The Sheriff of Shelter Valley

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I was an idiot,” he said. “Like a lot of sixteen-year-old boys, I was certain that the need to be careful didn’t apply to me. I was young. Strong. Succeeded at most everything I set my mind to. Popular. Nothing was going to happen to me.”

  “I take it something did.”

  Ryan’s eyes were slowly closing.

  Greg nodded. “Drinking a few beers wasn’t new to me,” Greg related softly. “Didn’t faze me at all. So, of course, I was certain that little mushroom thing wouldn’t, either.

  “The worst part was, I didn’t even want the damn thing,” he continued. “What I’d wanted was to preserve my reputation. I put a lot of stock in being one of the cool guys.”

  “Don’t most people?”

  He was tempted to ask if she had. But didn’t.

  “Probably. In a small place like Shelter Valley, word gets around quickly. If a guy chickened out or acted like a wimp, he might as well empty his locker in the training room and move in with the nerds.”

  “So what happened?”

  He loved that voice. The one that wrapped him in warmth.

  “I had a bad mescaline trip. Thought I was dying. The other guys were in another world, playing some version of football I couldn’t figure out. I couldn’t run. I couldn’t breathe. They told me afterward that I stood in front of that rock for more than an hour. What I remember was knowing that some freak thing had happened to the world and only that rabbit and I were left. If I took my eyes off it, it might be gone, too, and then there’d only be me.”

  “My God, that must have been horrible. You were just a kid!”

  “Yeah, well, that wasn’t the worst part. That came when one of the guys dropped me off at my house and I had to face Bonnie and my dad. She took one look at my face and was terrified that I was going to die. My father knew better. He checked me out and then sent me to my room.

  “I’ll never forget the disappointment on his face as I walked away. I lost my father’s unconditional trust that night.”

  “I’ll bet you never did drugs again.”

  “Never.”

  “And you regained his trust.”

  “Eventually,” Greg sighed. “But trust is a funny thing. Once you lose it, you never regain it in its original form.”

  THE SOLEMNITY IN GREG’S WORDS, and in the mood between them, touched Beth deeply. She had no memory of personal trust. And yet her heart understood exactly what Greg was saying.

  “I thought we were on an outing to solve a case,” she said softly, hoping to bring him out of a reverie that couldn’t be pleasant.

  “We are.”

  “Here?”

  He nodded, and slowly pulled an envelope out of his pocket. Handing it to her, he flipped on the overhead light in the truck. But not before draping Ryan’s blanket over the top and sides of his car seat, shielding the sleeping child from the harsh light.

  Such a simple gesture. One that brought tears to Beth’s eyes for the second time in less than an hour.

  “Look at these and tell me what you think,” he said.

  Baffled by the lack of explanation, Beth took the envelope. There were pictures inside. She slid them out, curious. There were several pictures of the same car, taken from different angles. It appeared that the only real damage had been to the front end.

  Until she exposed the image of the car’s interior. It was little more than a black frame, burned-out.

  Beth swallowed, aching inside. “Your father’s car.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at the photos. “Do you see anything at all that reminds you of something else?”

  Frowning, Beth looked again, trying to help him. To find what he needed her to find. But he was being so vague, and—

  “The paw waving,” she said suddenly. She could feel the blood drain from her face as she raised her eyes from the photo to the rock outside, still recognizable as it gleamed in the headlights Greg had flipped on. “You think someone ran this car into that mountain.”

  The look Greg gave her was piercing. Demanding total honesty.

  “Do you?”

  “I think it’s definitely possible. That paw is so distinctive.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She couldn’t bear to see any more. Slipping the photos back into their envelope, she passed the envelope to Greg. “Was your father found near here?”

  “Not really.”

  “So his injuries were from a car accident?”

  Greg shook his head. “He’d been beaten with some kind of blunt object, possibly fists.”

  “Why would someone beat him up and then ram his car into a rock?”

  “Good question. And it wasn’t just his car.” Greg was tapping the envelope against his steering wheel. “All of the cars that were involved in carjackings that summer, and then again this summer, bore similar dents in their front ends.”

  Shivering, Beth gazed around at the dark desert night. They were all alone out there. Miles from civilization. “It’s the connection you’ve been looking for,” she said slowly.

  “More than that, it’s a place to look for the reason. There can’t be too many people who know about this place.”

  “Where do you even start looking?”

  “First thing I’m going to do is talk to Burt. He was the one who combed this area in August. And then there’s an old hermit who lives about ten miles from here. The guys I partied with that night used to talk about him.”

  “That was twenty years ago. You think he’ll still be around?”

  “Maybe. He wasn’t all that old back then. Story was, his wife had been raped and murdered in their home someplace in Tucson while he was at work. Had a life insurance policy that made him wealthy. He bought some land out here and wouldn’t let anyone near the place. He was pretty warped from the whole thing. Unless he’s dead, chances are he’s still here.”

  Beth shivered again. Greg told the story as if it were an everyday occurrence. To him, the sheriff of an entire county, that probably wasn’t far from the truth. She didn’t want to live in a world where violence was commonplace. Where you had to fear the evil that lurked in unexpected places, at unexpected times.

