Chapter 32: Eloy Franklin — by Deborah J Ledford

Eloy felt somewhat good about himself for the first time since . . . he couldn’t even remember. He reached out and ran a finger the length of the saber on the kitchen table. The feel of cold steel under the pad of his fingers calmed his nerves. He hadn’t honed the blade in decades, but still he knew the edge would be sharp enough to slice a ripe tomato without tearing the skin.

The thought of giving Dylan his prized possession tempted him for a moment, then he figured a weapon in a child’s hands was never a good thing—unless during wartime. Then every armament at hand was preferable, whether it be a blade, rifle, pistol, rock. He had seen enough carnage during battle to know that even a sharp stick could bring a fatal wound if manipulated with enough force and sheer will to survive.

He wondered what had been in the pocket of Dylan’s dungarees and hoped it wasn’t a knife. The outline looked to be the size of a fold-out blade, three or four inches in length and hoped the boy hadn’t already gone down the path to feeling the need to arm himself.

“Maybe a medal instead,” Eloy said to no one.

He crossed the house and went upstairs to pull down the steps to the attic. Once inside the musty space he knelt in front of his footlocker. His hands shook as he lifted the cracked lid. He would need to touch the offensive photographs in order to find the velvet-covered case that contained his medals and ribbons that once adorned his uniform. Wishing he had thought to take the plastic dishwashing gloves from under the kitchen sink, dug through the contents until he felt what he searched for. He took out a thick stack of photos bound with a rubber band and set them aside as bile rose to his throat. He spotted the rectangular medallion case under a pea coat and tucked it in his waistband at the middle of his back.

He walked to the attic’s opening. The binding burst and photos fluttered to the floor below. His knees creaked every bit as loud as the rickety staircase as he descended the steps, then nearly slipped on the slick photos.

He knelt down to scoop up gut-wrenching images, trying not to gaze at the terrified children doing unspeakable things to the criminals who forced them to do so. Feeling a decade older, tears streamed down his face as he shuffled through the house to the kitchen. He reached for the saber on the table and exited the back door to the porch. He straightened the pictures into a tight stack and placed them face-down on the patio table.

When he first moved to Rubicon Ranch he had been thrilled by the built-in grill and the matching fire pit circled by a stone bench. At the time he figured he would spend every chilly night out there, enjoying the night air and stars as he watched the flames. But too busy keeping watch over the neighborhood from his sentry on the front porch or windows that faced the street, he had yet to light a single log, grill a single steak. He set the saber down on the stone edge and admired the fine construction before he turned to the grill.

He opened the cabinet door and took out an unopened bottle of charcoal starter and a box of long matches. Then he returned to the table, swept up the pile of photos and went to the fire pit. He placed half of the stack into the pit, doused them with fluid and didn’t hesitate as he tossed a lit match to the pyre.

Movement caught Eloy’s attention. He squinted to see beyond the wavering heat to see the silhouette of someone sit down at the table near the edge of the patio. He glanced down at the pit and hoped the boy couldn’t see the wavering, shrinking images bubble and melting in the flames.

He let out a relieved sigh that the boy had returned. “I’ve been thinking about the saber, Dylan. You’re not ready for that yet.” He reached behind him and removed the velvet case from his waistband. “But you have earned a medal. Come on over here and pick one out.”

Eloy heard metal clink against metal, then a flick, followed by the crinkle of burning tobacco. Cigarette smoke melded with the stench of burning chemicals and photographic paper.

“Dammit, put that out.” He slammed the case on the stone bench behind him. “A soldier resists temptation.”

“Old man, you’d better not be doin’ what I think you’re doin’.” The voice said. The voice Eloy hoped to never hear again.

The Boy.

His Boy.

The remaining photos trembled in Eloy’s hands.

He cursed himself for having left the lock on the side gate unclasped ever since Dylan’s first visit in case the kid needed an immediate safe haven from his father.

Eloy did his best to still his voice as he said, “Why are you here?” He sounded one hundred years old.

“Put them down,” The Boy said.

Eloy dropped the pictures to the flames.

The Boy stood so fast the chair screeched against the cement pad and clattered to the ground.

After what seemed hours but could only have been moments The Boy said, “Who is Dylan?” The words: playful, chilling, dangerous. Spoken in a tone of voice that stilled Eloy’s heart.

Eloy slid his gaze to the saber, anticipating the feel of the blade in his hand.

 

Chapter 31: Mark and Jamie Westbrook — by Nichole R. Bennett

Jamie paced, her flip-flops making a thwack, thwack, thwack as she did so. Her eyes burned with tears threatening to overflow. Although the window was open, there was no breeze. The hot, stale air pressed down upon her shoulders and chest giving her the feeling that the walls were closing in.

Mark had taken the car keys and the cell phones with him when he stormed out. She had looked for the briefcase, but couldn’t find it. He probably took that, too. Jamie couldn’t be sure; she had locked herself in the bathroom, afraid Mark would give in to his obvious anger.

Once she had been sure Mark was gone, Jamie wanted to make her own escape. That’s when she noticed the keys and phones missing. With the briefcase gone, she didn’t even have access to her other IDs or extra money. She was left with whatever was in her pockets. Or Mark’s.

And that search didn’t lead to money.

What she did find was more interesting. A phone number scribbled in his handwriting on the back of a receipt stuffed in a pair of dirty pants. Another number written in a feminine hand in a different pocket. An empty pill bottle prescribed for one of Mark’s many aliases.

Under the bed, however, she found a lone piece of paper from the Minnesota part of their con. It wasn’t a sheet she had ever seen. And this was her con. She had done all the background research. Mark had been adamant about not wanting to do any work for that score.

From what Jamie could decipher, it had information about the family of the little girl kidnapped so many years ago. Names, credit information, job histories for both biological parents. There was even a reference to a private investigator the family had originally hired, and contact information for a reporter sympathetic to their cause.

When she’d prepared for this job, Jamie found out what she could about the biological parents and even Riley’s parents to see if there was any overlap. There was some. The thought had even occurred to her that this might be a legitimate thing. But a reporter? A private investigator? None of that was in her original pitch to Mark. None of that should have been in any of the information they had on file for this con. That type of information wouldn’t matter because neither Mark nor Jamie should be contacting anyone but the families. And then only long enough to get the money and run.

Once again the number of mistakes made during this con began to plague her thoughts. Things that had never gone wrong before were not just going wrong, but failing in epic proportions.

Merely arriving at Rubicon Ranch had been a mistake, Jamie knew that now. Mark’s running that stop sign wasn’t just a mistake. It was pure stupidity. Mark trying to hit her was frightening.

And Mark wasn’t usually stupid, or frightening.

At least, he hadn’t been.

Full of frustrated energy, Jamie continued to pace. Without the keys to the rental car, she couldn’t leave Rubicon Ranch. There was no one here she could even turn to. Maybe she could seduce that big mountain of a cop. No, something in his eyes told Jamie she wouldn’t get far with him. That female cop? Jamie considered playing up Mark’s attempt at hitting her. Maybe the other woman had a soft spot for domestic violence victims. On second thought, Jamie didn’t remember the lieutenant looking like she had a soft spot for much of anyone.

That settled it. No cops.

Jamie briefly considered walking around the neighborhood just to get away from the room’s four walls but she didn’t want to accidentally run into Mark. Run over? Maybe. Run into? Definitely not.

She kept pacing. Jamie thought better when she moved and right now she needed to think. She needed to leave. Leave Rubicon without arousing the suspicions of cops. Leave Mark without spending the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. In a perfect world, she could do both simultaneously.

