Weston

by Dale Mayer

  “That’s not fair,” Angel said. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “No. You did know. That’s the thing. Back then you knew exactly what you were doing and couldn’t get it done fast enough. The sad part is, for whatever reason, you’ve come back to try to change it now. But, Angel, despite what you say, I don’t believe for one minute it has anything to do with your maternal instincts or your concern for Sari’s best interests.”

  “I need her,” Angel said, and a certain amount of urgency was evident in her voice.

  Frowning, Daniela said, “What for?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said, “but I have to have her.”

  “No. She is not a pawn for whatever game you’re playing.” With that, Daniela hung up.

  Shaking, her hands trembling badly, she dropped the phone on the bed and sank down beside Sari. Knowing she might scare her little girl, Daniela resisted the temptation to hug her and just curled around Sari and watched while she played with the scarves, rolling around and laughing. Daniela didn’t know what she’d do if anything happened to little Sari.

  Daniela’s heart was completely overwhelmed with the idea of Angel being a threat. It never occurred to her at the time of the adoption that something like this would happen. Of course it should have. She must have had at least some inkling that Angel wasn’t completely stable. It was one of the reasons why they’d been happy to pay for Angel’s flight to Vegas, just to get her out of Alaska.

  But now Angel was back.

  Daniela had promised to let Weston know if she heard from Angel, so she picked up her phone and called him. When he answered, his voice was distracted.

  “I just heard from Angel again,” she said. “She said she needs Sari. Not that she loves her or misses her or anything like that. Just that she needs her and that I wouldn’t understand.”

  An odd silence came on the other end before he said, “Make sure you stay inside with the doors locked, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, “but now you’re scaring me. Why?”

  “Listen. Don’t panic, but I’m pinned at Ginger’s accident site. Somebody is shooting at me,” he said. “I don’t know what the hell Angel is doing, but I’m not in a position to head that way just yet. But you call me if there’s even a hint of trouble. If somebody tries to steal my daughter, I will be there no matter what,” he said.

  “Oh, my God, Weston,” she said. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a broken laugh. “I’m fine. Shambhala’s here too, and we’re both fine. I’m just waiting for him to disappear or to come after me.”

  “Why would you say that?” she asked.

  “Well, because it’s got to stop,” he said. “So this guy has to come to see if he’s taken me out, which is a dangerous move, or else he’ll retreat. But then he won’t know for sure.”

  “You have no idea who it is?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m at the accident site where Ginger and supposedly Grant died. I was just coming up the hill to get back to the truck when somebody started shooting.”

  “And you think it’s Grant or his brother?”

  “I have no clue,” he said, “but I don’t want to miss anything here, so I’ll get off the phone now. Go lock up the doors and windows, then stay put. I’ll check in soon.” With that, he hung up.

  She went downstairs to lock the front door. As she checked the windows, she wondered if she should just cancel the date tonight. Safety was paramount, and she didn’t want to put her sister in a difficult situation either. She hesitated making the call, thinking she would give it some time, see what would happen.

  Just twenty minutes later, her phone rang. She snatched her phone, hearing Weston’s voice as soon as she picked it up. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he said in a cheerful voice. “The guy’s gone.”

  “But that means you don’t know who it was, right?”

  “No, but the detective is here. We’re taking fingerprints off my rented vehicle. I looked for but didn’t find a tracker. We found where he was shooting from and tracked his footprints too, so we’re better off than if he hadn’t shot at me.”

  She sat down hard in the kitchen chair. ‘That sounds crazy. I don’t understand how this all started.”

  “I’m not sure either,” he said. “I’m heading out to Grant and Ginger’s now, with the detective. Don’t worry. I still expect to be home on time for our dinner date.”

  “Earlier you made it sound like you thought Sari and I were in danger. Should we even be going out tonight?”

  He hesitated and then said, “Or, we could take Sari to your sister’s house and pick her up on the way home. Would that be better?”

  “It would probably make me feel better. I wouldn’t want to put my sister in danger.”

  “Understood,” he said. “So call your sister and see if that’ll work for her.”

  “Or we could just do it later,” she said, fretting.

  “You can’t keep avoiding us,” he said.

  “Avoiding what?” she asked. “I haven’t been on a date in years, so what difference does it make if I wait a little longer?”

  “I hear you,” he said. “But I really would like to spend some time with you.”

  “We could pick up and bring it in?” she said hopefully.

  He laughed. “Are you afraid of me or afraid of going out on a date?”

  “Neither. I’m afraid of something happening when we’re not here. I would never forgive myself.”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll pick up something and bring it home. But I’m not counting that as the date. We’re just pushing that back a bit.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “Once this craziness is over, we won’t have to worry so much.”

  “Maybe not as much as now,” he said, “but I doubt if it’ll be over that quickly.”

  She frowned at that. “So, do you know when you’ll be home?”

  “A couple hours,” he said. “Go ahead and call your sister and cancel. But remember. It’s a temporary postponement.” With that, he hung up.

