Brother's Keeper

by Richard Ryker

  She sat up in her chair. “I’m just saying.”

  Brandon looked to Will for support.

  “As much trouble as she might have caused your case, I hope she was real pretty,” Will said, standing.

  “A lot of help you two are,” Brandon said.

  “So what’s next for this Margot?” Jackson asked.

  “I told her I wouldn’t do anything to the judge just yet.”

  “And?”

  “She wasn’t happy,” Brandon said. “Why does it matter?”

  “She offered to help with your dad. From what you’ve said, she’s had ulterior motives for everything else she’s done. What if…”

  “She got to my dad?” Brandon said.

  “He does have one hell of a short fuse,” Will said. “He could be talked into doing something rash.”

  “Against the judge?”

  “Depends what she tells him,” Jackson said.

  Brandon frowned. “I think I’ll take another trip to my dad’s house.”

  He pulled into his father’s driveway and, as expected, his truck was missing. He peered into the wide front window. The curtains were open, the television off. His dad would have drawn the curtains if he’d planned on being gone overnight.

  That meant he hadn’t planned on being gone long. He could have left earlier that morning, before Brandon had stopped by the first time. Or he could’ve been gone for two days. That’s how long it had been since their last phone conversation.

  The front door was locked.

  Images of crime scenes from previous investigations flashed through Brandon’s mind. Older couples murdered in their home, their vehicle stolen along with any cash or other valuables.

  Brandon circled around to the back of the house, pistol still within his holster but his mind ready to trigger the practiced motion of drawing and firing.

  He stood to the side of the back door and reached for the handle. It twisted easily, the door creaking open.

  “Dad?” Brandon called out.

  There was no answer. Brandon pulled out his pistol.

  He swung the door wide, waited a few seconds, then ascended the stairs.

  “Police!” Brandon shouted.

  The house was silent except for the shuffling of his feet across the worn linoleum. Instinctively, he sniffed the air for the telltale stench of death, a habit gained from his years as a homicide detective.

  The aroma of bacon fat and eggs hung thick in the air. It couldn’t have been too long since he’d left.

  The back door opened into a furnace room. The room had been an addition several years back, just after his dad had expanded the tiny home for their growing family. Off to the right was his mother’s sewing and laundry room, her jar of buttons still next to the dust-covered Singer his dad had bought her on her sixtieth birthday.

  Pistol raised, he moved into the kitchen. A cast-iron skillet rested on the stove top, waiting to be cleaned. Everything else looked in order. Quickly, he swept through the remaining rooms and found no signs of struggle. His dad’s bed was made, the remotes for the television were lined up on the corner of the coffee table, just like his dad normally left them.

  After sweeping through the house, Brandon stood still in the middle of the living room. The clock on the mantle clicked through the silence. A winter afternoon’s light illuminated the dusty air.

  Where the hell had his father gone?

  He wandered back into the kitchen. There a note lay on the table, ripped out from a two by five notebook and folded in half. Easy to miss.

  Scrawled across the front in thin pencil was Brandon’s name.

  Brandon cursed as he tried to remove the tape without destroying the note. The note read: Found out about Judge Gillman. Know Olson is his son. Going after him. Love, Dad.

  Love, Dad? What had gotten into him?

  More important, how the hell had he figured out about Olson and Judge Gillman?

  Margot.

  When Brandon’s dad was convinced of something, he acted on his suspicions, damn what evidence there might be to contradict his assumptions. That could mean only one thing. Like Brandon, his father believed that Olson could be on the judge’s sprawling property outside town. But unlike Brandon, he wouldn’t think through the best way to bring Olson and the judge to justice. He’d go in, guns blazing. Brandon slid sideways, peering into the living room at the spot where his father had usually kept his rifle.

  It was gone.

