by Brenda Novak
“I want you to forgive yourself, too.”
Tears began to streak down his cheeks. Embarrassed by his display of emotion, he averted his face and tried to wipe them away, but now that the veneer had cracked they wouldn’t stop coming. “Ah, I’m a mess,” he muttered into his hand.
“You’ve lost a son. I think you’re entitled.”
For the first time in Rod’s life, his father squeezed his shoulder with affection. “God, I’m proud of you,” he said.
Because Sophia was in a hurry, she didn’t get out of the Hummer. She pulled to the curb and called Rafe to tell him to come outside.
The phone rang four times. Then her voice mail picked up. Hello. This is Chief St. Claire….
She didn’t bother leaving a message.
The light was on in the living room. She could see it through the closed curtains. And she’d talked to Rafe less than five minutes ago. So where was he? Why wasn’t he answering?
Maybe he was using the bathroom.
She waited a couple of minutes and dialed a second time.
Again, there was no answer. If he was in the bathroom, he was taking a long time. Or did he think the call might be from his father? Was he trying to avoid a confrontation with Starkey?
Shoving the gearshift into Park, she turned off the engine, got out and locked the vehicle to protect the evidence she’d collected at the feed store. She was halfway to the house when she decided not to leave that information in the Hummer and went back to retrieve it. Where she was going to stash it, she didn’t know. Anyone who came looking for it would probably search her house. But it would be safer with her than left unattended in a car, even for a few minutes.
The locks made a thunking sound as she pressed the button on Rod’s key ring. She was about to open the passenger door when a car turned at the corner. From what she could see thanks to the streetlights, it appeared to be an old souped-up Ford Ranchero. She didn’t know whose it was, and the tinted windows made it impossible to see inside.
Afraid it might be a gunman, Sophia dropped to her knees so she could use the Hummer as a shield. She definitely didn’t want to run for the house and draw the danger toward Rafe or be shot while she was crossing the yard. But there were no shots. The Ranchero stopped across the street, a door opened and closed, and the heavy step of a man approached.
Taking her gun from its holster, Sophia held it ready as she peered around the front bumper of the Hummer. Then she breathed a huge sigh of relief. It wasn’t a gunman. It was Starkey. She would’ve recognized his shape and walk anywhere. Where he’d gotten that Ranchero, she didn’t know, but since he’d wrecked his motorcycle it seemed he was always driving something different.
Sagging against the tire, she lowered her gun and breathed deeply to counteract the adrenaline pumping through her system. With Starkey’s arrival, she knew she and Rafe had a fight on their hands. He wouldn’t be happy with Rafe’s defection. But at least this was a familiar fight. Not a life-threatening one.
He hadn’t spotted her. He walked straight past her and up to the door with the determination of someone who was angry and felt he had every right to be.
Not in any rush to get into an argument with him, Sophia returned her gun to its holster. She still had to get the ledger evidence from the car. She figured she’d do that first, hide it in her garage, then go inside to support Rafe.
She was just getting to her feet when she heard two blasts from inside.
Starkey broke into a run and threw open the door. Sophia barely had a chance to wonder why it was unlocked when a third shot echoed through the otherwise silent night.
For a moment, she felt as if she was watching the scene from much farther away. Probably because she couldn’t get to Starkey fast enough. It felt as though she was living one of those dreams where she ran and ran and ran but couldn’t move. She wasn’t even sure if she’d yelled his name. Maybe she’d only screamed it in her head. Everything froze for three or four heartbeats, just long enough for her to grasp what had happened, then jolted into fast-forward.
Starkey had been shot. She’d heard him cry out and hit the door as the bullet knocked him back. She’d grabbed her gun and started across the lawn before realizing that it wouldn’t do him or Rafe any good if she walked into a bullet. Instead of continuing to the doorway, she returned to the Hummer and ducked behind it to collect her fractured thoughts.
