Red Hatchet Falls

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  The idyllic town of Ashland is nestled in the foothills of Siskiyou Mountains. Locals often describe it as a little bit of England set down in Southern Oregon. Yet amidst the historic craftsman bungalows, the world-renown Shakespeare theaters, and the lush, manicured gardens in Lithia Park, something evil lurks.

  While walking his pet raccoon, 72-year-old Homer Sullivan spots something shiny sparkling in the leaves near Ashland Creek. Thinking it might be something valuable, he hurries over to retrieve it, hoping he’ll become someone’s hero. He panics when he discovers it's a diamond ring and it's attached to a severed hand. He must find Detective Radhauser and fast.

  Winston Radhauser has always searched for the truth. Set only eight months post 9-11, a young Islamic family is terrorized, and the severed hand is only the beginning. This time, Radhauser is tested to his limits, but will the truth devastate him?

  RED HATCHET FALLS

  Winston Radhauser Series, #7

  Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Published by Tirgearr Publishing

  Author Copyright 2020 Susan Clayton-Goldner

  Cover Art: EJR Digital Art (http://www.ejrdigitalart.com)

  Editor: Lucy Felthouse

  Proofreader: Sharon Pickrel

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not given to you for the purpose of review, then please log into the publisher’s website and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting our author’s hard work.

  This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  Publishers and authors are always happy to exchange their book for an honest review. If you have obtained a copy of this book without purchase or from the publisher or author, please consider leaving a review on your favorite retailer, as reviews help authors market their work more effectively. Thank you.

  DEDICATION

  To my husband, Andreas M. Goldner.

  Always my first reader.

  Always my greatest fan.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  No novel is written in a vacuum. I owe thanks to many people who helped me find my way. To my beta readers, Prof. Pilar Guerrero, Marjorie Reynolds, Diane Lynch, Jude Bunner, Cathy Geha, Debbie Jamieson, Randy Troyler, and Shirley Reynolds, I appreciate you more than you know. A special thanks to my writing partner and friend, Kate Ahlert, my Online, Portland and Grants Pass critique groups, and my early reviewers who read the book and posted their reviews on Goodreads and Amazon. Your continued support means everything to me.

  And last, but never least, my sincere gratitude to my editor Lucy Felthouse for her careful readings and for the way she works her magic, always making the manuscript stronger, Elle Rossi for her fantastic cover designs, and Tirgearr Publishing, the best small press in the world, for taking a chance on me.

  RED HATCHET FALLS

  Winston Radhauser Series, #7

  Susan Clayton-Goldner

  “Now that you know, you cannot feign ignorance.

  Now that you’re aware of the problem,

  You cannot pretend you don’t care.

  To be concerned is to be human.

  To act is to care.”

  --Vashti Quiroz-Vega

  Red Hatchet Falls marks the sacred spot where the Rogue Indians fought a bloody battle with gold-digging American pioneers in the mid 1800's.

  Two rust-colored rocks at the top of the falls resemble a hatchet. In the evenings, when the sun sets, the waterfall turns red, a reminder, many believe, that bloodshed is sometimes necessary to preserve a way of life and fight for a cause you believe in.

  Chapter One

  Ashland, Oregon

  May 4, 2002

  When Homer Sullivan found the severed hand, he was walking his pet raccoon, Rodney, through Ashland’s Lithia Park.

  All of a sudden, with no apparent provocation, Rodney leaped forward, catching the old man off-guard. Sully, as he liked to be called, had been pausing periodically along the winding, asphalt pathways, to test his new digital camera—snapping off-centered photographs of bright pink azalea blossoms and giant lavender rhododendrons. The raccoon jerked so hard on his leash that Sully had no choice but to regain his balance, hold tight to his camera, and follow. No stray dog ever chased after a squirrel with more enthusiasm. Sully trotted behind Rodney as fast as his seventy-one-year-old legs would carry him. The old man’s gaze seemed focused on something shiny caught in the brilliant May sunlight.

  At first, he saw only a twinkle amongst a pile of fallen oak and maple leaves. Sully smiled. Had a tourist or someone local dropped a diamond ring? Was his racoon about to make him someone's hero? But when Sully squatted and leaned in for a closer look, that ring was still attached to a finger. He turned his head in every direction, as if looking for some freckle-faced boy hidden behind one of the big-leafed maples. A boy eager to witness the results of his prank. When Sully saw no one, he carefully brushed dried leaves away from the fingers.

  One digit at a time, a human hand emerged. Dried blood stained the cuticles and collected under the fingernails. As if the bruised skin at the severing point had shriveled, two impossibly white bones—the radius and the ulna—protruded about a half-inch from the severing site. Who wouldn't be startled?

  The old man sprang back, his heart pounding so hard even his fingertips throbbed. He rubbed his eyes. Was he seeing things that weren't there? He refocused on the hand, the heartbreakingly pale pink polish on its fingernails. This hand was once attached to a woman's body. A human being. Someone who might still be alive.

