatshirt, and sexed-up espadrilles weren’t exactly proper church attire. Too bad.
The woman apparently came to the same conclusion for she continued forward as though she’d never faltered, her arms outstretched. “Come dear. I’ll find you a towel. We have sandwiches in the fellowship hall. I’m Betty.” The older woman led Sloane down the hallway toward a growing crescendo of noise. “Can you imagine? Dear Lord, it’s a sorry world.” Betty tucked Sloane in line with the others who’d come to eat, gossip, and offer support amid the scandal.
Sloane turned to find Betty already melting into the crowd. There had to be a least fifty people in the room. Sloane checked her watch, feeling uneasy. One-thirty-five a.m. At this time of night, how had all these people found out about a murder that had happened less than three hours ago? It hadn’t been on TV. Police scanners? The radio? Seriously, had they organized a phone chain? And why were they all here?
The line ahead of Sloane fractured and Colette walked through, a modern day Moses parting the Red Sea, her face a fascinating display of beautiful sorrow. Sloane had never seen anyone’s sadness so poignantly lovely. This lass apparently didn’t have the ugly-cries in her.
Sloane approached Colette amid her entourage of veteran church ladies. Before they could circle the wagons around her, Sloane reached out and touched Colette’s starched white shirt sleeve. Her perfectly made-up eyes tracked slowly to Sloane’s face. Something in those blue depths made her snatch her hand away.
“Excuse me, Mrs. O’Neill. I am deeply sorry to hear the news about your husband. Might I have a word with you in private?”
A veteran church lady in beige bounced her apple belly in front of Colette. “Who are you? If you’re with the media—”
Colette patted the woman’s arm. “It’s okay, Edith. This is Miss Swift. She’s a friend of the poor, unfortunate Ann Samuel.” Edith gasped and looked at Sloane with intermingled horror and interest. Colette brought a hand to her face, her diamond ring glittering under the harsh fluorescent lights. “Oh dear, please tell me the body they discovered at the river isn’t hers?”
A knife twisted in Sloane’s gut. “No. I’m here because…” She looked at the assembled crowd and wanted to scream. “I know this is a horrendous time for you, but please, I need to talk to you. In private.”
Frowning, Edith placed her hand on the ledge of her stomach. “Look here, miss, you should have the good sense not to barge in here in Mrs. O’Neill’s time of grieving.”
Colette wiped at her tears without smudging her make-up. “It’s all right. I need to help if I can. It’s what Dallan would want me to do. Please excuse us.”
Sloane followed Colette into a darkened room. The door shut with a soft click. In less time than it took for her eyes to adjust, Colette had switched on a delicate swan-shaped lamp. In the soft light, she stood framed in front of a life-sized oil painting depicting Jesus in The Divine Mercy.
“What do you want with me?” Colette’s pretense of sorrow was suddenly gone.
Sloane’s stomach turned over. “I am so sorry about your husband.”
“So you said. But why are you here?”
Sloane pressed her palms together in front of her body. “I have reason to believe Dallan and Ann were having an affair. I’d like to know if you can give me any information that might help us find her.”
“How do you know she wasn’t already baked by the side of the river?”
Sloane shivered at her rancor. Colette hadn’t even flinched at the admission of her husband’s adultery. Sloane felt the urge to bolt. The black tourmaline in her pocket warmed her. “The victim isn’t Ann. How long were they involved?”
“Who knows? Dallan’s always had any number of women. I know nothing of Ann.”
“But you knew they were involved.”
Colette threw her hands up. “Anyone could see how she made such a fool of herself over him. She’s a child playing a dangerous game.” She moved to stand behind the finely carved mahogany desk. She looked down at its smooth surface, unmarred by even a single stack of papers. With the pink toile parson’s chair and voluminous silk curtains, the space looked like a designer showroom.
Sloane’s skin crawled, but she waited. Colette’s hand clasped a crystal paperweight until her knuckles stretched taut. Sloane’s mind started to strum, blue and whi
te lights pulsing in her peripheral vision.
Oh my God, it’s the missing Swarovski rhino!
How did it get here? Did Ann bring it, or had Dallan? She nearly asked the question out loud—but what if Colette retaliated and destroyed it? Bide your time. Maybe she could salvage things with Benjamin, after all.
When Colette finally spoke, she had an edge that cut through the hazy blue in Sloane’s mind. “If I were you, I’d keep my nose out of everyone’s dirty laundry. Dallan’s dead. I don’t know why, but that selfish son of a bitch ruined my life!”
Veins stood out in Colette’s temples, and she seemed to have forgotten that she wasn’t alone as she banged the crystal rhino against the desk. Sloane nearly fainted.
“So much for the big congregation in California. He couldn’t keep it in his pants, but I never thought he’d get someone pregnant. He told me he’d fix it. He told me.”
Sloane’s skin felt like it was floating over a stormy sea. “How did you learn about the pregnancy?”
“My trouble-shooter.”
Oh Lord, someone else? “Who?”
But Colette only laughed until she burst into tears. Real ones this time.
It wasn’t pretty.
Knowing she wouldn’t get any more answers from her, Sloane felt in her pocket for the black tourmaline, rubbing her thumb across the smooth surface of the rock. She cast her eyes around the room and edged toward the desk. Colette had collapsed in her chair, lost in a world of stolen dreams and failed aspirations.
Maybe she wouldn’t notice.
Now or never. This is for you, Tori.
Sloane heaved an exaggerated sigh and clumsily reached toward the tissue box on a small side table, overturning a hand-painted cloche bell jar in the process. Colette lunged toward the glass, but it smashed to pieces. Colette kneeled on the floor, her purple pencil skirt nearly splitting at the seams.