Was Starkey dead? What about Rafe? She’d heard two shots before the one that’d hit Starkey….
Oh, God! Someone had come after her. Whoever it was had beaten her home and encountered Rafe instead of her, exactly as she’d feared.
Blinking to clear the tears that automatically welled up, blurring her vision, she called 911 on her cell phone. She asked county dispatch to send her some backup and an ambulance, then climbed into the driver’s seat and pulled the Hummer into the driveway, where she wouldn’t be visible from any of the windows when she got out.
After hiding the photocopies she’d made at the feed store beneath the seat, she locked up and dashed over to the side door of her garage. She had no idea what she’d encounter when she went inside. For all she knew the person who’d just shot Starkey could be coming out the same door. Or, if he’d stuck around long enough to see that he’d shot the wrong person, he could be waiting for her….
There was no way to tell. But whether the gunman was in the house or not, she had to enter. She couldn’t call the police and stand safely on the sidelines, because she was the police. And the last she knew, Rafe had been inside. If he lay bleeding on the floor like Starkey, she had to get to him before it was too late.
The hope that she might be able to reach them both in time gave her the courage she needed. I’m coming, she promised silently, and cracked open the garage door.
Nothing happened.
She listened for any sound of movement, but there was only silence.
Prepared for the worst, she slipped into the garage and weaved through the boxes of Christmas decorations and extra clothing she’d put into storage during spring cleaning. As far as she could tell, she was alone. But she hadn’t entered the house yet.
The door was locked. Fortunately, she had her keys in her pocket.
As she unlocked the door, she listened carefully—and thought she heard a strange noise. Crying? Her name being called?
Was it Rafe? Or Starkey, begging for help?
She couldn’t decide. When she listened again, she could no longer hear it.
Please, God, let Rafe be okay. Starkey, too.
The click of the tumbler sounded abnormally loud. She was afraid it might give away her approach, but using the wooden panel of the door as a shield, she pushed it open and braced for attack.
If there was someone inside, waiting for her, the noise hadn’t drawn him out.
Now! she told herself and stuck her head inside, once again waiting, listening…. To silence.
Eyes wide and heart pounding, she led with her gun as she crept into the kitchen.
Pale streamers of moonlight filtered through the window over the sink. From what Sophia could see, Rafe had never had the chance to make himself a sandwich. The kitchen was just as she and Rod had left it.
Cringing to think of what might’ve stopped him, she walked toward the living room.
From where the kitchen met the living room, Sophia could see the couch, the TV and her favorite painting hanging on the opposite wall. And she already knew what she’d find if she came far enough into the room to face the front door—Starkey. It was what might be lurking near the slider leading onto her back porch that worried her. Judging by what had happened, the gunman had either been waiting in the alcove near the bookshelves or he’d been coming out of her bedroom. He couldn’t have fired from the kitchen because the front door would’ve blocked his vision when it first started to open. The bedroom didn’t seem viable, either, since there was no exit. Sophia couldn’t imagine that the shooter would place himself in a situation he couldn’t e
scape.
Was the culprit still around? Or had he fled after the shooting?
Part of her hoped he’d taken off. That would allow her to focus on saving Starkey and finding Rafe. The other part craved justice for even the chance that one or both of them might die.
Crouching so her antique secretary would obstruct the path of any bullets, she came out of the kitchen and leaned around the furniture, pointing her gun in the direction of the slider.
It stood open, the space around it shadowy but empty. Either the gunman was gone… Or he wanted her to believe he was.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the front door, which was also standing open. It couldn’t shut, not with Starkey slumped in the entry. She didn’t think he was dead. Fortunately. Eyes closed and hands pressed to his chest as if he could stop the blood from pouring onto his leather cut, he seemed to be concentrating on surviving. She wanted to go to him, or at least offer some words of comfort to let him know that help wouldn’t be long in coming, but she couldn’t give herself away. First, she had to find Rafe.