  She wasn’t even aware that panic was starting to descend until she automatically initiated relaxation techniques. Why did she have such a strong premonition that evil could not be escaped?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RYAN WAS SLEEPING SOUNDLY, his head resting against the padded side of his car seat. “I’d like to check one more thing before we head back, if you don’t mind,” Greg said to Beth.

  “Of course I don’t mind.”

  Grabbing his spotlight, he climbed out of the truck, careful to shut the door softly behind him. His gun was a welcome weight against his thigh.

  Approaching the mountain’s rock face, Greg shone the light all over the ground, looking for tire tracks. While he couldn’t make out one distinct and single set of tracks that led to the rabbit-shaped rock, it was obvious that the clearing had been used recently. And often. There were many sets of tire tracks, ranging in size from mountain bikes to four-wheel-drive trucks like Greg’s, all crisscrossing each other.

  “Looks like there’s been some kind of racing going on through here.”

  He hadn’t known Beth was with him. She’d left the truck door slightly open, obviously so they could hear if Ryan woke up.

  “Or maybe just kids spinning their wheels, doing fishtails, practicing mountain bike tricks, that sort of thing. I feel like such a fool, with all this going on right under my nose.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “I knew this place was here. I just thought everyone else had forgotten about it.”

  With her toe Beth smoothed a clump of dirt in the middle of one of the tracks. “I guess if you were looking for tracks that would prove your theory, this spoils that, huh?”

  “Not necessarily,” Greg said. He shone the light up to the edge of the mountain. “Look.
”

  “No tracks,” Beth said, sounding almost as though she felt sorry for him.

  “Yeah,” Greg said, walking more quickly. “No tracks, and an unnatural pattern in the dirt. Someone did this deliberately.”

  “To wipe out tracks?”

  “That would be my guess.” With the mountain now in the spotlight, Greg studied every inch of the rabbit formation. “But that’s not what I was looking for,” he said.

  A moment later, heart pounding, he added. “This was.”

  Seething with mixed emotions, Greg stood there and stared at the paint mark in the middle of the rabbit’s paw. Anger was in the forefront, but some elation and a curious kind of relief were there, as well. The paint wasn’t from his father’s car, of course; that would’ve long since worn away.

  “It’s the exact color of the car stolen from a young U of A dancer back in August,” he said. “I’m surprised Burt missed it.”

  “Unless he didn’t know about the clearing.”

  That had to be it. Though if anybody could find this little-known gathering place, it would be his star deputy.

  Feeling an urgent need for connection, Greg slid his arm around Beth. Her long hair covered the sleeve of his uniform. Motioning back to the truck with his head, he asked, “Does he usually sleep this soundly?”

  She nodded, her hair brushing his shoulder. “Unless he has a nightmare. He should be out for the night.”

  “He won’t wake up when you get him home? Change him?”

  “Maybe, but he’ll go right back to sleep.”

  “He’s a great kid.”

  “Yeah.” Greg was curious about the sound of worry, not pride, in her voice.

  He could no longer deny his suspicion that Beth was dealing with much more than the death of her husband. She was immediately nervous anytime he surprised her, which was definitely a giveaway. Although what it revealed he didn’t know. When he’d called her that night, she’d been instantly defensive. Or that time he’d surprised her at the Mathers when she’d been cleaning. And the time he’d shown up unannounced on her doorstep. She was afraid, that much was obvious—but why? Of what—or whom?

  The darkness, the solitude, the idea that they were all alone out here, miles from anywhere, the fact that she hadn’t moved away from him, gave Greg an unusual sense of security where she was concerned. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  She stiffened. “Yes.”

  “And you’ll give me an honest answer?”

  “If I can.”

  He almost changed his mind. But if what he suspected was true, she might need help—protection even. And he couldn’t provide it until he knew where the enemy lived. Inside her? That was a possibility; it could certainly be part of the answer. Or was the enemy someplace else? Perhaps wherever she’d come from…

  “Was your husband murdered?”

  “What?” Beth turned to face him. “Why do you ask that?” Her arms were wrapped around herself, and she was as defensive as he’d ever seen her. He’d hit a raw nerve.

  “I’m wondering, actually, if you might somehow have witnessed the murder,” he said, determining to at least get it all out. “It would explain so much.” He wanted to reach for her, pull her against him. And yet he understood that it would be the worst thing he could do. “Your complete inability to talk about your life before you came to Shelter Valley, your nervousness, which surfaces at unexpected times. Maybe even the reaction you had that night at the casino. Was he killed at one of your concerts? And is that why playing the piano seems almost painful for you?”

  “Can we go home now?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Beth hurried back to the truck. She strapped herself in and waited.

  Resigned, disappointed, Greg followed her. But he didn’t immediately start the truck. “Beth, I want to help.”

  “I know.” She sat stiffly, facing front.

  “I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m helping with.”

  “I need to go home.”

  Had there been any feeling at all in her voice, he might have pressured her a little more, tried harder. As it was, there didn’t seem to be much point. It didn’t matter whether he kept Beth there with him or not. She’d already left.

  Because he’d hit too close to the truth? And if so, would she come to him, talk to him about it when she got over the shock of his having guessed?