The question was how?

No longer content to pace the floor, Jamie had the intense desire to leave the room. Maybe a change of scenery would do her some good. Or a stiff drink. Since there wasn’t any booze in the room, however, she’d have to settle for staring at a different set of walls.

Putting the scraps of paper and the mysterious sheet about the Minnesota family in her pocket, Jamie headed for the door. Chances were Mark didn’t know she’d found the paper, but until she had a chance to investigate the information, she didn’t want to risk him disposing of anything.

Jamie’s hand just started to turn the knob when she remembered the pill bottle and went back to pick it up. The bottle might not be worth much as it was—there weren’t any refills left and Jamie didn’t recognize the drug’s name, anyway—but Jamie thought it might make good “insurance” if she couldn’t ditch Mark some other way. There were laws about forged prescriptions, right? And that doctor they’d scammed, the one whose name was listed as the prescribing doctor, would probably be beyond mad by this time. An anonymous call to him, another to the authorities, and Jamie may not have to worry about Mark after all. The realization brought a smile to her face.

The closer she got to the dining room, the deeper the breaths she took, the aroma of fresh baked apple pie becoming stronger with each step. Contrasting with the pleasing smell was a mechanical rar-rar-rar, which also grew with each step.

“Well, there you are!” Consuela smiled as Jamie entered the dining room. “I was wondering if you were ever going to leave your room. I trust everything is all right?”

Jamie smiled and nodded. “Everything’s wonderful. I just needed a change of scenery.”

The proprietor nodded as the corners of her mouth turned up. “I remember what it was like to be a newlywed. All that ‘getting to know each other’ is fine, but a little time apart is a nice thing, as well.”

Not wanting to discuss herself if possible, Jamie deftly moved the conversation to Consuela. “Something smells good. Apple pie?”

“Yep. I’ve got one of them in the oven and another cooling in the kitchen. And that obnoxious noise in the background is the ice cream maker.” As if on cue, the offensive racket stopped and silence filled the void. “Well, that’s finally done. What do you say to some fresh apple pie a la mode?”

“Sounds great,” Jamie replied, seating herself at one of the tables.

Consuela disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two plates of pie, topped with vanilla ice cream. A spoon balanced on each plate. “Enjoy,” she said. She laid one plate in front of Jamie and the other directly in front of herself as she sat.

Jamie took a bite of the still warm pie, the ice cream melting into a fine mist over the top. “This is really good, thanks.”

The two ate in comfortable silence until Consuela spoke. “How are you enjoying your stay?”

Considering what had brought Jamie to Rubicon Ranch and the events forcing her to remain, she replied with, “It’s been interesting.” Not a lie at any rate.

“It’s not usually this . . . exciting around here.” Consuela didn’t look at Jamie as she spoke. “Let’s just hope it stops at two.”

“At two?” Jamie looked for a clock.

Consuela, her eyes twinkling with humor, looked up and shook her head as a wry smile crossed her lips. “Sorry, that’s not funny. I mean with two bodies, though it would be nice if at two o’clock everything would just be back to normal and Rubicon would be a nice quiet bedroom community where tourists like yourself stop occasionally.”

The full implication of her words struck Jamie in the gut. “Two bodies? Someone else died?”

“Not just died. Was murdered, from what I hear.”

Jamie was stunned, no flabbergasted, but tried to keep her face as impassive as possible. She tried to remember if Mark had left her alone any other time. He had that first night, and obviously now, but she couldn’t be sure those were the only times. Maybe he had snuck out while she was sleeping. He had run to the store, hadn’t he? Had he been gone for too long that time? Jamie couldn’t remember. “That’s horrible,” she whispered when she found her voice again.

Consuela nodded. “I hear it was a man. Not from around here, though.”

Jamie gulped, simultaneously hopeful and afraid that it had been Mark’s body. That would solve all her problems. Aloud she asked, “Do they know who he was?”

The innkeeper shrugged, but remained silent.

A shrug wasn’t an answer. Could it be Mark? Had his past finally caught up with him? But if it was Mark, wouldn’t the sheriff be here to question her?

Jamie eventually came to the realization that the body wasn’t her supposed husband, though she couldn’t imagine why Consuela would bother telling her about a second murder. It wasn’t as if they had gossiped about anything before this. In fact, Jamie couldn’t remember exchanging more than a few basic pleasantries with Consuela. Then again, a second body while they were here might be to her advantage after all. Jamie suppressed the smile crossing her lips by taking a bite of the now soggy apple pie.

As she laid the spoon back down on the plate, Jamie feigned a desperate sigh.

Sympathy and understanding seemed to emanate from the older woman. “Anything I can help with?”

Bartenders and innkeepers. Neither can resist the lure of being a poor man’s psychiatrist, thought Jamie with a mild shake of her head. But they are almost always sympathetic to a victim. Jamie forced another sigh, this one more pathetic sounding than the first. “I don’t think so,” she looked coyly at her plate. “I don’t think anyone can help me.”

Consuela clucked sympathetically. “We’ve all had rough spots. Lordy, you’d be surprised at the things I’ve been through. Sometimes just talking can help. Make ya feel better, anyway.”

Jamie nodded. “I suppose. I just, well, I don’t want you to think badly of me. Or of Mark.”

The innkeeper reached across the table and patted Jamie’s hand. “Marriage isn’t easy, is it? Somewhere those fairy tales forget to mention that it takes more than love to make a life together work. It takes understanding and work.” Another pat on the hand. “A lifetime of understanding and work.”

Jamie faked a sniffle, bringing a napkin to her face in an effort to hide the smirk she could feel erupting on her lips. Let the old woman think I need her advice. I need to get her talking enough that I can convince her Mark could be the murderer. She might even help me “escape” if I play this con right.

Once she felt more in control of her expressions, Jamie daubed at her eyes as if tears had started to form. “He’s changed.”

“People learn so much about each other once they’re married,” Consuela said. “Much more than when just dating. Maybe what you think is change was there all along.”

Jamie remained silent, hoping Consuela would take the silence as contemplation.

After a few minutes Consuela asked, “How has he changed?”

“He’s just so stressed,” Jamie began. “I was hoping this trip of ours would relax him. It hasn’t really worked out that way.”

“He brought his work with him?”

“Well, yes.” Jamie kept her voice quiet, causing Consuela to lean closer to hear. “He said he needed to finish some things. Even though we’re supposed to be on vacation.”

Consuela nodded. “Many men are workaholics. Heck, many women are, too. I’m sure he thinks he’s being a good provider.”

Disappointed that the conversation wasn’t leading in the direction Jamie wanted it to, she opted to change her tactic. “I’m not sure it’s work. He, well, he has left in the middle of the night while we were here.” Jamie managed to make her voice crack and added a sniffle for effect. “I even found a phone number.”

Another sympathetic pat on the hand accompanied Consuela’s question. “You think he’s having an affair? Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

Jamie used the napkin to once again hide a smile, nodding and shaking her shoulders slightly to make it look like she was holding back sobs. “I just don’t know what to do,” she whined, hoping to garner additional sympathy from the older woman.

Consuela remained silent, seemingly content to merely pat Jamie’s hand. Had Jamie been sincere, the act would have been comforting and supportive. Instead the young con woman saw the means to a clean escape with every touch.

When she felt the silence had gone on long enough, Jamie pushed the napkin to her eyes, hoping to redden them. Anything to help the con along. “He didn’t used to be like this, you know,” she said, removing the napkin from her face and adding frightened tones to her voice. “But then he got hurt.”