Where was the damn ambulance? Why couldn’t she hear it?
Because it’d only been a few minutes since she’d called and it had to come from Douglas. Shit!
A slight breeze stirred the drapes at the slider and sent the wind chimes on her porch tinkling. Under the cover of that sound, Sophia crept farther into the room to confirm that it was, indeed, empty. Feeling much safer, she double-checked that shadowy alcove—the only place a full-grown person could hide in the living room besides the coat closet, which she also checked—and headed for the bedroom.
Her room was just as empty. But the bathroom door was closed. And there were two bullet holes in it.
Unable to stop herself any longer, she called out. “Rafe? Are you in there? Are you here?”
“Sophie?”
She almost couldn’t believe it when he answered. He was in the bathroom. “It’s me,” she said. “Come on out. I’m here now. Everything’s going to be okay.”
The lock clicked and, a second later, the door opened very slowly. Only after Rafe actually saw her did he forget all caution and hurry toward her. “Someone tried to break in!” he said.
She set her gun on the bed so she could hold him. “Who was it? Do you know?”
“Leonard Taylor.”
“You’re sure?”
Rafe nodded. “He came by earlier, too. He was talking to me as if he and my dad are friends. But they’re really not. And then he came back. This time, he didn’t say a word. Not at first. Just kept messing with the door, trying to unlock it.”
“Where’d he get the key?”
“I think he saw me put it back under the frog earlier. But the lock was sticking. He had to wiggle it.”
“And you heard him.”
“Yes. I locked myself in the bathroom, but after he got in he started banging on the door, telling me you’d been in an accident and asked him to come and get me. But if that was true, why didn’t he say so when he was trying to unlock the front door?”
Rafe took a deep breath. “He said you were going to die. I was so afraid it was true I was gonna come out. But I guess I wasn’t fast enough ’cause he screamed that he was in a GD hurry and I’d better open the door or he’d kill me. He tried to break the door down. When that didn’t work, he started shooting.”
At last Sophia heard sirens. Thank God! “How was it that he didn’t hit you?” she asked, hugging him closer.
“I was lying in the tub.”
“Good for you. You’re so smart, bud!” He’d already been living by his wits for a long time; she supposed that helped. He was a tough kid. But should she let him see his father? Starkey might die. It would be gruesome for a fourteen-year-old to see that, especially as a result of violence. But he had the right to say goodbye, didn’t he?
Sophia had just decided to break the news to him when a telltale creak and the glimpse of a dark shape in her mirror made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.
Rafe screamed as she turned. But the horror on his face had already told her what was happening. There, in the doorway, stood Leonard. He must’ve been out in the backyard. Must’ve heard her call out to Rafe and come inside to finish the job. Perhaps he was so determined to put an end to her that even self-preservation couldn’t overcome the impulse.
“Leonard, listen.” Hoping for a way to get hold of her gun on the bed, she pushed Rafe behind her. “Don’t be stupid. Can’t you hear the sirens? A sheriff’s deputy will be here any minute. You kill us and you’ll get the death penalty.”
“I’m going to get your job. That’s what I’m going to get. That’s what I should’ve gotten six months ago.” He lifted his gun, aimed. Looking at the intent expression on his face, Sophia expected to be hit by a bullet any second. But there was another noise, this one from directly behind him.
Flinching, Leonard whirled around, giving Sophia just enough time to dive for her gun. Then everything went into slow motion. Leonard put a second bullet in Starkey, who was coming after him with one last surge of effort, growling like a bear. And she fired right afterward, hitting Leonard once, twice, three times.
No way would he get up and come after them again, she told herself.
And he didn’t.
30
The inside of Stuart’s house resembled something out of the old TV Western Bonanza. Even the wallpaper that ran from the chair railing to the burgundy-colored carpet appeared to be made of leather, or simulated leather, and had big brass decorative thumbtacks holding it to the wall. The wood-framed paintings, hung against a green background, were all of horses and cowboy scenes. And the few pieces of art that sat on various accent tables were brass sculptures—bucking broncos and the like.
