“Mike? What happened? That sounded like a car. Where are you? Are you okay? I thought you said you were at the apartment.”
“I’m almost at the apartment. I’m coming home from the reception.” Mike let the minivan cross his path into the lane, then he hit the gas and kept driving on the shoulder.
“Why are you lying to me?” Stephanie’s tone turned worried. “You’re not going to do something crazy, are you? We can work this out. We can try and turn it around.”
“No, I’m fine.”
“I don’t believe you. I can tell you’re lying. Why? Mike, where are you? I’ll meet you, anywhere.”
“Look, it’s not that.” Mike knew he’d have to tell her or she wouldn’t let go. “I think I figured out who killed Sara, and it’s John MacFarland. The father, not the son.”
Stephanie gasped. “Mike, don’t get involved in this. Stay out of it. Where are you going?”
“I’m driving to MacFarland’s now. I’m just going to talk to him. I’m not going to accuse him of anything. I know how to play it.”
“No, Mike,” Stephanie said, alarmed. “Call the police. Please don’t do this. Don’t go.”
“Relax. I’ll be fine.” Mike was approaching a high snowdrift that blocked his lane, so he wedged his way back into the traffic.
“Mike, call the cops. You already have an assault charge against you by the son. You want one by the father, too?”
“I hear you, but I’m on my way.” Mike shifted into the fast lane, which still wasn’t fast enough.
“Stop. Wait. You’re jeopardizing any future custody proceedings for Emily.”
“Is that true, or are you just saying it?” Mike braked, waiting to go around a stopped car.
“It’s true. Please, listen to me. Think of Emily. Call the police, or I will.”
“All right, I’ll call. Let me hang up.” Mike watched brake lights flare in front of him.
“Great. Do whatever the police say. Let them take it from here.”
“Okay, good-bye.” Mike pressed END, then 911, driving with his thigh while the call connected, then he put the phone back in his lap.
“What is the nature of your emergency?” the operator asked.
“I have information regarding a murder case, the Sara Hambera murder case.”
“Please call the administrative number or the tip line, sir. This line is for emergencies only, and we’ve got our hands full tonight. We have a winter storm advisory.”
“Wait, don’t hang up. What’s the number for the tip line? Can you connect me?”
“Please hold, I’ll connect you.”
Mike turned right, onto the back streets heading toward his old neighborhood. There was a click on the line. “Hello?”
“How can I help you?”
“My name is Mike Scanlon, and I have information that John MacFarland on Foster Road in Wilberg committed the Sara Hambera murder. Can you connect me to whoever’s in charge of that case?” Mike drove into the darkness, and snow flew at him from all directions.
“I can’t do that, but I will take down your number and have them call you back.”
“Is Officer Torno there?” Mike asked, trying another tack. “He knows me.”
“Yes, he is. Do you want to speak to him?”
“Yes, put him on. Tell him it’s Dr. Scanlon.”
“Hold the line, please.” There were two clicks, then a man’s voice said wearily, “This is Officer Torno. Dr. Scanlon, what’s going on now?”
“I’m on my way to the MacFarlands’ house on Foster Road.”
“Isn’t that where I picked you up the other day?”
“Yes.”
“What are you doing, sir?”
“I thought it was the son who had an affair with my wife, but it’s the father. His name is John MacFarland. He’s married to Karen Quarles MacFarland, and I think he killed Sara Hambera so his wife wouldn’t find out about the affair.”
“Dr. Scanlon, stop. We don’t want you going over there, playing town watch, or being a vigilante. We’ll send a car out to talk to him.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“No, don’t meet us there. Go home. This is a police matter. You’re not to go anywhere near that family or that house.”
“I won’t, if you send a car. Will you send a car right away?”
“I will go there personally. But you need to go home. Now.”
“I will, thank you.” Mike hit the gas, his tires spraying snow in wide fans.
He’d be at Foster Road in no time.
Chapter Seventy-four
Mike steered onto Foster Road, but the police weren’t there, probably delayed by traffic or weather. Snow fell harder, and everyone was inside, hunkering down. He passed his old house, continued to the MacFarlands’, and pulled over across the street, cutting the ignition. The lights were on in their house, though he couldn’t see anybody through the front window. He was dying to break down the door and confront John, and the only thing that stopped him was Emily.
He figured somebody was home because there was a black BMW sedan in the driveway, but the snow had been swept off its roof and back window. He wondered why, and in the next minute, he got his answer. John emerged from his front door, carrying a duffel bag and a cardboard box, then he hurried down the porch steps, headed toward the BMW, and chirped it unlocked with his key fob. The BMW’s lights flashed, and its trunk lid opened. John loaded the box and bag in the trunk, pressed it closed, and went to the driver’s side of the car.