The innkeeper’s eyes went from sympathetic to concerned, but still she remained silent, allowing Jamie the freedom to tell the story on her own.

“He was rock climbing,” Jamie babbled, keeping the conspiratorial whine she had cultivated. “He hurt his back. The doctors, they gave him pain medication, of course. I just don’t think he’s ever stopped taking it.”

“He must have been hurt badly.”

Jamie shrugged. “Yes, but the doctors say he’s as good as new now. He doesn’t even limp.”

“No,” Consuela agreed. “He seems fine. But pain is a strange thing.”

“I suppose.” This wasn’t going the way Jamie wanted either. “The medication, though, it’s like I don’t even know him anymore. He just isn’t Mark.”

Jamie tried hard to suppress the smirk at her joke. Of course he wasn’t Mark. Jamie had no idea what his real name was, but it wasn’t Mark.

Consuela must not have noticed the smirk, since she just continued patting Jamie’s hand, making sympathetic clucking noises.

The older woman’s reassurance prompted Jamie to continue her story. “It’s been a long time since the accident. He was okay at first, but then. . . .”

“It can be hard to see someone you love hurting, can’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed Jamie. “It was so hard.”

“What do the doctors say now? He seems fine, but pain is a personal thing. What did you say happened to him again?”

“Oh, it was a car accident,” Jamie quickly replied, making up a story as she went. “A hit and run. They had to cut him out of the vehicle. He was in critical condition for days. They never found the guy who hit him.”

“That’s awful.”

Jamie nodded. “And now, well, now he just takes drugs all the time, popping pain pills to survive the day and then sleeping pills for the night. I don’t know what to do. And then . . . then . . . he disappears. Sometimes he just leaves in the middle of the night.” She faked another sob, closing her eyes as if to fight back tears. “I’m just at my wits end.”

“I know, honey. It will all be okay,” Consuela comforted. “Would you like me to get you some information on local resources? Some good drug counselors? Pain doctors? If not here, what about back home?”

“Back home?”

“You’re on vacation, right? I’m sure there are some good resources where you’re from.”

“Oh, no. I mean, yes. I’m sure there are. But he’d never go to a doctor there. Too much pride, you know?”

“Some men are like that.”

“But, yeah. Maybe he’d go see someone here. It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

“Right,” the innkeeper agreed. “I’ll get you some information and send it up to your room. Would that work?”

“Sure. Just don’t let Mark see it, okay?”

“No problem. I should have something for you soon.” Consuela picked up the plates and headed toward the kitchen. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”

“Thank you so much.” Jamie stood and turned to leave.

I should be an actress, she thought as she headed back to the room she shared—for now—with Mark.

***

Deputy Midget entered the dining room when Jamie left.

“Well? Did I do okay?” Consuela asked. “The girl must think I’m incredibly stupid. She can’t even get her story straight.”

“Consuela, you did great,” Midget replied. “We’ll turn you into a first-class deputy yet.”

Chapter 30: Cooper Dahlsing — by Christine Husom

“A reputable therapist . . .” Moody Sinclair paused and Cooper wondered why she suddenly looked a little sad and upset. Did it have to do with why she was no longer licensed? “Um, like I said earlier, I need to know more about you besides your medical condition.”

Cooper didn’t want to spend valuable time talking about himself and thought about where in his life to begin.

Sinclair spoke before he did. “You’re a doctor?”

“I have my PhD in genetics.”

“Genetics. Hmm.” She studied him a minute. “So you figured out that Riley was not the biological daughter of the Petersons?”

“It wouldn’t take a geneticist to figure that one out.”

Sinclair surprised him by smiling. “So I’m not so smart after all?”

Cooper shrugged. Of course she was smart. “Riley didn’t know she was adopted, did she?”

“I guess the knowledge, the truth, can no longer hurt her.” Sinclair quietly sighed. “No, she did not.”

“So why would a little girl need psychological help?”

“Dr. Dahlsing, I am not going to say any more. Riley may be gone, but her parents are not.”

Cooper sat up straighter. “Her adoptive parents, you mean. Her biological parents have been looking for her since she was stolen from a Minnesota hospital nursery.”

A brief unguarded look of surprise danced across Sinclair’s face. “Minnesota? How do you know—”

“I’m from Wisconsin. I remember when it happened. When I saw Mrs. Neuhaus on television recently pleading for the return of her daughter, I knew that daughter had to be Riley. It all fit.”

“Did you tell the police about your suspicions?”

“Not yet.”

Sinclair seemed visibly relieved and Cooper wondered why. Did she have a pact with the Petersons? Contact with the biological parents?

She rolled her shoulders forward an inch or so and nodded. “Tell me why you think you may have had anything to do with Riley’s death.”

Cooper told her about his sister, her unsolved murder, and having no memory of seeing her walk away from his car when he dropped her off at school that fateful morning. He briefly summarized his life, his nighttime wanderings, his career and why he left it all behind to move to Rubicon Ranch. When he described waking up in the desert on the night Riley died near where her body was found, Sinclair shifted in her chair. Cooper recognized she was growing increasingly uncomfortable.

Dr. Sinclair stood. “I can’t hypnotize you. Not yet, anyway.”

Cooper was more than frustrated. He’d poured out the sordid details of his life before Rubicon and his fears about possible involvement in both his sister’s and Riley’s deaths—which is what Sinclair asked him to do—for nothing.

“Can you tell me why you won’t hypnotize me?”

“Dr. Dahlsing, you are a very guarded man. I can see that much. You’ve obviously thought this through or you wouldn’t be here. But now I need to think over everything you’ve told me. And what I want you to think about is, do you trust me enough? To guide you through hypnosis—to be successful—I’ll need that.”

She had a point. Cooper sensed Moody Sinclair had secrets of her own. Dark secrets. He had read about therapists being accused of planting false memories in people. He didn’t think that was possible, but it was enough to trigger some doubt. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little research on the psychologist to uncover why she no longer had her license to practice psychology.

Cooper thanked the doctor for her consideration, said he’d be in touch, and left.

*   *   *

Where to now? he wondered as walked away from the Sinclair home. Take a right for home, or a left to head into the town? He was too anxious to go home, he had to keep walking. He should have scheduled another appointment with Dr. Sinclair, but maybe it was for the best that he hadn’t. If his research on her uncovered something illicit, he wouldn’t want to go back. He’d find another psychologist somewhere else.

Cooper reached the business district minutes later. He stopped at the newspaper vending machine that carried the daily paper from Rojo Duro. Stories on Riley and on the unidentified man whose body had also found in the desert ran side by side on the front page. Cooper fished a dollar out of his pocket, inserted it in the machine’s slot, and pushed the button. The latch released. He opened it and withdrew the newspaper.

When Lieutenant Frio told Cooper the second body was an adult male, he had moved that information to the back of his mind, figuring the two deaths weren’t related. But looking at the artist’s sketch of the unidentified man staring at him had him wondering. He knew him from somewhere.

When realization hit, Cooper tried unsuccessfully to convince himself he was imagining things. But he never forgot a face. He had to go back some years in his memory bank and there it was. A photo in the Wisconsin newspaper of Riley’s biological mother and father. Her father had one arm hooked around his wife’s shoulders and the other on her lap. Their newborn daughter had been snatched from the hospital and they wanted her back. They wouldn’t rest until she was safely returned to their large family.

Cooper forced himself to read the article. They did not give the cause of man’s death, but police were investigating the manner of death as a homicide.