  Chapter 31

  Brandon headed west toward Judge Gillman’s home. About five miles outside of town, the property was at least twenty acres of grassland bordered on one side by the ever-present coastal forest, on the other by a working dairy. Brandon drove by once to scope the place out. The judge had horses—he’d seen them out in the pasture before. The fields were empty now, the ground hardened from an unusually early frost that had crept over the area the last two days.

  After passing the property once, he found the next cross street—at least half a mile away. He prepared to take a right to make a wide swing at the intersection. Something caught his eye.

  There, at the edge of the road, up against the ditch was his dad’s truck.

  He pulled in behind the truck.

  Brandon’s cell phone rang. It was Lisa.

  He considered answering it, but let it go to voicemail. The last time he’d called Lisa, she’d said she had a date with someone. Maybe it was another man, maybe not.

  It didn’t matter why she was calling. He had to find his father.

  The symbol indicating a voicemail popped onto the screen. Brandon slid the phone into his pocket and got out, approaching his father’s truck.

  The doors were locked. The engine cold.

  There were two ways to go about finding his father. Stroll up to the judge’s front door and knock, or the less direct route. If the judge knew he was there, he’d shoo him away at the point of a shotgun and the threat of jail time. And being a judge, he most likely figured he’d be above reproach in the court of public opinion.

  He was probably right.

  Brandon walked the short way to the crossroads where he had a better view of the property. The house sat about an eighth mile back from the main road. White vinyl horse rail fencing lined the long driveway up to a modernized farm house with a wide wraparound porch. The home’s color and design matched the red and white barn that loomed to the left and several yards behind the house.

  There was no way to approach without being detected. His dad was somewhere on that property. He’d gone hunting for Olson, but something had happened. Judge or no judge, Brandon had to know he was safe. He’d deal with the consequences later.

  Brandon pulled his truck up to the wrought-iron gate. He unhitched the latch and let it swing open, then drove up to the main house. The driveway was empty, but with the three-car garage that meant nothing.

  He rang the doorbell. Two very large and angry sounding dogs hustled to the door and began barking.

  Brandon pressed the doorbell two more times, just to make sure.

  He circled around the side of the house to where the paved driveway ended and spread out into an open courtyard. Directly ahead was the barn and, connected to it, a mother-in-law apartment to the right.

  The afternoon sun descended below the tree line to the west, light glinting off the two windows that looked out from the apartment. If Olson had spotted him, Brandon would have no idea.

  The barn’s main doors were closed, clasped shut on sliding hinges.

  He swept toward the left edge of the barn, his eyes on the entrance to the apartment. Once he reached the barn, he twisted around, focusing his attention to the back of the house. A wide deck stretched across the length of the home. A balcony with a table and two chairs jutted out from a pair of French doors on the second story. Probably the main bedroom.

  There was no sign of movement. The dogs’ barks still echoed weakly from within the house.

  Brandon crept around to the side of the ba
rn, avoiding a direct approach to the apartment. Several openings lined the wall, about eight feet up. A horse neighed from somewhere within. Brandon paused, listening.

  Hearing nothing, he moved on.

  Rounding the back of the barn, he spotted the black and red Ford Ranger Olson had stolen. More proof Judge Gillman was harboring his fugitive son.

  He approached the two massive sliding doors that were the barn’s back entrance.

  An inch-wide gap separated the doors.

  He wasn’t about to stick his nose in the crack. He’s be an easy target for Olson. But the fact that Olson hadn’t taken a shot at Brandon meant he probably wasn’t aware of Brandon’s presence.

  Brandon still had the element of surprise.

  He gripped the thick, steel handle and tugged on the door with all of his weight, following the door’s path as is slid open. He caught his balance as the door jerked to a stop. Brandon pulled his pistol out and pointed it toward the opening.

  He waited but heard nothing as he locked his eyes on the shaft of light that now cut through the barn’s gloaming entrance.

  He waited still longer.

  “Olson!” Brandon shouted. “Police.”

  A clattering came from within. Brandon’s muscles tightened, his vision sharpened, ready for what might come from behind the door.