  The detective drove in front of him, and, with Shambhala beside him, Weston drove his rental right through to Grant and Ginger’s property. When Weston hopped out, the detective stood on the front porch, knocking on the door. No vehicles were around, no signs of life. When there was no response from inside, the detective pushed open the door as it was already slightly ajar. With Shambhala at his side, Weston caught up and the two walked into the living room.

  “Hello? Anyone home?” Weston called out.

  Shambhala headed for her bed in front of the fireplace and lay down.

  He looked at her and smiled. “Every time we come here, she goes there.”

  “Smart dog,” the detective said. “But where the hell is Grant?”

  “Do you believe it’s Grant, or do you think it’s his brother, Gregory?”

  “I have no clue. I don’t particularly like either of them, and nothing about this situation makes any sense.”

  “I hear you there,” Weston said.

  They did a quick search of the cabin but found nobody here.

  Weston walked over to the fridge and pulled it open. “Doesn’t look like the guy’s been staying here,” he said, “because the fridge is empty.”

  They checked everything else, but it didn’t look like anybody was living here at all.

  “If it is Grant,” the detective said, “why wouldn’t he stay here? It’s his place.”

  “Looks like we’re back to that same issue.”

  “I don’t like anything about this.” Frustrated, the detective stood in the center of the living room, turning around in a slow circle.

  “And what does that threatening letter have to do with anything?” Weston asked, leaning against the sink, his arms across his chest. “And the shooter?” he added. “Where the hell did he come from?”

  “It makes sense that it would have been Grant or Gregory. I just don’t know
why.”

  “And did it have anything to do with the lawyer who handled the Buckmans’ estate?”

  “That’s another question,” the detective said. “We’ve got people going through the dead lawyer’s files to see if anything unusual is in there. But the Buckman estate hasn’t been settled yet because it’s only been six weeks. Everything goes to the brother though, so that shouldn’t have been much of an issue.”

  “No. Unless somebody else was supposed to get it.”

  The detective raised both hands, palms up. “So, what? He kills the two of them, expecting to get the property? We don’t have anybody else here to blame.”

  “How old was Ginger?”

  The detective smirked. “She was coming up on her fifties. Her husband was a little younger.”

  “She was a looker?”

  He frowned at that. “Yes, she was. Like one of those women who never really ages. She used to be a model or some such thing. I don’t know.”

  “Interesting,” Weston said.

  “Why? What are you thinking?”

  “How old do you think Grant is?”

  “He was younger for sure,” the detective said. “Maybe forty, or almost anyway.”

  “Right. Any chance Ginger’s kids are after the property? Like maybe they figured that the couple was dead, and they should get it instead of Gregory?” Weston headed out to the front door, around the porch. He thought he’d heard something but wasn’t sure. He didn’t have a weapon, but he did have Shambhala, and her ears were pointed toward the woodshed. He looked back at the detective and lifted a finger to his lips. With Shambhala at his side, he headed there.

  He walked around the outside perimeter of the outbuilding first, and then he pulled the door wide open but hid behind it, in case any shots were fired. No sound came. Ears up, Shambhala stared around the corner, but they didn’t hear another sound.

  Shrugging, he went inside. The woodshed was heavily packed for the winter, which was a good sign. There was a space at the far end for some tools and for access, but not a ton of openings for someone to hide in. Then again, it didn’t take a lot.

  As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he heard the detective coming up behind him. He turned to look just as a rifle barrel came down from the top of the woodshed, where somebody had obviously been hiding. Reaching up, Weston grabbed the rifle barrel before it could fire and swung it to the ground, along with the shooter.

  The detective pounced on him, and, sure enough, it was Grant. “Now what the hell are you up to?”

  He spat on the ground. “You’re trespassing.”

  “You’re a dead man,” Weston said carelessly.

  Shambhala once again sat at Weston’s side but didn’t appear to want to go toward the man. Weston already knew Shambhala preferred Ginger to Grant, but still, most dogs had a relationship with both people in a situation like this. Shambhala could still prefer one but be friendly to both.

  He looked at her and frowned. “Shambhala, you don’t seem to care about this guy.”

  “Best evidence I’ve seen yet to say it’s not Grant,” the detective said. “My money says it’s the bloody brother.”

  “Even if I am, what difference does it make?”

  “It doesn’t. The place is probably yours once probate is done,” the detective said.

  “Unless you killed to get it,” Weston said.

  “I didn’t kill anybody,” he said.

  “Somebody’s got to know if this is Gregory or Grant,” Weston said.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” the guy said. “Maybe you’re just being fooled.”

  At that, the detective stopped and said, “Are there just the two brothers?”

  “I don’t know,” he said with a big grin.

  Because he was being an asshole, Weston wanted to punch him for the sake of punching him. “Why don’t you charge him with murder one,” he said to the detective. “It’s obvious he ran his brother and his wife off the road anyway.”

  The detective looked at him in surprise, then looked back at the man and frowned. “Did you?”

  “Hell no,” he said. “What would be my motive?”

  “This place,” Weston said.

  “What about this place? Nothing’s here.”

  “What were you doing in the woodshed?” Weston said, changing the subject.

  “None of your fucking business.”