What was Mr. Neuhaus doing in Rubicon Ranch? Minnesota was over a thousand miles away. There was only one reason: he was here because he had learned Riley’s location.

Who knew Neuhaus was in Rubicon Ranch? Did he contact the Petersons, threaten to expose them? When they decided they couldn’t face going to prison they killed Riley, then her father? And why would the Petersons leave their bodies in the desert?

Cooper felt a deep connection to Riley: a special connection he had not had shared with anyone since the death of his sister. He wanted to help the authorities get to the bottom of her death. Riley’s biological father’s death was another matter. Cooper figured when the investigators found out who killed Riley, they’d know who killed Neuhaus.

He considered heading to the small café, but felt he had about enough energy left to make it home. He’d been all geared up to go through hypnosis with Dr. Sinclair, but she wouldn’t do it. Sinclair. She wouldn’t reveal anything about Riley to him, but maybe she would to the police. The more he thought about Moody, the more he knew she was hiding something.

Cooper’s legs got heavier with each step home. The burden of two young loved ones’ deaths was weighing him down. He’d moved to Rubicon Ranch for safety and escape, but there was no peace in these hills.

Chapter 29: Mary “Moody” Sinclair — by JJ Dare

While Moody listened to Cooper Dahlsing explain why he had come to see her, she let her mind wander to earlier in the day when she’d visited her father in the hospital.

The hospital had smelled of antiseptic and fear. It had reeked of pain and death.

Morris was in intensive care. He had not seemed to be in pain. One baleful eye remained open and stared at Moody. Moody had stared back.

The official diagnosis was a stroke. The prognosis was, unfortunately, somewhat encouraging. The doctors agreed her father would recover to some degree, but only time would tell how much mobility he would regain. Time would also tell how much the stroke has damaged his mind.

“Why didn’t you just die?” she had asked her father.

The opened eye blinked and a shadowy grimace crossed the mobile side of his face.

Moody repeated the question. The eye blinked again. Interesting.

Pulling her chair closer to her father, she asked another question.

“Why didn’t you have a heart attack?”

No response. No eye blinking and no change in facial expression.

“Why did you have pictures of corpses in your safe?”

Again, no response.

“Why don’t you die?”

The eye blinked once and he grimaced.

Moody shifted position in the chair and studied the man who had fathered her. His open good eye followed her as she leaned back. There was still something sentient inside Morris.

“Why did you kill Riley?”

No response. Well, it had been worth a shot. Moody did not think her father was a child killer, but one never knew the inside of dark hearts.

Staring at her father, Moody had wondered why the universe was allowing her father, who condoned all manner of violence and death, why the universe allowed him to live. He’d be happier in the hell of his nightmare writings.

“Do you know who killed Riley?”

Blink. With another grimace, Morris raised his good hand and pointed over the top of Moody’s head. Fatigued by the effort, he dropped the hand back on top of the covers.

What did Morris know? Like a town gossip, Morris had his fingers on the pulse of every form of evil around him. He had always had an inner radar attuned to his fellow monsters’ dark dealings.

She should have been surprised, but she wasn’t. This was Morris Sinclair, after all.

Moody repeated the question.

“Who killed Riley?”

Blink, grimace, point. Her father’s pantomimed answers didn’t establish anything more than he knew or thought he knew the killer. Pointing toward the west where Rubicon Ranch was located did nothing either except confirm his sense of direction.

The air in the sterile room suddenly felt heavy and malevolent. Moody knew it was her own mind making her feel an evil presence in the room besides her father’s. Looking at her watch, Moody stood up and leaned toward her father’s face.

As if to kiss his check, Moody leaned further in but bypassed her father’s hard face and whispered in his ear instead.

“Bye, Dad. If you’re still alive when I come back . . . well, let’s hope not, right?”

Her father’s baleful eye followed her as she backed out of the room. A little tiny part of Moody felt empathy for the man lying helpless in the hospital bed. The little tiny part was overshadowed by the knowledge that the world would be a better place without Morris.

Word had gotten out, apparently. Moody had no trouble spotting some of her father’s minions in the county hospital’s lobby. Their Goth gloom was apparent, even those dressed like regular folks. Something in their demeanor always gave them away. Their darkness appeared to shine like a light bulb.

When she saw the growing group, Moody turned on her heel and slipped through a service door. Although she’d been occasionally recognized throughout the years as the daughter of Morris Sinclair, most of the time she was able to blend with any crowd. Today was a different day.

The groupies would have been on the lookout for anyone resembling Morris. Moody was not in the mood to be mobbed with questions about a man she cared less for than she did a stranger on the street.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. She cared very much about his eventual departure from life.

Not that she would do anything to hasten it. Well, not directly. She was a marked woman and the questions hanging over her head from the last time she’d been involved in a death would mark her even more should something happen to her father.

Damn. What a situation, Moody thought as she walked to her car. Sitting at the stop sign in front of the hospital, she was almost sideswiped by a van full of post-adolescent Morris junkies. She had long learned to spot them from miles away.

Moody remembered the lightning bolt that had hit her mind as she thought about the strange circumstances of Riley’s death. The body had been stuffed in a television but the message wasn’t about television or broadcasts or anything like that. The message was about communication.

Moody pulled the car to the side of the road as she puzzled over her latest thought. She wasn’t familiar with existential experiences on a personal level, but she knew she had just had one.

Communication was what? Communication was inter-action and interaction was always one on one, even if one of the ones was the group.

Shakily, Moody had put the car in drive and pulled back out into traffic. As a police car passed her in the opposite lane, she had felt the officer’s eyes boring into her. She felt guilty, then, she felt guilty for feeling guilty.

Seth made her feel that way. She was able to hide it better with him than the others because she knew some of his secrets.

Snapping back to the present, Moody shook her head as she tried to clear her own confused reasoning. Cooper was still talking and Moody heard herself automatically answer him, but her own mind was twice removed from Cooper’s problems.

Too much had happened to her in such a short time and she was starting to become concerned about her ability to separate fact from fantasy. She was afraid she would lose herself to her own psychoses.

One accidental death of a child followed by a close association to another child who had been killed. Really, anyone with half a brain would put Moody on the short list of suspects. Especially if they knew the other things Moody kept hidden under lock and key.

Moody looked at the disturbed man slumped in the chair opposite her. Cooper, Cooper, Cooper, she thought, what secrets are locked away in the wide-awake, yet, sleeping part of your mind? Are you Riley’s killer? Do you know if Morris is? Or, more importantly, am I?

Chapter 28: Dylan McKenzie — by Nancy A. Niles

Dylan spit on the toe of the black shoe and polished it to a mirror-like shine. His high top sneakers had been thrown into the closet and he’d retrieved the leather dress shoes that he’d owned for over a year and had worn exactly—never. They felt stiff and a little tight but he liked the look and the feel of them. In fact, he thought, they looked like shoes a soldier would wear. With his dress uniform, of course.

He glanced at the worn leather jacket hanging in his closet. That jacket used to be his favorite, but after seeing Eloy’s immaculately pressed uniform with all the colorful medals, Dylan longed to wear such a fine article of clothing. It had not been the uniform itself, he realized, rather what the uniform stood for.

His mother had always raged against the military saying that she wished the old, rich politicos would be sent to fight the wars instead of the young, handsome men. “If those old hypocrites had to lose their lives on the battlefield there would be NO wars,” she used to tell him.

“But what about the commies?” Dylan had asked after hearing his dad talk about the communists trying to take over the country. “Wouldn’t they destroy America?”