  Or maybe he was conjuring this up, too, to help him accept the fact that the woman he was falling in love with wasn’t nearly as willing to open her heart—and her life—to him.

  IN THE DUPLEX’S ONLY BEDROOM late that night, Beth sat on the floor in the dark by her son’s crib and shook. The glow from the cheap shell-shaped night-light plugged into the wall was her focus. She kept her vision trained there.

  Had she witnessed her husband’s murder? Was that the horrible truth awaiting her if she ever fought her way out of her mental prison?

  Was her lie about being a widow not a lie at all?

  Cold, light-headed, she tried to find her way in the darkness of her mind, searched for anything familiar, any bit of recognition. A picture. A single memory.

  Even a name.

  Her son moved and her eyes were drawn toward the crib. Had Ryan witnessed the murder, too? Was that the trauma that had brought about his silence? From the very beginning of this nightmare, her baby boy had said his name. And hers. But never once had she heard him say “da da.” One of the first words most babies seemed to say.

  Pulling her knees up to her chest, she hugged them tightly, her hands clutching her upper arms. The shivers were uncontrollable. She couldn’t get up to retrieve the quilt from her bed. Didn’t want to be trapped beneath it, anyway.

  What if she’d killed her husband? What if that was why she’d witnessed the murder?

  Maybe it was why she’d run away with her son, only a gym bag, two-thousand dollars cash and a couple of diapers in her possession.

  “Oh God, Ry,” she whispered brokenly. “What have I done? What am I doing to you?”

  There were no answers, not from the sleeping little boy, not from inside her. Only debilitating fear.

  Beth sat there long into the night, trying to find a way to go on.

  “I KNOW NOTHING about any such clearing,” Burt told Greg early the next morning. The two men, dressed in full uniform, were in Burt’s office in the county sheriff’s building, nearly twenty miles from Shelter Valley. Greg’s own office was two floors down.

  “What about the hermit who lives out near the foot of the mountains?” Greg asked. “Did you talk to him?”

  Burt shook his head. “Far as I could tell, he’s long gone. That shack of his looked deserted. I checked back a couple times and there was no sign of life.”

  Damn. The old guy had been his best lead. Or at least the easiest one.

  Greg went over every detail of the case with Burt again, knocking ideas around, seeking his deputy’s invaluable reasoning ability. In the end, they’d come up with nothing more than an agreement to continue searching.

  “How soon can you and I take a trip out to Rabbit Rock?” Greg asked as he stood to leave.

  Burt looked at his watch. “This afternoon?” he asked. “Around three?”

  Greg was disappointed that Culver couldn’t make it before then. But he smiled, shook Burt’s hand, made plans to meet him back at the office later that afternoon.

  Taking the elevator down to the first floor where his own suite of offices was, Greg tried to shake an uneasy feeling. Burt hadn’t been brushing him off. The deputy was as eager as Greg to get to work on this latest development. Which was most likely why he’d picked up the phone and started dialing before Greg had shut the office door behind him.

  Greg didn’t turn right as he’d intended when he got off the elevator. He strode straight through the front doors of the county building and headed to his car, his other “office.”

  Keeping busy had always been a cure for the restlessness that sometimes nagged at
him. That was the only reason he was going to drive out to visit that hermit’s cabin for himself.

  It was something to pass the time until he and Burt took their little field trip that afternoon. He was very eager to hear what kind of evidence his deputy would turn up before then.

  If anyone could find the missing pieces that would make some sense out of a bunch of senseless crimes, Burt Culver could.

  He was the best damn cop Greg had ever known.

  THE HERMIT, JOE FRANCIS—although Greg had never heard anyone use his name—was still around. Greg smelled old cooking grease when he got out of his car on the old man’s property. Calling it a front yard would be too generous. The weathered gray logs and boarded-up windows made the shack appear deserted. But that smell. Someone had been cooking there recently.

  “Joe?” Greg called, with no idea if the old guy even considered the name his own anymore. Looking cautiously around, he stood still, hoping for a chance to explain before he got shot at.

  Not that the hermit had ever been considered dangerous. As far as Greg had ever heard, Francis wasn’t violent or out to hurt anyone. He just wanted to be left alone.

  “Joe Francis?” he called again. “You here?”

  As impatient as he’d been with Burt that morning, he was patient now. He hoped Joe would show himself eventually; Greg wasn’t going to be able to leave without checking out that cabin. And he was loath to trespass on the man’s private sanctuary without an invitation.

  “Joe, you there?” he called again, taking a step away from the car. “I’m just here to introduce myself,” he said. “I’m the new sheriff in this county. My name’s Greg Richards.”

  He almost missed the set of eyes peering at him from a tall clump of desert brush off to the right of the shack. “Is that you, Joe?” he asked the clump.

  It moved. And the eyes were gone.

  “I mean you no harm,” Greg said in the direction of the clump. Joe—or someone—had to be back there. The clump, surrounded by low-lying desert brush, was the only coverage for several yards. “I’m on official business, as you’ve probably figured out,” he added. “But it has nothing to do with you. There’s a slight chance you might be able to help me, though.”