Hard Return

by J. Carson Black

  The dark object was there and then it wasn’t. “I can’t believe you’d go through so much just to get to me.” Show weakness. “Can’t we talk about this?”

  “You have to admit, it worked. I drew you out. You’re standing here right in front of me, the dead Cyril Landry. I might have been playing out in left field, but I threw you out at home.”

  Landry almost smiled at the man’s self-congratulatory tone. “What happened to the man you said was trying to break in? Did you shoot him?”

  “The guy hanging around my house? Turns out he is—was?—a special agent with the FBI. Guess he was looking for you.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Beats me. Probably.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  “I’m sorry? Manage what?”

  “Getting the drop on an FBI agent?” Landry said.

  “He was careless. What can I say? He underestimated me, like pretty much everyone else does—did.”

  Pride creeping in.

  He thinks it’s all over. Done.

  Suddenly the front window exploded—shards of glass flying through the room like missiles.

  In an instant, Eric the Red was crouched on the kitchen counter, his rifle trained on Barclay. Landry crashed into Barclay and shoved his daughter to the floor.

  One spit from the rifle, and Barclay’s head snapped backward. The hole in his forehead bubbled, then drizzled blood, and with a liquid plop Todd Barclay hit the floor face-first.

  Kristal had to scramble to get out of the way, and fell into her father’s arms.

  Eric jumped down, twisted the sound suppressor off his rifle.

  Landry held his daughter close and smiled through his tears. “It’s okay now, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

  CHAPTER 40

  There was a lot to do—and Landry needed to get it right. The first thing: get his wife and daughter out of the house and on the road.

  “Pack up whatever you keep here—toilet articles or extra clothes or books. Throw it into the Hyundai Tucson and go. If you miss something, we’ll take care of it. Go the long way around. When you get home keep the car in the garage and don’t answer the door.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Make like a cleaner.”

  “What about the rifle shot?”

  “Eric used a silencer.”

  “No—the other rifle shot—when Todd shot . . . killed the man outside. He was FBI, right?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t see the sheriff drive by, did you?”

  “No. No one drove by.”

  “If they haven’t come by now, we’re good.” He put his hands on her shoulders. He wanted to hold her to him, but he could feel her resistance. Even at this moment, when all their lives were on the line. “One rifle shot in the forest—and we’re on forest land—nobody’s going to react to that. Not out here. It could be anybody.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. If law enforcement didn’t show up by now, they won’t.”

  He knew she understood—that he didn’t have to explain to her that even in a city or the suburbs, your average citizen would be reluctant to call in about one gunshot. Most people waited to hear if there was anything else going on. They either didn’t want to get involved, or they feared retribution, or they just didn’t want the hassle.

  “So what are you going to do?” Cindi asked.

  “Clean up this mess. Where are the keys to the Camaro?”

  “On the hook by the door. What about the agent?”

  That was a problem. Especially since Special Agent Keller had been focused on Landry. “We’re going to have to dispose of him and his car.”

  Cindi stared at him, emotions flitting across her face: horror, fear, anger, and, finally, acceptance. “They’ll look for him.”

  “That’s why his car is going to crash and burn.”

  She looked away.

  It came home to him that if he’d ever held out hope that they could be a family again, this was the end.

  She stared off into the trees. “I thought I loved Todd.” She hugged her arms to her body, and Landry thought there were tears in her eyes. “I feel like a . . . a goddamn fool and the worst mother in the world.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she gave him a look.

  “If he was still alive, I swear to God I would kill him again!”

  Then she turned on her heel and went inside to start the cleanup.

  “So this is what we’re gonna do?” Eric said. “Burn the van with him in it? You think it’s gonna work?”

  “Work?” Abruptly, Landry felt a coldness in his core.

  “Hey, earth to Cyril.”

  Landry saw it, a movie in his head. Two choices: Burying Todd somewhere and parking his car in a place where it was sure to be stolen. Putting Agent Keller’s body into his vehicle, torching it, then sending it into a ravine.

  “It’s not going to work,” he said.

  “What I was thinking,” Eric said. “For one thing, this is the FBI we’re dealing with—one of their own. This isn’t some Podunk cop shop we’re talking about. If he isn’t completely burned—hell, even if he is—they might still be able to ID him. Forensics, these days.”

  Landry said, “The VIN number.”

  “Yeah. There’s that. So what do we do?”