“Don’t listen to what your dad says,” she’d told him. “The only reason there are wars is because of money and power. That’s it. Every time our lame brained elected officials run the country into too much debt they declare a war. Actually, wars stimulate the economy and keep the big wigs in their fancy cars and mansions. What a bunch of lowlife scumbags! And that’s another good reason to leave this country!”

Dylan was beginning to question his mother’s ideas. He’d seen the pride in Eloy’s face when he’d looked at those old photos of himself. Dylan knew the old man could probably tell him lots of stories of sacrifice and bravery. Just the thought of wearing a uniform like that made him feel somehow stronger and more capable. People respected the uniform. Even his mother never said anything nasty about soldiers. She’d told him to respect the young men who fought, but not the politicians who sent them to their deaths.

Maybe next time he visited the old man he would show Dylan his dress uniform and medals. He imagined Eloy had tons of cool stuff in that big, rambling house. He could probably break in there with no sweat and take whatever he wanted.

He frowned at himself in the mirror.

A soldier would not dishonor himself by being a thief. A soldier takes pride in being brave, honest and kind.

Dylan liked thinking of himself as a soldier. He’d been surprised at the pride he’d felt when the old man had called him soldier. And he’d been even more surprised that he’d wanted Eloy to like him. And that had been the first time an adult male had taken any interest in him at all. His dad never called him anything but a loser and never had anything to say to him except to order him around and tell him to fetch him a whisky or a beer.

If Dylan had been a soldier his father would even be proud of him. Or maybe not. It seemed his dad would not be happy with him no matter what he did. He realized he’d spent too much time wanting his dad to take an interest in him. Eloy had opened his eyes to that much. That old man did not even know him, yet he treated him as though he had worth just by being alive.

A wave of guilt washed over him when he felt the gold bracelet in his pocket. It was heavy and seemed to be weighing down the side of his pants. He’d almost panicked as Eloy’s prying eyes took him in. He feared Eloy could see the outline of the thick piece of jewelry that almost overflowed the skinny pocket of his jeans.  He’d kept his hand against the pocket as with each step the gold chains seemed to be trying to jump from their confines and shout to the world that he was a thief.

He knew deep down inside he could be a good person, could even be a soldier like Eloy and could even earn medals and wear one of those dress uniforms that Eloy had been wearing in that photo. These were just trying times and he needed to be able to survive and get to his mom, otherwise he wouldn’t have stolen that bracelet. And then he remembered how powerful it had made him feel to take it.

He felt a stomach ache coming on. It was too bad that Eloy and his mother were at such opposite ends of the spectrum. SHE would be proud of him taking that bracelet. SHE would see how smart he’d been and SHE would encourage his criminal behavior.

Eloy on the other hand would probably whip him within an inch of his life.

Dylan laughed out loud as he envisioned the old man trying to catch him. He might not be able to fight him off, but he could sure run away from him. And Dylan admitted, he had been pretty smart in getting that bracelet. He tried to recall the powerful feeling he’d had when he took the bracelet, but it was useless.

He didn’t feel powerful now. Dylan had no idea how to turn that bracelet into cold hard cash. He couldn’t ask Eloy. That old man was too sharp, he’d get the truth out of him in a nanosecond and he couldn’t let that happen. But he needed money so he could leave this community and get to his mom.

If he took the bracelet to a pawnshop, they’d want to see his ID and he knew the pawn shops regularly received photos of stolen jewelry and were required by law to alert the police. His mom had taught him that much. So what to do? Think, Dylan, figure it out. There had to be some way.

He admired the shiny patent leather shoes on his feet. After he’d left Eloy’s he’d returned home for these shoes. They were the only thing he owned that could be considered soldierly. Once he got some money for the bracelet maybe he could find a uniform jacket at the surplus store. That thought cheered him and he headed for downtown.

March, Soldier! Get the job done! You got smarts and with a little luck you’ll get rid of the booty and be on your way!

His hand wrapped tightly around the gold chains in his pocket and when the violent shove against his back propelled him into the block wall he’d reached out with his hand whipping the chains through the air. His shoulder banged hard against the unyielding brick and he turned just as the man wearing the ski mask rushed him.

Out of pure instinct Dylan raised his hand and flailed the gold chains across his attacker’s face. The man screamed and a cold shiver ran down Dylan’s spine at the sound. The attacker kicked Dylan’s knee and a sharp, sickening pain brought him to a fetal position, his arms wrapping around his knees, his head tucked into his chest. The hard construction boot of the attacker plowed into his back and Dylan fell forward like a rag doll.

A soldier fights with no regard to pain or injury. A soldier is a machine, a lethal, fighting machine.

With tears streaming down his face Dylan pushed himself to his knee ignoring the loud pop from the joint and the razor sharp ache shooting through his leg. He held the bracelet like brass knuckles and slugged the surprised man square in the jaw. The man’s head flew back and now he was the one on the concrete sidewalk. Dylan kicked at the man’s head and the attacker grabbed his shoe and pulled Dylan off balance.

He fell on the sidewalk and curled into a ball to deflect another attack. But to his surprise all he heard was the sound of running footsteps. He raised his head and saw the man limping hurriedly around the corner.

Only fools mess with soldiers! Next time he’d not let the man get away so easy!

He brushed the dirt from his clothes and took a careful step slowly placing his full weight on his injured knee. It wobbled a little, but Dylan felt sure it had not been broken. The chains of the bracelet were still wrapped around his knuckles and he kept them looped around his fingers as he made the slow walk home. He wished he could tell Eloy about the attack and how he’d beaten the man. He felt proud of himself for fighting back and knew at that moment his heart’s desire was to be a decorated soldier like Eloy.

The lyrics to Bob Dylan’s “Hero Blues” played through his mind. Never before had he wanted to fight another human being: at least not when he’d been in nerd mode. Sure, when he wore his leathers and took on the other persona he would not run from a fight. But Dylan felt so energized, so alive and strong after warding off his attacker that he could see why people wanted to go to war.

And whole cities threw parades and parties for their returning war heroes. He could imagine the look on his dad’s face if a whole town had a parade for him. And his mom would be so proud. Yes, Dylan could fight, in fact, wanted to fight. He imagined himself in a foxhole shooting at his enemies.

And then he remembered the saber the old guy kept by his side and wondered how it would feel to stab someone with it. His video games showed plenty of gore and spurting blood when someone got stabbed. He used to laugh at the electronic sounding screams as the stricken ones fell down dead. His games were animations, nothing else, they weren’t real, and Dylan thought, a poor substitute for the real thing. In fact, they’d become boring and he hardly ever played them anymore.

Just the thought of ramming that saber through that putz gave him a feeling in the pit of his stomach like he’d gotten when he’d ridden the Canyon Blaster Roller Coaster at Circus Circus in Vegas. That had only been two years ago, but to Dylan it felt like an eternity. His mom had left his dad after that trip and Dylan knew there would be no more vacations in the future.

He entered his empty house and his stomach rumbled. He couldn’t believe he felt hungry again. But he must’ve burnt off the food Eloy had given him. He threw imaginary punches into the air and savored the remembrance of the feel of his fist smashing into that guy’s jaw. He fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich leaving a mess in the kitchen and hoping his dad would get mad about it.

Let him come at me, now.

After today Dylan would not back down from his dad anymore. The thought both excited and frightened him. Stuffing the last of the sandwich in his mouth Dylan sat at the desk in his room. He drew a stick figure with its arms outstretched, its mouth open wide and a huge saber sticking through the middle section.

