Line of Fire

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “Thank you,” Kirt said. “If you two hadn’t been here …”

  “Maybe he just would have robbed the store and left.” I didn’t believe that, but there was no sense in giving him worse nightmares.

  “I don’t know. He seemed to have it out for me.” He grimaced in pain. “I’m getting married in two weeks. I—I—” He stopped, and I patted his undamaged shoulder until his shaking subsided.

  “Have you ever seen him before?” I asked

  Kirt shook his head. “He must have known this was our slow time. He must have watched and waited.”

  “Probably. The police will be here soon.”

  Customers arrived before the police did, hesitant at first when they saw the wounded clerk and the tied gunman but voicing enthusiasm once Shannon flashed his ID and they realized the danger was passed. Men and women alike gave me the once-over, and I knew they thought I was Shannon’s partner. Probably a good thing I was wearing my black dress pants and red sweater instead of my normal jeans and T-shirt. More official looking.

  “Stay outside!” Shannon ordered the crowd, but since much of the glass in the large windows was now missing, it didn’t make much difference. I hoped the local authorities arrived soon so we’d have help maintaining order.

  “Maybe he has something to do with that missing girl,” said a woman with a pinched face, her head and shoulders leaning through the missing window next to the counter. “He looks the type.”

  “Shove it!” the perp said, punctuating his command by a slew of foul words and threats. “You don’t know anything about that girl!”

  An admission of guilt? Maybe. If so, it would make what I came to do in Hayesville a lot easier.

  “What do you know about Jenny Vandyke?” I asked.

  He shot off more vicious words that included creative ways he would see me suffer. While the customers outside gaped at him in disbelief through the shattered windows, I tore off a piece of duct tape and plastered it roughly over his mouth. He glared at me, but I refused to react. My heartbeat was back to normal, and I liked it that way.

  “He’s just yanking your chain,” said a broad, older man with more muscles than most men half his age and less hair than most men twice his age. “My bet for the girl is on that old recluse who makes those tree sculptures. Didn’t you hear the police were questioning him?”

  I stiffened and glanced toward Shannon. He met my gaze, but his eyes didn’t reveal his thoughts. That “old recluse” was the reason we were on our way to Hayesville and the reason I wasn’t in jeans. I’d told myself the dressing up was for Shannon, but he’d seen me enough times at my worst that even I had to admit my logic was thin.

  “I don’t think it was the old man,” the Kirt said. The clerk was pale, but he hadn’t moaned since I’d bandaged him. He might be afraid I’d try a second time. I didn’t exactly have a gift of healing. “He comes in here sometimes. He’s a nice guy. Quiet.”

  “He’s a pervert, is what he is,” the woman retorted. “The quiet ones are always the worst.”

  “Yeah, I bet he’s guilty,” said a young woman who had somehow come inside and now held a handful of candy bars. “My husband has a friend who works for dispatch at the sheriff’s office. He told us they found one of the girl’s boots on his property a couple days ago.”

  “That wasn’t in the news,” said a man with a thick head of graying hair.

  The young woman shrugged. “Must be keeping it quiet for now.”

  “They ought to call for volunteers to search his land,” the first man said. “I’d go.” There was a ripple of agreement from several others.

  I wanted to leave, more anxious than ever to get to our destination. The information about the boot bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Though I knew he’d done terrible things during his life, I’d been hoping the old artist was innocent of kidnapping Jenny Vandyke. But if he was responsible, I’d make sure he paid.

  “Would you please wait outside?” I asked the woman with the candy bars in a tone that was far more polite than I was feeling. I thumbed at the clerk. “He really can’t sell them to you right now.”

  “Oh, sure.” Taking the candy bars with her, she sauntered toward the glass door that was remarkably unscathed.

  We’d gathered nearly a dozen people by this time, including the other employee, who kept loudly voicing his desire to let the people inside the store so he could start cashing in on the interested bystanders. Apparently, this section of road outside Hayesville was more popular today than our gunman had anticipated. Or maybe the growing pile of cars outside convinced people to stop here instead of waiting to buy their gas in town. This was suddenly the happening place.