  Landry thought about it. There were other problems as well. What if he left the Camaro out for someone to steal—another loose end to tie up—and no one took it? The whole idea was problematic. Where was Todd when his car was being stolen? Something like that could turn into another investigation.

  More than one crime would lead a good investigator to question the whole scenario, so he might see that the stolen Camaro and the missing special agent were too much of a coincidence—especially if the FBI knew that SA Keller was surveilling Cindi and Kristal Landry.

  And Landry was sure in his bones that Special Agent Keller had watched his wife and daughter, that he had followed them to Big Bear Lake.

  Two many elements. Too many coincidences. Too many . . . vectors. All of those vectors could converge on one target: Cyril Landry. He would be at the center of it all.

  “Here’s what we do,” he said.

  CHAPTER 41

  Landry stepped inside the cabin. His girls—he would always think of them as that—were a dervish of activity. They’d pulled out a box of jumbo trash bags from under the sink and were stuffing items inside them—clothing from the drawers in the bedroom, jackets and blouses still on their hangers from the closet, toilet articles. Working as fast as they could.

  “Cindi,” Landry said. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  She stopped—poised above the trash bag, mid-shove—two pairs of athletic shoes—and glared at him. Anger seemed to roll off her in waves. He knew it was mostly humiliation and betrayal, but the look she gave him made him think she could cheerfully roast him on a spit.

  Which didn’t make sense, since it was Todd Barclay who had made a fool of them all. He put that out of his mind as unconstructive. “Let’s sit down and go over the plan,” he said.

  They sat down, Landry on a kitchen chair, his girls on the couch. Eric remained standing. Cindi and Krystal sat there, arms crossed, looking anywhere but at him. The room felt like the preface to a bad thunderstorm—dark, heavy, and foreboding. He could feel the electricity in the air.

  It didn’t help that the iron stink of blood pervaded the cabin.

  Landry wondered which way Cindi would focus her anger. He resigned himself to the fact that he would get his share. He’d dragged her into this—or rather his past did.

  “This is what we’re going to do,” he said. “I can’t do this without your full cooperation. If we don’t do it this way, then I can tell you for sure: we’re all going down. Cindi? Do you
hear what I’m saying?”

  She glared at him. Finally, she nodded.

  “Kristal?”

  She nodded as well. Her face was pale—she seemed to be in shock.

  “First, you have to put everything back where it was.”

  Without a word, they complied. The shoes and clothes went back into the closet of the bedroom. The suitcases were set under the window. The roll of paper towels, the vinegar and baking soda from under the sink, all to sop up the blood from the hardwood floor of the cottage—back in the cupboard.

  Fortunately, Landry and Eric had not gotten around to moving the body. Barclay lay where he’d fallen, forehead smacked into the floorboards, the exit wound out the back of his head turned sticky.

  Time to rehearse what they would say.

  Landry stressed that they had to keep the story simple—and true.

  Cindi would call the local police and tell them that her fiancé had been shot by an intruder. He was shot through the window of the cabin. The details would stay exactly the same: the man had shot his rifle through the window and killed Todd instantly.

  The same assailant had encountered someone else outside the cabin—that man would turn out to be Special Agent Andrew Keller, of the FBI.

  Why the special agent was spying on her cabin, Cindi didn’t know. She’d had no idea he was out there.

  But she recognized the man who had shot into the cabin. She’d met him once or twice at parties—he was a friend of her late husband, Cyril Landry. They had been Navy SEALs together. But she didn’t remember his name.

  Cindi said, “How about ‘Mark’ something?”

  “That’s fine. You only met him once or twice.”

  “Got it.”

  They went over their story several times. There had been some kind of ruckus outside the house. Todd started toward the kitchen and that was when he was shot through the window. Cindi saw a man’s face briefly, and then he was gone.

  “And the man was?”

  “A friend of my husband, but I can’t remember his name—except for ‘Mark.’ He worked with my husband—they were on the same SEAL team.”

  “Do you have any theories why he would do such a thing?”

  “He shouted something . . . It was right after he shot Todd.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I’ve repaid my debt.’”

  “Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “No idea?”

  “Maybe . . . maybe he didn’t like the idea that Todd took my husband’s place.”

  There was the other man, SA Andrew Keller. “Did you know that Agent Keller was watching you?”

  “He came and interviewed me about Cyril, once. He thought he was alive.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “No. I’d know if he was.”

  “And then this guy Keller, he showed up here?”

  “I had no idea he was watching the house.”

  “Think back. Did the friend of your husband—Mark—say anything about the man?”