Rummaging around in his drawer he found a red pen and carefully drew drops of blood on the end of the saber and dripping to the ground. He wished he’d been a better artist so he could draw his dad’s face on the stick figure, and then decided he could cut his dad’s face out of an old photo. It would be cool to cut a photo of himself out and draw a mask over his face like the one that guy who’d attacked him had worn. Only Dylan’s would have lightning bolts on the sides and he’d wear red contact lenses.

He stopped drawing as the attacker’s ski mask covered face solidified in his memory. He recalled the blue, blood shot eyes glaring through the eyeholes, and the smell of beery sweat. That smell had been oh so familiar. He stood up and paced the length of his room. There’d been something tight around the attackers middle, he’d felt it when the attacker had pushed against him. Could it have been a type of girdle holding in a beer belly? A beer belly like his dad sported?

No way! He couldn’t believe that had been his dad. Why would he attack him like that? He knew his dad hated Lieutenant Frio and he would most certainly have been angry if he’d seen him talking with her that day at the drugstore. After all, the attacker had asked him why he’d been talking to that cop. Things were starting to make sense.

That scream the attacker had made came back to him and he realized he’d recognized his dad’s nasally voice. His breath began to come in short spurts and the familiar hiccup at the base of his throat warned him of an oncoming panic attack. He threw a Xanax in his mouth and swallowed quickly willing himself to breathe deeply.

He stood at his bedroom door and listened for any sound from his dad. As far as he could tell the house was empty. Was he safe here? Should he leave before his dad got home? Should he tell Eloy what he suspected?

Dylan’s shoulders slumped and he returned to his bed. No one would believe him. No one that is, except his mom. For the first time in his life he felt real anger toward her. Where was she? Why couldn’t she be here when he needed her? What was she doing so far away and why hadn’t she taken him with her when she’d left his dad?

On the heels of that he remembered Riley’s mom and how protective she’d always been. It hadn’t seemed to help Riley any, though. He realized he missed that goofy little kid and he missed visiting her. She’d always made sure to save him a big piece of cake, or some of the pastry her parents loved to buy. She’d been a good kid and he felt sorry that she’d died. He hoped with all his heart that he hadn’t been the one that had killed her. He just couldn’t remember much of that last night that they’d been together.

A wave of guilt riffled through his stomach and he pressed his face into his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he cried for the first time in years. Dylan cried for Riley, for his mom and for himself.

Buck up, Soldier! Stop all that blubberin’. Face this problem head on!

He wiped the tears from his face and with his arms behind his head Dylan lay on the bed feeling his heart beating a fast tattoo against his chest. Lieutenant Frio came to mind and Dylan opened his eyes and stared into space. She might believe him, but then what? She’d question his dad and that would only cause Dylan more problems. Next time his dad might bring a knife or a gun. Despair overtook him as he stared at his shiny shoes and at first the smudges on the toe did not register in his mind. He turned the shoe causing the light to reflect off the marred surface and then his heart almost leapt into his throat.

There, on the toe of the mirror-like surface was what looked to be a perfect finger print. The attacker grabbing his shoe came back to him and Dylan almost shouted with joy.

“Gotcha!” he whispered and carefully removed the shoe.

The clock said twelve straight up and Dylan knew where he could find the good Lieutenant.

He’d just finished lacing up his high top sneakers when he heard the front door open and close. The patent leather shoe with the fingerprint was in a plastic bag from Home Depot and Dylan shoved it under his bed.

“Where are ya, ya little shit?” his dad’s nasally voice called out.

His knee throbbed in a seemingly primal response to the sound of his dad’s voice. Dylan had no doubt his dad had been the attacker. He wanted to fight him again, but caution took over. He silently slid into his closet and opened the door a crack in order to peer out.

The knob rattled on his bedroom door and then the jam exploded and the door flew inward from the solid kick from the construction boot. Dylan noticed the bruised cheek and the bloody lip first. The nine-inch knife clenched in his dad’s fist reflected the light and Dylan’s breathing picked up. He had to stay calm. The Xanax he’d just taken should be kicking in. Please, he begged silently. Don’t let him find me. And don’t let me pass out.

He almost gasped when his dad got on his knees and looked under the bed. He pulled out the Home Depot bag and flung it across the floor.

“Where are ya, sissy boy? Ya think ya can beat me up again?” his dad bellowed. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he looked toward the closet.

Dylan burrowed back into his clothes and held his breath. His dad’s big paw rummaged through the clothes and suddenly he was staring into the blood shot blue eyes.

This time Dylan’s fist smacked so hard into his dad’s nose that Dylan feared he’d broken his knuckles. Like a fat, squat tree his dad fell backward and landed flat on his back, his eyes open and dazed.

Dylan rubbed the pain from his hand and stared at his dad who was gasping and writhing on the floor.

“I’ll kill ya,” he managed to snarl through his bleeding lip. His nose spurted blood onto the carpeting when he rolled over on his side. Dylan grabbed the Home Depot bag and ran from the room resisting the urge to give his dad a swift kick in the ribs.

Chapter 27: Jeff and Kourtney Peterson — by J B Kohl and Eric Beetner

A horn blast behind him alerted Jeff that the light was green. His tires squeaked as he lurched forward through the intersection. The car was aimed for home although he wanted to be anywhere but.

Driving with the sling was difficult. At least it wasn’t a stick shift like his first car. Working the gears in that shoebox on wheels in the Minnesota snow would test the best drivers in the world.

His explanation at the Urgent Care clinic on the edge of the Rubicon development was weak and noncommittal. Kind of the way Kourtney would describe him.

His arm, “Banged into something.” He left it at that, omitting the part about his wife attacking him with a clock and the fall down the stairs. He’d suffered through the pain during his night on the couch, but by morning he knew he needed actual medical attention. A hairline fracture they said. Not much to do but immobilize it and take care not to “Bang” it on anything again. The way the doctor smiled she must have thought there was a sly, perhaps slightly tipsy, story to go along with the injury. Jeff regarded her grin with a tight-lipped stare.

Thankfully there were no follow up questions, another reason to love the clinic. It couldn’t handle anything serious like the hospital, but that was thirty miles down the road and having the clinic on the premises added to the cocoon-like feeling Rubicon gave residents.

All Jeff could think about as he sat in the waiting room was the only other time he’d been there, with Riley. She needed three stitches after she banged her chin on the kitchen counter. Like father like daughter.

His awkward lies to the nursing staff were still better than the embarrassing call to the police. Almost as soon as the dispatcher answered, his backbone went soft.

He started off screaming for help, wailing about how his wife had gone crazy. The look on Kourtney’s face reflected back how pathetic he sounded. That familiar emasculating sneer of hers—her mouth a thin line and her eyes saying, “You sound like a woman.”

“What is your location, sir?” the dispatcher asked.

“Um, I’m at home . . . but . . .”

“What is the address?”

Kourtney stayed frozen, waiting for him to say something stupid. Then what? After what had already happened that night he wasn’t willing to find out.

“It’s . . . never mind. False alarm.”

“Sir? Did someone assault you, sir?”

“No. Never mind. It’s nothing.” It was all he needed to have Sheriff Bryan see this report come across his desk. The police didn’t need any more reason to look deeper into their lives. Their secrets were buried right below the surface. A whiff of air would be all it took to unearth them.

Kourtney’s judgmental scowl turned to a smug grin as she turned and walked back upstairs.

***

Out driving, Jeff felt exposed. He much preferred the sanctuary of home. In the years they’d been residents of Arizona he never found time for friends. Now every face on the sidewalk or driver in another car glared at him suspiciously, an angry mob preparing their torches. They knew what he’d done. They knew his secrets.