Although Rod didn’t care for most of it, he admired the furniture, which was constructed of rough-hewn logs and Navajo-blanket-covered cushions. The antler lighting fixtures weren’t bad, either. Had Stuart stuck with rustic instead of veering into 1960s Western chic he might’ve been onto something. Regardless, it was quite obvious that he’d spent a lot of money on his place and was proud of it. No matter what their relationship had been like in life, Rod felt the tragedy in the sheer permanence of his half brother’s death. Stuart would never walk into his house again.
Bruce emerged from somewhere in the back. After he’d shown Rod inside, he’d gone to retrieve whatever it was he wanted to show him. What he brought back looked like a box full of keepsakes for a scrapbook, or maybe the contents of someone’s files or desk. “What’s all this?” he asked.
“I found it in the closet of Stuart’s office.”
“When?”
“Just a few hours ago.”
“Why were you going through his office? I heard Sophia tell you not to come in here. That the police would have a better chance of solving his murder if you left this place alone until the FBI’s forensic techs could go through it.”
His father put the box on the couch. “I was scared,” he admitted.
“Of what?”
“Of what they might find.”
Rod felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Like what?”
“He’d been acting strange lately. Secretive. And he’d been staying out late, after the bar was closed. I couldn’t even guess where he was going. At first I thought he had a girlfriend or maybe he was visiting a prostitute. I tried to tell myself it was none of my business. He was a grown man, after all. But he hated Mexicans so much that…”
His words trailed off as if he’d only belatedly realized who he was talking to. Stuart had hated Mexicans because of Rod and his mother and what their presence in his life had meant, and Rod knew it. Stuart probably got a lot of his resentment from Edna, but the superiority he felt wasn’t unusual among farm owners.
“You thought he might be the UDA killer,” Rod said.
Bruce sighed. “I’m sad to say it, but the suspicion was there. Especially when…when I heard where they found Stu’s body. I kept imagining him heading o
ut into the desert, going hunting, if you will, and coming upon a group of illegals whose guide was prepared for him. There wasn’t any weapon in the truck with his body, but I figured it could’ve been stolen. Why leave it behind? Anyway, I wanted to see if his guns were here, that sort of thing.” He shook his head. “But mostly I didn’t want his mother to suffer, knowing her son had murdered twelve people. That’s not the kind of grief and shame that will ever go away. And if he was dead, he couldn’t hurt anyone, anyway. I decided I could get rid of the evidence and at least save her that much pain.”
“So you came here and looked around.”
“That’s right. His guns are here and accounted for. But I also found this box of stuff. And now I don’t believe it was him at all. I believe he figured out who the real killer was, and that’s why he’s dead.” Bruce pointed to the bits of paper, envelopes, even photographs, in the box. “Take a look.”
Rod sat on the couch and pulled out an envelope filled with pictures.
“See that white Ford?” Bruce asked as soon as Rod had had a chance to study the first one.
Rod nodded.
“That belongs to Charlie Sumpter.”
“How can you tell? This picture was taken from too far away.”
“It says so on the back.”
Rod flipped it over. Sure enough, someone had written Charlie Sumpter and 1:23 a.m. “That’s Stuart’s writing?”
“Without a doubt. Stuart even had that picture magnified so you can see a closer view of the vehicle. It should be next.”
It wasn’t. The other photos were various shots of Charlie’s house from the front, side and back.
“Where’d it go?” Bruce muttered, rooting around in the box until he came up with a photo that had fallen out. “Here it is. See this? This shows part of the license plate. CFF432. That’s Charlie’s, all right.”
“But what does this picture prove? That Charlie was out in the desert somewhere on—” Rod glanced at the date stamp “—June 21?”
“It proves his truck wasn’t at his house the night the Sanchez couple was killed.”