  “What are you looking for on the property?” he asked. At that, the man stiffened, and Weston knew he was on the right track. “What did they do? Find a gold claim or something?”

  “Were they running some other business, and you found out and came to help yourself?” the detective added.

  “You don’t know anything,” he said with a sneer.

  “No, I don’t,” the detective said, “but I know two people are dead, and you’re the hand behind it.”

  “I am not.” He turned to look at the detective. “You’ve got nothing on me.”

  The detective looked at Weston with a frown.

  Weston said, “Take a sample of his handwriting and match it up against the threatening letter.”

  “Oh, shit,” the detective said. “You know what? I’ve been really worn out, working with half my team gone. Otherwise I would have picked it up sooner. You’re the one who threatened them, aren’t you?”

  “And what did you do, cut the brake lines or something?” Weston asked.

  “Under the circumstances, nobody looked hard for forensic evidence because the vehicle was so badly smashed and burned,” the detective added.

  “Which explains why this guy here, with his rifle, was shooting at me earlier today when I got to nosing around the accident vehicle.”

  The man just glared at both of them.

  “We still don’t know if you’re Grant or Gregory,” Weston said. “I’ve been asking around town to see if one of you had any distinguishing marks, but, outside of a couple broken bones and whatnot, it doesn’t seem there’s a whole lot of difference. The X-rays will sort it out though.”

  At that, the man before them frowned, as if trying to recall what breaks they were talking about.

  “We can surely get a warrant to have him X-rayed, can’t we?” Weston asked the detective.

  “Yep. For suspicion of murder, we can. I still don’t understand what his motivation was,” the detective said. “There is this place, but it won’t fetch a whole lot of money.”

  “Not sure it was even about money as much as a place to disappear.”

  “You don’t even know who I am,” he said. “Until you do, you’ve got no motive, and you’ll never get a warrant.”

  “Maybe,” Weston said, turning to study the area. “But we’ll find it if we start digging.”

  “No, you won’t,” he said.

  Just then Weston’s phone buzzed. It was Badger. He looked at the message. “Oh, look at that. Gregory’s got a record in Las Vegas for cheating, stealing, not to mention, breaking and entering.” Weston whistled. “And look at this—suspicion of manslaughter.” He glared at the guy. “You got yourself in a shit ton of trouble, didn’t you?” He turned to the detective. “You better get those files out of Las Vegas pretty damn fast, I’d say. Guess we won’t need the X-rays after all. This guy’s been fingerprinted plenty of times.”

  The detective turned to look at the man. “That’s it. I’m taking you in for questioning.”

  “I’m not going,” the guy said, stepping back. “I’m not the one responsible for all that shit.”

  “So you’re either Gregory or you are Grant then, and we’ll know the truth sooner or later.”

  “Crap,” he said, and he seemed to sag in place.

  However, that was just a decoy because, as the detective turned and relaxed, the man pulled out a handgun from his back waistband and held it on Kruger.

  “Whoa, son, take it easy now,” the detective said, backing out.

  “I won’t take it easy. That’s my brother who died down there, but he didn’t
die hard enough. He brought that shithole of a loan shark up here with him. They’ve been hassling us for a long time, but, no, my brother wasn’t happy enough with that, he had to go and get my bloody wife pregnant too, didn’t he?”

  “I have no idea. Did he? Do we need to do an autopsy on her and find out for sure?”

  “There shouldn’t have been any more than a few crispy critters left after that fire,” he said. “But the damn thing wouldn’t even burn on its own. I had to go down there and light it on fire.”

  “Why? Because he was screwing your wife? Did you really hate your wife that much?”

  “Nobody likes to be made a fool of like that,” he said. “What I told you in the first place was true. What I didn’t tell you is that my brother came here, in trouble, but he also brought the trouble with him. Some guy he owed money to—a loan shark—came up behind him. Him and his muscle threatened me, and they threatened her. When we realized it was all about Gregory, he was laughing like a loon, thinking it was funnier than shit. I made a deal with a loan shark that he could have my brother, but he was to go away and leave us alone. I haven’t got anything left,” he said.

  “Well, you could have gotten some help for that,” Weston said, studying him closely. He couldn’t see a killer in him as much as a man who had been pushed to the wall. But he was a killer nonetheless, particularly since he had a handgun in his hand.

  “I just couldn’t take it anymore, and I shot Gregory,” he said. “As I stood there, staring down at the body, my wife came down the stairs and started screaming at me, telling me how she loved him, and he was the father of her child. She just wouldn’t stop. I turned the handgun around, and I started wailing on her, and all of a sudden I had two bodies on the floor. She wasn’t dead, but she might as well have been, so I loaded them up and drove them over to the edge. Took the dog with me thinking to kill her too, just clean the slate. But she jumped out and took off. I put my brother in position and pushed the whole mess over the cliff. I knew it was so far down that nobody would bother trying to get it back up again. But the damn thing wouldn’t even burst into flames, though I’d figured it would for sure. So then I had to climb down and light it on fire.” He sagged in place but kept the gun ready. “It’s not the way I wanted things, and I loved my wife, but I just couldn’t stand the thought of her having an affair with him.”