  He leaped to his feet and tightened his grip on Rodney's leash. Sully needed to find Detective Radhauser, and fast.

  * * *

  Detective Winston Radhauser, volunteer third-base coach, called his seven-year-old daughter, Lizzie, safe. Her team was competing in the Ashland Spring Tournament's under-eight division. It was a brilliant afternoon, the sky above Thomas Flannigan Sports Park so blue it hurt your eyes to look at it. And in the distance, the foothills of the Siskiyou Mountains lay, lush and green, like a rainforest.

  In center field, the other team’s outfielder had made a great pick-up and throw.

  Lizzie dropped her long, lanky body onto her side, stuck her right leg straight out and even pointed her toes to reach that base.

  In the dugout, her teammates stood and chanted, clutching the chain-link fence separating them from the field. Go, Lizzie, go. Go, Lizzie, go.

  She touched the base—a split second before the ball whooshed by and struck the third-baseman’s glove with a classic thump.

  Radhauser, standing just to the left of third base, grinned. They’d been practicing the dynamics of a successful slide for weeks.

  She picked herself up, brushed the dirt from her no-longer white baseball pants, and gave her father a smile that made her look like she’d been spun from light beams.

  Above them, a multi-colored hot air balloon crossed the sky, graceful as a hawk caught on a thermal. Lizzie looked up and smiled again as if that balloon had been launched in celebration of her amazing slide.

  From behind home plate, the umpire yelled. “The player is out on third.”

  Lizzie’s brow furrowed. “But you said I was safe, Daddy. My toe touched the base before he caught the ball. I know it did.”

  He dropped his hand onto her shoulder. “I thought so too, honey. But the umpire has the la
st word.”

  “He made a mistake.”

  She was right. And though he knew it was probably an exercise in futility, he needed to take a stand on her behalf. “You wait here a minute.”

  When he spotted Radhauser walking toward him, the umpire called a time out.

  “I’d like to contest that last call,” Radhauser said. “The player touched the base before the third baseman caught the ball. I’ll grant you it was close, but I have no doubt she did.”

  The umpire, a cocky, round-faced and slightly overweight man in his fifties, put his beefy hands on his hips. Perspiration stained the underarms of his black and white striped shirt. “That’s not the way I saw it.”

  Radhauser was careful to modulate his voice, to appear calmer than he felt. "No disrespect intended, sir, but I was standing a lot closer than you were."

  “Oh, I get it now. She’s your kid, right?” He spat out the words as if he expected nothing else from the players’ parents.

  If there was one thing Radhauser had hated when he played Little League baseball, it was a parent who argued and made a scene at one of his games. As a boy, he’d been embarrassed for his teammates. When he agreed to coach third base for Lizzie’s team, he was determined not to be that kind of father. “It so happens that she is my daughter. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t safe.”

  The umpire removed his hands from his hips. “It doesn’t mean she was, either. I call them the way I see them.” He shrugged. “Now let’s play ball. We’ve got another game scheduled in ten minutes.”

  The muscles in Radhauser’s jaw tightened. Understanding for the first time how a father could get so angry he’d punch an umpire in the face, he pivoted away and returned to third base.

  Lizzie had planted both feet on the rubber. The tip of her tongue peeped out from between her lips. A determined look—one that told him she wasn’t about to budge. He squatted on his heels so he was closer to eye level with his daughter. “In the game of baseball, the umpire rules.”

  She shot him a look that could have wilted cabbage. “No way, Daddy. I was safe. And I’m staying right here.”

  Radhauser stared at her, stunned by the passion and determination shining in her walnut-colored eyes. “I think you were safe, too, sweetie. It was an amazing slide. But we have to obey the rules.” He didn’t want to obey the rules. In truth, he wanted to bloody that arrogant SOB’s nose.

  She sighed a loud and dramatic sigh, then fixed her hands on her hips. "That's not fair and I'm not leaving."

  The umpire marched over, his focus never leaving Radhauser’s face. “Get your player off this base or I’m giving her an official warning.”

  “But you’re wrong,” Lizzie said. “I touched the base first. I was safe.”

  The umpire pulled his notepad from his back pocket, asked Lizzie her name and jotted it down, then glared at her. “One more warning, young lady, and you’re out of the game.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head.

  Radhauser’s little dark-haired beauty was a firecracker, just like her mother. He admired her spunk and strong sense of justice, but—

  The umpire threw his flag on the ground. "Get her off that base," he demanded, fever in his gaze. "Or she won't be playing any more baseball this season." He picked up his flag and marched back to his position behind home plate. "Batter up."

  “Come on, sweetie. It’s only one game. Life isn’t always fair. And if you refuse to obey the umpire, you won’t be able to play anymore.”

  After giving him a look loaded with bullets, she marched over to the dugout in exaggerated steps, lifting her legs like a German soldier. After taking her seat, she ripped off her helmet and tossed it against the cyclone fence. Lizzie sat, ramrod straight, and glared at her father.