  A murmur went through the crowd. “Sheriff’s deputies are here. Ambulance, too.”

  Shannon took out his badge and waved the deputies over. In the light streaming through the broken windows, his sandy hair appeared lighter than usual, the ends curling as they always did when he needed a haircut.

  “You’re going to be fine,” I told Kirt as the EMTs hurried over to us.

  “Thanks.” His gaze went to the gunman, his eyes narrowing. He said he hadn’t seen the man before, but could he be wrong? He shrugged and turned to leave with the paramedics.

  “Wait,” I said. “Do you know the way to that artist’s house? Cody Beckett, the old guy you said comes in here sometimes.”

  He nodded. “He lives even farther out of town than we are, in an unincorporated section of land. Just take the road behind the station. Keep going about a mile. Turn right and go another mile or so. Not sure how far. I’ve only been out there once since he finished the big scarecrow. But it’s on that road. Just keep going until you see his sculptures. Can’t miss ’em.”

  “You’ve seen his work?” He was the first person I’d talked to who’d actually seen Beckett’s work in person, and I was curious as to what he thought.

  He shrugged. “Everyone goes out there at one point or another. Great place to take a date after dinner. You know, artsy but private. If a guy’s lucky, he might get a kiss or two. Last time I was out there, I proposed to my girl.” He grinned. “Wasn’t paying much attention to the sculptures then, if you know what I mean. His work is out in his fields, and the road in front of it is public land for anyone to see, but nobody goes to his house. He keeps a shotgun handy.”

  I guess there wasn’t much in the way of entertainment in Hayesville if going to see an old man’s log sculptures was a favorite pastime of the local youth. I wondered if they all kept their distance or if the man used that shotgun to stave off vandalism.

  “He’s kind of a local celebrity,” Kirt went on, “but shy about it, you know? The fact that he’s been in prison, well, that just adds to the mystery.” Kirt glanced over his shoulder. “Those people don’t know him. They’re looking for someone to blame. They’re scared.”

  “And you’re not?” That a fourteen-year-old had gone missing was huge news in this community.

  “I think she just ran away. Kids do that.”

  “The police don’t think so,” I said. Shannon had checked up on the case. Jenny Vandyke was fourteen but a young fourteen, tiny, slender, and blonde. I’d seen her picture, and she was a beautiful child. Nothing in the girl’s room was missing except her backpack, and she hadn’t mentioned anything to her friends. Two weeks ago, she’d simply never arrived at school. That was part of why I’d come to Hayesville to see Cody Beckett. I needed to know if he was guilty. “Do you know the girl’s family?”

  Kirt shrugged. “No. It’s just a guess.”

  The paramedics led him off. I hoped they’d take him to the hospital before removing the makeshift bandage so the bleeding wouldn’t start again, but he was in their hands now.

  I walked over near the door where Shannon was standing with the sheriff’s deputies, who’d finally managed to send away most of the gawking crowd. “This is Autumn Rain,” Shannon said. “She’s a consultant with us in Portland. Autumn, these are Detective Sergeant G
reeley and Detective Levine. They’re deputies with the Marion County sheriff’s office. Hayesville and the unincorporated areas here don’t have a police department, so the sheriff’s office has jurisdiction. Detective Greeley is over their criminal investigations unit.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Having left my gloves in Shannon’s truck, I kept my hands in my coat pockets. I couldn’t read people by touching them, but both detectives were wearing rings on their right hands, and I didn’t want to peek into their lives.

  “You, too.” Greeley pulled back his hand, the line between his eyes deepening. That was the way it often went—I offended people even when I was trying to be courteous. They had no idea how long it had taken me to learn not to offer my hand so that I wouldn’t invade their privacy. I’m involved in a constant struggle to maintain my own identity. Where once I, the adopted child of hippie parents named Winter and Summer, used to be open and accepting of everyone, I have become reluctant to reach out to others for fear of coming in contact with objects that contain their innermost feelings.