  When nothing happened, Brandon sucked in a breath and rounded the corner, pistol aimed at whoever might greet him. A thin haze of hay dust swam through the dim light. His eyes caught on a figure laying on the floor of the barn, leaning up against one of the support posts, hands tied behind his back.

  It was his father.

  Eyes wide, mouth taped, his father kicked his feet wildly in front of him.

  Brandon scanned the barn for Olson. His father lay in the open area between two rows of stalls lining the outer walls. Further back, stairs led to the second level. Somewhere off to the left was the apartment where, Brandon assumed, Olson was staying.

  Besides his father, the only sign of life were the half dozen horses now sticking their heads out of their stalls to spy the man who’d let light into their darkened home.

  Brandon holstered his pistol and rushed to him. He ripped the tape off his mouth.

  He sucked in a deep breath, then exhaled, looking up at Brandon. He did a quick scan of his father. Despite his predicament, he didn’t have any apparent injuries and his thick winter coat had kept him warm enough.

  “About time,” his dad said. “Get my hands free.”

  “I was planning on it,” Brandon said.

  He untied his hands and helped his dad get to his feet.

  His dad stood, his back bent.

  “How’s your knee?” Brandon asked.

  “Fine,” he said. Then, glancing over Brandon’s shoulder, “Oh, shit.”

  Brandon wheeled around, reaching for his Glock.

  Too late. Erik Olson stood less than ten feet away, pointing a pistol at Brandon’s head.

  Chapter 32

  “Put the gun away,” Olson said, “then raise your hands.”

  Brandon slowly holstered his pistol.

  “Up,” Olson said.

  He waited until Brandon raised his arms before approaching.

  “Don’t try anything, old man,” he said to Brandon’s father.

  “I should’ve shot you in the back when I had a chance,” he replied.

  Olson sniffed at him. “But you didn’t, did you?”

  “Should have shot you cold-blooded, just like you shot Eli,” his father said.

  “Shut up or I’ll kill both your sons.”

  Brandon considered the gun in Olson’s quivering hand. A Colt 1911, capable of firing .45 caliber bullets.

  Olson noticed Brandon’s curiosity.

  “That’s right. Same gun that killed your brother. I ought to name this bad boy Mattson Killer.”

  He chuckled at his own joke.

  Brandon’s father strode forward. Olson pointed the Colt inches from his nose.

  “Move back, old man.”

  He glared back at Olson for a second, then obeyed, scooting a few feet to the right, away from Brandon.

  Olson approached Brandon, the point of the pistol lowered. With one shaky hand outstretched for Brandon’s gun, he tried to hold the pistol out of Brandon’s reach. It was obvious this was his first time disarming someone. A smart person would have told Brandon to toss his gun aside.

  Brandon’s dad spit on the floor in front of Olson.

  Olson squinted at him. “You—”

  Brandon brushed Olson’s left hand aside, reaching for the Colt in Olson’s right while moving to his left. Olson fired a shot into the barn wall. With his right hand, Brandon landed a punch on Olson’s jaw.

  With both hands, he wrestled the pistol free from the stunned Olson.

  But Olson was too quick and had ahold of Brandon’s Glock. Brandon tossed the Colt aside as he and Olson struggled for control of Brandon’s handgun.

  Both men had both hands on the Glock. Brandon lowered his shoulder and shoved Olson against one of the stall doors. The horse inside neighed in protest, skittering to the back of the stall.

  Olson’s grip loosened for a second, but then he doubled down, wrapping his leg around Brandon’s. The attempt to throw Brandon on his backside almost worked, but Brandon pulled his leg free and caught his balance. The twisting of their arms forced the gun flying several feet away. Brandon lunged for the pistol.

  Crawling on all fours, he reached it.

  Olson’s foot slammed into Brandon’s hand, trapping it between his boot and the pistol.

  Brandon glanced up at Olson.