Up ahead Jeff saw a Sheriff’s car. He cut a hard right down a street he’d never been on. Anything to avoid more scrutiny. The repetitive conformity of Rubicon Ranch made this street almost indistinguishable from his own. He wove the car around the gentle curves and past the manicured lawns, squares of green patched over the dry brown land like a bad toupee.

The muscles in his back spasmed again. They had been tender ever since his fall. He remembered the prescription in his pocket for Vicodin. “If you need it,” said the doctor cheerily.

Jeff said nothing. He wanted to tell the doctor she was a fool. No pills could take away the pain he felt. His daughter was dead. Where’s the prescription for that?

***

The pharmacist stabbed at her keyboard and said in a weary tone, “Give me about fifteen minutes mister . . .” She struggled with the doctor’s handwriting.

“Peterson.”

“Mr. Peterson.” The name sparked a light in the darkness. “Oh. Are you . . ?”

Jeff waited. The woman was caught. She knew she was prying, but it had slipped out as easily as gossip with her girlfriends. Her mouth gaped in strangled silence.

“I’m her father.”

“Oh, I . . . I’m sorry Mr. Peterson. I’m sorry for your loss.” Her cheeks and neck blushed against her white coat. “I’ll get this right away.”

Jeff stepped away to the waiting area—a small green carpet and a spindle of informational pamphlets on ailments of all kinds, each with photos of pleasantly smiling people of all colors grinning through their Acid Reflux, Eczema, Diabetes and Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

The pharmacist confirmed what Jeff had known for years—that it took significantly less than fifteen minutes to fill a prescription if they really wanted. She was back in less than three.

“Here you go. Looks like you could use these.” She nodded her head at his sling as she packaged the bottle of pills.

“Nothing serious.”

“Still. Why suffer, right?” She winced, as if thinking that anything she could say would remind them both of Riley. Jeff handed her his debit and insurance card. She changed subjects while she rang up the transaction. “Crazy about the other death.”

“What death?”

“The other, um, body. In the desert.”

“Another child?”

“No. An adult. I don’t know much about it, just that they found someone else. No I.D. or anything.”

It meant a million things at once. Riley’s killer? Another victim from the same person who killed Riley? A necessary cover-up to keep the killer’s identity hidden?

And where did Kourtney fit into it?

Jeff felt dizzier than he had at the base of the stairs after his fall. He took the pills and turned to leave.

“Oh, sir. Mr. Peterson. Your cards.”

Jeff turned back, collected his debit and insurance cards, and left.

***

The morgue attendant recognized Jeff. Jeff swallowed his embarrassment. The county morgue isn’t exactly the place you want everyone to know your name.

“Mr. Peterson, what can I do for you?” The man eyed Jeff’s sling. He may have known a mourning father on sight but Jeff had to read his name tag to remember even a simple name like Christopher.

“The, um, sheriff said—Sheriff Bryan—he said there’s a new body. Um, he wanted me to take a look at it. See if I knew the man.”

Christopher tilted his head, his red hair shifting down across his forehead. “I didn’t get a call about anything like that.”

“I just bumped into him on the street. Outside. Outside when I was out running errands.” Jeff’s arm ached. He wished he’d taken a Vicodin before he started trying to pass his lies. “He told me to stay quiet about it. That it wasn’t common knowledge yet. He just thought, y’know . . .”

Christopher stayed firm in his seat. “I’ll call in and check with him.” He reached for the phone on his desk.

“He’s out. I told you. It’ll take forever. Don’t make me come back here again. Please.” The desperation and panic swirling on Jeff’s face looked to Christopher like the deep welling pain of a father who’d just lost a child. Even a morgue attendant isn’t immune to sympathy.

“Okay. Sorry. It’s just highly unorthodox.”

“I know. Just following orders though. Both of us, I guess.”

Christopher smiled like the director at a funeral home. Practiced understanding. One of those times when a look said more than words.

The smells of the steel and white tile room brought back sense memories of identifying Riley’s body. He shuffle-stepped past the locker where she had been, and presumably still was. Christopher made no mention of it or gesture toward the refrigerator door.

He slid open a drawer on the bottom row and lifted a white sheet to expose a man’s face. Middle-aged. Weather-worn.

A hint of recognition, then a flood.

It was a face that haunted Jeff’s dreams for eight years now, the landmarks of which he saw every day in Riley’s face. The tired lines of stress added years to the man but the photos Jeff had seen, had committed to memory, were all after the man suffered such trauma. They matched what he saw before him.

He stared into the face of the man who he stole from, the man’s whose soul and body Jeff had taken a part of and called it his own. He looked down at the dead face of Riley’s real father.

***

Kourtney looked out the sliding glass door to the pool. Riley’s beach ball and snorkel set were still in the basket of water toys by the back shed. She let her eyes trace over them once, and then avoided looking in that direction. She looked instead at the undisturbed surface of the water, smooth as glass. She was going to sit by the pool and read because that’s what normal people did on a hot day. The funeral was still two days away and there was no one to call. Riley would be cremated and the small box containing her ashes would be buried in the cemetery under a small stone. She and Jeff would put flowers in a vase on the small cement base supporting the headstone every Memorial Day and on Riley’s birthday. They would cry a little and then they would come back home and go about their business.

Jeff didn’t know about the cremation yet. Kourtney knew what he wanted—an open casket in the front of the church where people could come and ogle and cry, the keening of one feeding the keening of another until the whole sanctuary was nothing but a room of howls.

It was easier to look at a nice wooden box beside a picture of Riley and be done with it. And Kourtney was done with it. It was time to get back to normal. A new normal. One without the daughter who didn’t like her anyway.

Jeff made more noise than usual when he came in. His arm was in a sling. When she saw him, Kourtney had a flash of something that may have been guilt, but if she were honest with herself, it was probably disappointment that he hadn’t been more seriously injured when he fell.

“Broken?” she asked, turning briefly from her view of the pool to assess him.

“Hairline.”

He was pale—paler than usual and trembling. A fine sheen of sweat covered his face. Even the backs of his hands were sweating.

“You look like you’re in pain. Didn’t they give you any pills?”

He slumped into a chair and set a brown bottle of pills on the dining room table. He made no move to open the bottle or to do anything that might alleviate his discomfort. Kourtney went back to looking at the pool. She really wanted to go out there, but couldn’t seem to make up her mind to open the door and step over the threshold. There were those pool toys in their basket and they were big and bright and so very THERE that, even though she didn’t look at them she could see them, looming in the periphery.

“They found another body in the desert.” Jeff’s voice was so soft she wasn’t sure she heard him at first.

“And?”

“Her father.” When Kourtney didn’t say anything, Jeff dropped a heavy hand onto the table. Kourtney jumped. “Her real father.”

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Another body. “Are you trying to tell me something?” She swallowed, trying to imagine Jeffrey taking a life. Was it possible? How had he spent his time the last days? Listening to music. They were rarely in the same room together unless they were sleeping and he hadn’t been sleeping well at all. He could have easily slipped out in the night.

Jeff stood and pushed the chair in, wincing a little bit, like he was still in pain. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

She snorted. It was an ugly sound, she knew, but she felt ugly right then. He was going to accuse her, frame her. She quickly added pieces in her head:

He could kill, if Riley was at stake. If he meant what he said earlier, that he suspected her, then placing another body at her feet would be his perfect revenge. Blaming her for killing the man they’d already done so much damage to.