  Some feelings should never be revealed, not even those of people you love. Maybe especially not those you love.

  “I’ll come in later to make a full statement,” Shannon said. “Right now, we’re on our way somewhere.”

  “First we need to call your precinct.” Greeley pulled out a phone. “Just to check your story. Protocol, you understand.” He was taller than Shannon by half a foot, several inches of it wavy brown hair. He had an impressive build and a face that brooked no nonsense. Maybe he was even a little mean. Detective Levine was nearly the same height but slender with a pleasant face framed by short dark hair. His face was rounder, almost boyish, though he had to be nearing forty. He gave me a warm smile and a slight shake of his head that told me he didn’t agree with his partner.

  Shannon’s jaw clenched as he bit back a retort. He pulled out a pad and jotted something on it. “Look, this is my cell phone number and where I’m staying for the weekend. You can contact me if you need to. I promise, I won’t leave town.” He turned his back on them. “Let’s go,” he growled in an undertone. “It’s not as if I actually shot the man.”

  I didn’t bother to hide my grin. “Wait, I never got my drinks.” I found them on the counter where I’d left them. As I laid a few bills on the counter for payment, Detective Greeley was talking into his phone, his small brown eyes on Shannon. Hopefully, he’d figure out Shannon was legit in the next few minutes or we’d end up in jail ourselves.

  Detective Levine nodded at us as we passed, the hint of his former smile still on his lips as he glanced at his companion over our heads. I grinned back. At least we might have one ally among the local authorities.

  We left without further trouble, though the other gas station employee and the few remaining locals gave us odd stares as they noted the tension between us and Detective Greeley.

  Outside, another car from the sheriff’s office had pulled up, but the deputies who jumped out of it rushed past us without speaking. A breeze had come up, and I pulled my duffle coat tighter around me. The brown wool blend held up well to the rain, but it was damaged in the under part of the upper left sleeve where I’d been shot. I couldn’t afford a new coat of the same quality, so I’d have to make do until the end-of-season sales. As it was only December, I had a bit of a wait. Fortunately, I was handy with a needle, and unless people had really good eyes, they probably didn’t notice the repair.

  Shannon’s hand was on my back, the gentle pressure urging me forward. “You really know how to show a girl a good time,” I drawled. “Not even noon and I already got to dodge bullets.”

  He laughed, the tension draining from his face. “I’m just glad I came with you.”

  I was glad, too. And I was glad my sister had kept her promise to stay home with her baby. Though she wanted to meet Cody Beckett as much as I did, I’d put them in enough danger in the past.

  Cody Beckett. That’s what this trip was all about—seeing if it was safe to open a dialogue with the man, even though he wouldn’t likely welcome either of us.

  Since this was a private case, not something authorized by his captain, we’d brought Shannon’s truck instead of his unmarked white police Mustang. I still wasn’t comfortable in the truck because it underscored the recent change in our relationship from reluctant associates to something more. Just what that more was I didn’t know yet. Things had been much clearer when he hadn’t believed in my abilities and had fought his unwelcome attraction to me. Back then I’d treated him in the same mocking, standoffish, annoying way he’d treated me. Now I had to decide where my feelings would take us.

  The directions Kirt had given us were better than those on my phone’s GPS, as was sometimes the case in remote areas, but with several odd turns in the path, I was glad Shannon was along to decipher them. Both my sister and I were directionally impaired.

  Kirt was also right about the sculptures—they were hard to miss. We would have found them even without his help. Standing sentinel in the middle of a barren field of week-old snow, they were huge, some spiraling as tall as a two-story house. The first was a tall, thin scarecrow, his log legs looking unsteady. Next, a mammoth ear of corn, partially painted and looking as though it had exploded from the fat log from which it had been carved. Following these was a farmer, his head and hat carved from the bottom part of a tree, a few roots painted to resemble loose straw. These first three sculptures sported a weathered look, as though they’d endured the elements several years, but the aging only added to their appeal. Looking more recent was a half-finished boat bursting from yet another massive log. The artist’s work in progress, I assumed.