  His cheeks burned with the heat of her stare. Maybe he should have tried harder to get the call reversed. But it wouldn’t have done any good. The umpire wasn’t the kind of man who’d admit to a mistake. And what kind of precedent would it set for future questionable calls?

  Radhauser returned his attention to the game, but kept stealing glances at his daughter. A few seconds later, her shoulders quivered and she scrubbed at her eyes with her fists.

  He swallowed and hung his head. He would gladly give his life for his little girl. Relief flooded over him when one of the other players in the dugout looped an arm around Lizzie’s shoulders.

  “Shake it off, Lizzie,” Cooper Drake, her coach, cheered from the sideline. “Their outfielder made a great throw. You ran your hardest. It was a very close call.”

  When the coach saw she was crying, he ran over to the dugout and knelt in front of her. He pulled a white handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at her tears, then placed one hand on her shoulder. While he talked, she plowed the loose dirt in the dugout with the toe of her baseball cleat.

  Radhauser couldn’t hear what Cooper said, but when he stood and moved away, Lizzie’s face had softened. As if all her anger and disappointment had vanished with his words and the gentle touch of his hand, she looked up at her coach and grinned through her tears. A missing-front-tooth smile that indented the two dimples on her cheeks. She was enamored with the twenty-year-old coach, his tall, slender body, piano-player hands and thick shock of bad-boy hair that fell like a dark curtain over his right eye. A modern-day Elvis.

  Watching, Radhauser sucked in a breath, then puffed out his cheeks and slowly released it. Up until the day Lizzie signed up for Little League and met Cooper Drake, or Coop as the kids called him, her daddy had been her hero—the only man in her life who mattered. He told himself to get over it. Little girls developed crushes all the time. This was the first of what would, no doubt, be many. Besides, he should be grateful. She’d needed comfort and reassurance and somehow Cooper had been able to provide it.

  Besides, Radhauser liked Cooper and admired the many hours he put into coaching, the gentle, instructive manner he had with his players. And, of course, the detective in him had done a background check to make sure the young coach didn’t have a sheet. Cooper Drake was clean, never had so much as a speeding ticket.

  When his cell phone rang, Radhauser pulled it out of his back pocket and glanced at the caller ID. It was Captain Murphy. Radhauser stepped away from third base to the area behind the dugout to answer. This was Radhauser’s day off. He wanted nothing more than to ignore the call and return to Lizzie’s game. “What’s up?”

  “I’m at the station. And you need to get over here.” His voice was gruff, the one he used to flaunt his authority.

  The smell of popcorn and hotdogs grilling wafted over from the snack bar and he remembered his promise to his daughter. “Not possible. I’m in the middle of my daughter’s baseball game. And I’m coaching third base.”

  “I don’t care if you’re up to bat with a tied score, two outs and the bases loaded. We need you here. Now.” Murphy had that indignant and slightly nervous tone. It told Radhauser either his boss was in a bad mood or something important had come up. While his captain rambled on about wishing he hadn’t stopped by the station on a Saturday morning, Radhauser looked around the park.

  There were five Little League fields and today the manicured grounds held a sea of miniature ballplayers in multicolored caps. Kids shouted and cheered for their teammates. Coaches instructed their players. Keep your eye on the ball. Level swing. Wait for a good one. Anxious parents paced the sidelines. Others played catch with their kids, warming them up and waiting for the next game to begin.

  “Give me twenty minutes, Murph. The game’s almost over. Lizzie will need a ride home.”

  "Find her one, Wind. I've already wasted enough time with this old man who claims— and I quote, ‘has aided you in other police investigations.' Not to mention his pet. He and his damn raccoon found something he's certain you'll want to see."

  Radhauser paced the grassy area behind the dugout. The sound of a loud voice distracted him. He looked around for the source.

  To th
e left of the snack bar, in another grassy section, a tall, slender man with a red beard berated a player for striking out. He wore a green baseball cap and shirt that matched the ones the little boy wore. Both of the man's hands were planted on the boy's shoulders, shaking him. "Didn't I tell you to keep your eyes on the ball? Level swing. How many times have I told you not to swing at the low ones? You looked like you were playing golf out there." He let go of the boy and clenched his hands into fists.

  Radhauser had a bad feeling this was the kid’s father. Talk about life not being fair.

  The boy hung his head.

  Radhauser watched for a moment, wanting to rescue the boy, but spoke into his phone instead. “It’s got to be Homer Sullivan.”

  He’d met Sully while investigating a drowning that turned out to be a murder. It was over a year ago at Sunset Lake where Sully lived alone in a small cabin at the edge of the water. "Come on, Murph. This game is important to Lizzie. I don't get to spend enough time with my kids. And I promised we'd have lunch at the snack bar afterward. Don't call me on my day off to babysit Sully."

  “He’s not claiming to be my deputy. Now get your ass in here. That’s an order.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He hung up, then slammed the phone against his thigh. It was the first elimination round and Lizzie’s team, the Cardinals, had a good chance of winning.

  When Cooper agreed to drive Lizzie home, Radhauser took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to him. “Buy Lizzie and yourself some lunch when the game is over.”