  “He said: ‘I got them both.’”

  “What did he mean by that? Got them both?”

  “He said I didn’t have to worry anymore—he did it for his buddy. In his memory.”

  “Why would Keller think your husband was alive?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re sure your husband is dead?”

  “I’d know if he was alive.”

  It was the best they could do. Landry thought it would work. Eric wasn’t so sure.

  They had gone over Cindi’s story several times. It was time to go. Landry looked at his wife and daughter. “I would practice it a few times,” he said.

  “Just get out of here,” Cindi said. She held on to her daughter and, when Landry reached out, put Kristal behind her. “You wrecked our lives. You’re the reason Luke is dead. Just do us both a favor and leave.”

  Landry felt as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him. Burying him in sand, filling his throat, choking him. He realized it wasn’t sand filling his throat, but tears.

  “Cindi—”

  She covered her ears with her hands. “Please! Just go!”

  It registered with him at last. The desperation in her voice. As if she had been torn apart—and he was the cause. He had been the cause of everything, including Luke Brodsky’s death.

  Landry knew he needed to go, that he needed to leave them to their lives. It was the only good thing left that he could do.

  A breeze blew through, lifting the ponderosa pine needles. A branch creaked against the house. The windows threw squares of light onto the porch.

  “Okay,” he said at last. “I’ll go.”

  He walked out with Eric to the car, neither of them speaking. Aware of his wife’s gaze on the back of his neck, his daughter’s.

  He turned and looked at his wife. “I want to be there,” he said. “For you. For Kristal. She is my daughter.”

  Cindi gave him a short nod.

  “Not now, maybe, but . . .”

  “I understand,” Cindi said, her voice neutral. His daughter staring at him, part in shock, but part, he thought, with love.

  “I wish . . .” He stopped.

  There was that small chance. An opening, but not now.

  The sky had lightened. Landry looked out to the lake through the trees and saw the first streaks of pink on the water—the hint of a beautiful day.

  He did not look back.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to the experts who helped make this book a reality. First and foremost, thanks to John Peters, CEO of Pro-Tect International Operations and Lightning Force Training, whose expertise in weaponry, military tactics, spy-craft, war, intelligence, and all manner of nefarious arts introduced me to places I never knew existed. Places you won’t find on any map. This book would not be the book it is without his encyclopedic and practical knowledge, and his willingness to share that knowledge with me. John, you always think on your feet and you have been an absolute joy to work with.

  Thanks also to my friend Mohur Sarah Sidhwa, who sat me down one sunny Tucson morning and walked me through the day in the life of a presidential candidate on the campaign trail. I am fascinated by the process, and it left me appreciating politicians for their dedication. They actually do work hard. Who knew?

  And thanks again to my good friend William Simon, who writes under the name Will Graham. I don’t know how many panic attacks I’ve had over lost electronic manuscripts or the need for that special something to fix a plot problem, but you’ve always been there for me. Cheers to the big brother I never had. Thanks to my dear friend Pam Stack, who blitzed the radio waves relentlessly to help gain me listeners and fans. I am so grateful to you, Pam, and happy for our kinship.

  It takes a village to raise a book, and I am grateful to every one of the Thomas & Mercer team. Thanks to Anh Schluep, my editor, who shepherded me through the always-enjoyable publishing process at Thomas & Mercer, and to Kevin Smith, whose remarkable editing skills made Hard Return a much better book. Kevin, you haven’t just made a difference in my manuscripts, you’ve made a difference in my writing, and I will always be grateful for that. Many thanks to the wonderful Thomas & Mercer Author Team: Jacque Ben-Zekry, Marketing; Tiffany Pokorny, Author Relations; Paul Morrissey, Production; and Justine Fowler, Merchandising.

  As ever, I owe a great debt of gratitude to Deborah Schneider and to all the folks at Gelfman Schneider who have supported me every step of the way. I feel so lucky to have found safe harbor at last.

  And last, but not least, my love and gratitude to my mother, Mary Falk, and my husband, Glenn McCreedy. Glenn, you’re the best partner imaginable, and I am one damn lucky person to have you in my corner and in my heart.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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  Photo © 2013 Galen Evans

  Hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as “a strong new voice in American crime fiction,” J. Carson Black has written fifteen novels. Her thriller The Shop reached #1 on the Kindle Bestseller list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. Although Black earned a master’s degree in operatic voice, she was inspired to write a horror novel after reading The Shining. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.