  Bales of straw, some in tall stacks lay scattered among the sculptures like lesser entities. With no ladder in sight, I figured the artist must use the bales to reach the tops of his works. Somehow it was fitting that he used the straw, the effort of climbing adding to his unusual style. A stark loneliness clung to the sculptures as though a testament to their uniqueness. Almost, they seemed sentient, and I wondered how Cody Beckett had been able to part with any of his creations.

  “Impressive,” Shannon said, slowing the truck.

  I nodded. “No wonder the locals come to ogle.”

  “He must charge a pretty penny when he sells them. Bet they take up to a year or more to complete.”

  Then we were past them. We drove through a thicket of leafless trees, where it looked as if the vegetation had tried to reclaim the narrow asphalt road but had been beaten back by the arrival of snow, and came upon our destination suddenly. A long gravel drive, layered with dirty, compacted snow, intersected the road, leading to the house I’d seen once in the newspaper and once in a drawing made by my sister. A house she’d never seen before. That was her talent, as potent and unpredictable as mine.

  Shannon turned the truck down the drive. We hadn’t yet reached the house when a grizzled old man came onto the porch dressed in worn jeans and a thick flannel shirt, a shotgun in his hands. Not exactly the welcome I might have hoped for. Of course, he didn’t know I was coming or even who I was.

  I knew him, though we’d never met.

  As Shannon brought the truck to a stop, I could see familiarity beneath the white stubble on the old man’s chin, the wrinkles around the eyes, and the too-long white hair that was uncombed. I was too far away to see them, but I knew that his right eye was hazel and his left blue. Like my twin sister. Like me.

  This was Cody Beckett, my father.

  Chapter 2

  My biological father, I should say, because my real parents had been Winter and Summer Rain, the hippie couple who’d sheltered my young birth mother and later adopted and raised me. Though they were both gone now, I felt lucky to have experienced such an unconventional upbringing. Being raised by Winter and Summer made up for the separation from my twin, Tawnia, who’d grown up states away with another adoptive family.

  My feelings for Cody Beckett wavered between curiosity and disgust. Several weeks ago
, I’d accepted that he might not be the monster I’d always believed him to be, but that didn’t mean he was anyone worth knowing. We’d finally tracked him down, and when Tawnia learned he was a suspect in Jenny Vandyke’s disappearance, she encouraged me to investigate. The unlikelihood of the two events—us finding him and the girl’s disappearance—happening so close together didn’t escape me. I didn’t believe in coincidence. On some cosmic level I felt I was either meant to prove him innocent or help convict him and make sure he never hurt anyone in the way he’d hurt my young birth mother.

  I was wearing a contact in my left eye that made it appear to be more hazel, like the right. Not an exact match but close enough to fool anyone who wasn’t looking hard. The contacts belonged to my sister, who’d grown up trying to fit in, but since meeting me, she’d given up hiding her eyes and had been more than happy to give me her unused supply for this trip. I wasn’t sure if she’d really done me a favor. I’d been taught to celebrate my difference and wearing the contact now seemed dishonest. Not to mention uncomfortable. But I didn’t want this stranger knowing who I was. Not yet.

  Though gray clouds gathered overhead, I put my sunglasses on to further hide my eyes and climbed from the truck, checking to make sure my knit gloves were in my coat pocket in case I needed them. Snow crunched under my feet.

  Shannon put himself slightly ahead of me as he reached for his badge. “I’m Detective Martin,” he said. “We’ve just come to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m through with questions,” Cody Beckett growled. “I told the sheriff’s deputies that. Either arrest me or leave me alone. If you ain’t got a warrant, get out.” He hefted the shotgun. “Or maybe I’ll give you a reason to arrest me.”

  He was barefoot despite the cold, and I felt a curious, reluctant kinship with him. I hated Oregon winters because they forced even me, a die-hard flower child, to sometimes wear shoes, and though his shoeless state was probably due more to haste than to a desire to connect directly with the universe, it evoked a kinship I wanted to guard against.