  Olson pulled a rusty one-handed scythe off the barn wall. Probably more decoration that anything else, but the point sharp enough to kill. Boot still on Brandon’s hand, Olson swung the scythe at Brandon’s head. Instead of ducking, Brandon moved in, putting all his weight on Olson’s knee.

  Olson tumbled over just as the scythe cut into Brandon’s shoulder. He had no time to acknowledge the piercing pain that shot down his back. He hustled to his feet and stood over Olson, kicking the scythe out of his hand.

  Brandon glanced at his father. He had the Colt pointed at Olson.

  Brandon scanned the area for the Glock.

  “I’ve got it,” his dad said. “In my coat pocket.”

  Olson stumbled to his feet.

  “Hands behind your back,” Brandon said.

  Brandon pulled out his handcuffs and closed them tight around Olson’s wrists.

  “Ouch!” Olson protested.

  Brandon yanked him away from the stable wall and shoved him toward the barn door.

  “My gun,” Brandon said, holding out his hand.

  His dad pulled it out of his coat pocket and Brandon re-holstered it.

  “Who you gonna kill now, you sonofabitch?” his dad said, pointing the Colt at Olson.

  “Put that damn thing away,” Brandon said.

  “Yeah, old man,” Olson said. “You might hurt someone.”

  His dad lurched toward Olson. “You killed my Eli!”

  Olson flinched at the outburst.

  Tears welled in his father’s eyes, his voice breaking. “My son.”

  Olson stared at his feet as the briefest flicker of shame crossed his face.

  “And my daughter.”

  Jack Nygard stood in the barn’s gaping doorway. A feeble winter light gleamed behind him as the afternoon sun descended over the woods to the west.

  Nygard cocked the .357 Magnum and pointed it at Olson’s head.

  “Drop the gun,” Nygard said to Brandon’s father, without tearing his gaze from Olson.

  Brandon’s dad held the Colt waist level, his finger still near the trigger.

  “You here for him?” Brandon’s dad asked, motioning to Olson.

  “I don’t want nothing to do with you. Or your son,” Nygard said. “Not today.”

  His father let the point of the Colt fall. “Then you have nothing to fear from me,
” his dad said. After a second, he added. “Brandon, let’s go.”

  “How’d you find us?” Brandon asked.

  “He called me,” Nygard answered, nodding at Olson. “Begging for help. Said his daddy wouldn’t keep him around much longer.” Nygard tilted his head toward Brandon’s dad. “Said he had your father. Somehow he thought he’d be a fair exchange for Alisa’s life.”

  Nygard let out a dark laugh.

  “Just like his daddy thought he could shut me up about his kid murdering your brother.”

  “That’s why Judge Gillman let you stay on the Randall property,” Brandon said.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” Nygard said. “I came in, surprised you, shot him, and I got away.”

  “How’s that making it easy?” Brandon said, eyeing the revolver in Nygard’s grip. Brandon’s Glock was still in its holster.

  “You want him dead as much as I do,” Nygard said. “He killed your brother.”

  He was right.

  Olson had murdered the one person Brandon could count on, the only person he’d ever really trusted.

  His best friend.

  His brother.

  Eli was gone.

  All because Olson didn’t want to get busted for what amounted to a minor crime. At worst, he would have done a few months in jail for the stolen timber they’d found in the car.

  Eli’s life was worth more than that.

  Olson’s life? Right now it didn’t seem it was worth much at all, considering who he was and that, more than likely, he’d kill again.

  It would be easy to let Nygard kill Olson. Hell, he could even make it more realistic by shooting Nygard just after he’d taken care of the kid.

  It was what a dirty cop might do. A man who’d crossed the line between good and evil. A man who thought he could play God, who knew nothing about forgiveness and everything about vengeance.

  Brandon wasn’t that man.

  “You killing this kid won’t bring your daughter back,” Brandon said to Nygard. He met his father’s gaze. “It won’t bring Eli back, either.”

  His father blinked. “I know that.”

  “Did you not just hear your father?” Nygard said. “Olson killed his son.”