The pieces formed an incomplete picture, but one that frightened her anyway.

He had taken everything from her. He took the baby that she birthed and let it die and then he took Riley from her. “You did it,” she said. “Didn’t you? What happened? Did he come looking for her and you couldn’t bear to let anyone but you have her, so you killed him? Is that what happened?”

“I think we both know I’m incapable of that sort of thing.” He took another step in her direction, looking very much capable at that instant.

“You’re a kidnapper, aren’t you? Stealing babies from hospitals?” She threw the words out as violently as fists to keep him at bay. “Has your heart corroded that much over these years?” She knew it had because hers had too. “What else have you done? What else?” She was shouting and at first, Jeff shrank back from her, looking repulsive with that glaze of sweat marking his pale face.

But then he opened his mouth and roared. It was a raw sound, a coarse, grating sound that ripped his throat. “Enough!”

Kourtney didn’t think about the door anymore, didn’t think about the colorful toys against the shed. She moved quickly, her flip-flops slapping the tile as she broke the “NO RUNNING” rule she and Jeff had been so careful to enforce around the poolside. The back gate wasn’t far away. She could make it there, escape and then what? Tell the sheriff that her husband was angry because nine years ago she made him kidnap Riley? She made a noise that may have been a sob, or a groan. She didn’t know and it didn’t really matter. She cleared the long side of the pool and turned the corner, moving past the taunting basket of beach toys and then her shoes slipped on the hot stone.

Briefly, she recalled a conversation with Jeff about cement versus stone. “Cement is safer. Less slippery. Even when smooth stone is dry, your shoes can slip on it.” But it was a meek warning and Kourtney ignored it.

The memory was no more than a flash, lasting only an instant. But it replayed over and over as she fell, the side of her head striking the hot stone.

Jeff loomed above her. Her bare arms and legs burned, but she couldn’t lift them. She opened her mouth to tell him to stay away from her. She felt the blood pooling under her cheek. It was so hot. The stone was so very, very hot.

“I think we’re done now,” Jeff said.

But they weren’t. They weren’t and if she could talk, she could tell him her plan. They would pack and move south toward Mexico. They’d drive all the way down to South America and take up residence on a beach somewhere. They could be happy.

If only she could make her mouth move.

The toe of Jeff’s shoe was sharp in her back. He toed her to the edge of the pool. Sunlight hit the water and broke apart into a million diamonds. Was she already at the beach? She felt faint. And the tiles were so hot.

He nudged her over the edge of the pool and into the cool water. Kourtney felt instant relief. Finally. He read her mind. She had been so hot. She’d been too hard on Jeff. She knew that. She needed to tone it down a little bit. She would change. She tried to sigh, to explain herself, to voice her gratitude for the coolness of the pool, but her mouth filled with water. She opened her eyes and stared at the bottom getting closer.

Chapter 26: Melanie Gray — by Pat Bertram

Fury, like wildfire, flashed through Melanie. Fury at the sheriff for paying his silly games when people were dead, fury at herself for playing his fool.

She’d been flattered that he thought she could help with his investigation, but apparently the only thing he’d been investigating was her and how to get in her panties. And she’d fallen for it. Cripes, what an idiot! All her resolve not to let him get to her had been for nothing.

And that whole seduction scene—“So maybe, when I need you to help me, I won’t have to bully you. You’ll cooperate with me because you understand that getting my job done honestly is the most important thing to me.” Did he believe his own drivel? And anyway, how could she help when he wasn’t doing anything? It had been two days since Riley died. Didn’t they say that if they didn’t catch a killer within the first forty-eight hours that chances are he or she would never be caught? And the sheriff had wasted those precious hours trying to seduce her.

She’d fallen for Alexander’s crap and apparently she hadn’t learned anything, because here she was again, playing straight-woman for another unprincipled clown. Alexander, at least, had offered her adventure and marriage, and for a while he had even been faithful. But Seth? What did he have to offer? Nothing. He was married, and he was a taker. He’d take everything she had, which wasn’t much, just her integrity, and she’d be damned before she let him tarnish that with a tawdry affair. She’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d said “And I know you’d rather claw out my eyes and slash my throat than let me touch you.” And that look had belied his words. He seemed to think all he had to do was pretend to know her and she’d fall into his oh, so understanding arms.

“What?” he said, sounding as if he didn’t know exactly what was going through her mind. How could he not? He, Sheriff Seth Bryan, the great detective.

“As if you don’t know.” Melanie spit the words from between clenched teeth.

Seth’s brows drew together in an almost believable though comic look of confusion. “That’s such a typical womanish remark. I thought you were different.”

“You thought I was gullible and naïve. You thought since I put up with Alexander’s philandering, I’d put up with yours, too, but that is not going to happen. Only a fool gets involved with a married man, and whatever you think, I am no fool.”

Seth held up his hands, palms toward her. “Whoa.”

“Being a widow does not make me ripe for the plucking. I don’t need to be serviced like a bitch in heat. Believe me, the last thing I need in my life is a man, especially a married man. Calling it separate maintenance does not make you any less married.”

He flashed his teeth. “So you do like me. You’re protesting too much.”

“Not protesting enough, apparently, or else you wouldn’t have that silly grin on your face.”

He lost the grin. “What’s going on here? I thought we were having a nice meal while we went over the case.”

“You should be going over the case with your deputies. They, at least, seem to understand how inappropriate it is for you to include me in your investigation. Unless I’m still a suspect and you’re trying to get me to let down my guard and confess?”

“I told you, you were never a suspect.”

“As if playing with me, gigging me as you called it, is any better. So let’s discuss the case. What were the results of the autopsy? Was Riley murdered or was it an accident? If she was murdered, how was it done and who did it? Were there drugs in her system? Have you interrogated her parents yet to find out what they’re hiding? Have you found out who the dead man is and what, if anything, he has to do with Riley’s murder? You pretty much ignored me when I said he looked liked Riley, but then, that’s understandable. I never got a good look at the girl. All I saw was her jaw line, her nose, and her eyebrows, so whatever I blurted out after seeing the man’s corpse has to be discounted. Did the same person kill both of them? Or were there two different killers? Or . . .” Melanie paused to grab the thought that flitted through her mind. “Did he kill Riley and someone else kill him?”

Seth picked up his sandwich, dipped an end in the au jus, bit off a piece, and chewed slowly.

Melanie nodded. “That’s what I thought. You’re all talk.” She deepened her voice and mimicked him. “‘We have to solve these murders.’ Yeah, like there really is a we. Well, there was a we, but that was Alexander and me. You and I will never be a we.” A cough shuddered through her torso. She took a long drink of water, hoping she wasn’t coming down with a cold but was merely dehydrated from the strong air-conditioning and her rare monologue.

Seth gave her a searching look, opened his mouth and then closed it again with what sounded like a resigned sigh. She wondered what he’d been going to say and why he thought better of it, then she let out a sigh of her own. It didn’t matter. She had enough to do with grieving and fulfilling her book contract. She had nothing left for the sheriff and his investigation. Whatever he might think, she really didn’t know anything. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She did know one thing.

She threw her napkin on the table and stood, ready to flee.

Seth gaped at her. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going home, Sheriff Seth Bryan. I’m through with your games. You lied about investigating Alexander’s accident. I saw the photos in the newspaper and I visited the scene of the accident. There was nothing there to indicate that the crash had been anything other than an accident. Perhaps someone had tampered with the car, but the only way to find that out was to investigate the vehicle itself. And you didn’t care enough to check it out.”