Mike watched, his thoughts racing. John was going somewhere and he’d be gone before the police got here. Mike couldn’t let him get away, so he climbed out of his car and hustled across the street. “John, wait a sec!” he hollered, in the blowing snow. “Hold on!”
“You?” John turned beside the BMW, his face in shadow, the porch light behind him. “What are you doing here?”
Mike thought fast. “I want to settle our lawsuit. I brought my checkbook.”
“It’s Pat’s lawsuit, and he’s out of town.”
“Then you and me can talk, man-to-man, and you can convey my offer to him. Let’s go inside, out of this weather.” Mike heard Gigi barking inside the house. “Why don’t you put the dog away, and we can get this done?”
“I don’t have time. I have to go.”
“It’ll take ten minutes, max. It’s quick money, right? If I have to go ahead and pay a lawyer, there’s less for Pat.”
John shut the car door. “Ten minutes.”
Chapter Seventy-five
Mike stepped inside the warm, bright entrance hall, trying to contain the anger that came over him. It infuriated him to be standing in the same room as Sara’s killer, but he had to stall until the police got here.
“Feel free to sit down.” John gestured to a striped wing chair in the large family room, his expression reserved behind his glasses. He had a five o’clock shadow, crow’s feet, and a worn Patagonia parka over his baggy jeans, and Mike couldn’t imagine what Chloe had seen in him.
“Thanks.” Mike sat down in the chair and glanced around. Framed photographs, table lamps with polished brass bases, and antique end tables filled the family room, which was connected to a large, open kitchen at the back, where Gigi kept barking.
“I’m surprised you want to settle. We heard you pleaded not guilty.” John walked to the fireplace, slid a mesh screen aside, and warmed his hands on a low fire, its flames still flickering, hot and orange-red. Mike flashed on the explosion in Helmand, but he shoved those thoughts away. He had to stay in the present and keep his wits about him.
“My lawyer said to plead not guilty, so I did.”
“Is it okay with him that you’re here, trying to settle?” John picked up a brass poker and nudged the glowing embers, sending a spray of tiny sparks flying.
“He doesn’t know. I fired him.” Mike kept his voice up to be heard over Gigi’s barking. “Where’s Gigi?”
“The laundry room. She’ll stop in a wh
ile. So what’s your offer?”
“First, I want to say, I’m sorry. I understand I injured Pat. What did I do and how much did it cost?”
“To begin with, there was soft-tissue damage to his left cheek. Fortunately, he didn’t need stitches.”
“I’m sorry.” Mike felt his heart rate pick up. His thoughts kept turning to Sara and Chloe. It disgusted him to be so near a man who had slept with his wife and killed her best friend. “What happened to his teeth?”
“You loosened the front two. The bill from the ER was almost two grand, and we just got the ambulance bill, for $900.” John tended the fire, nosing the poker among the embers. “We haven’t gotten the doctor’s bill yet, and there was a plastic surgeon, to check him out.”
“Surgeons are expensive.” Mike felt his hatred reviving like the fire. He had no stump pain, which told him he was becoming adrenalized.
“None of his medical expenses were insured, since he’s out of work.”
“I understand, and I don’t want to go to court. I want this thing to go away.” Mike clenched his jaw. Rage constricted his chest. Gigi was still barking.
“That’s possible for the right number, and you have to include pain and suffering.”
“You know, it’s ironic, all this talk of money.” Mike found himself on his feet. “I just saw your wife over at Don Hambera’s house. They had a reception there, after his wife’s funeral. Sara Hambera. She was murdered. I don’t know if you heard.”
“I did. It’s too bad.” John kept poking at the embers, and new flames flared a searing orange.
“She was my wife’s best friend, so that’s a shame.” Mike found himself advancing on John, walking over to the fireplace. “Anyway, I understand Karen is a Quarles. I didn’t realize that.”
“She prefers to keep her privacy.”
“I get that.” Mike couldn’t play games anymore. “I wonder how she’d react if she knew that you had an affair with Chloe. Think she’d divorce you? I do.”
“What are you talking about?” John recoiled, the fire reflected in his glasses. “I didn’t have an affair with anyone. What is it with you and my family? First Pat, now me?”
“I think you’re the one, you fell in love with my wife.” Mike went with his hunch. “I think you gave her a bangle like the ones you give your wife. I wonder how Karen Quarles MacFarland would feel if she knew that.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Yes, you did.” Mike knew only one way to confirm if he was right or wrong. “Do you know that when Chloe died, she was pregnant with your child?”
John’s hooded eyes flared in genuine pain and surprise, which was all the confirmation Mike needed.
Suddenly he felt an agonizing blow to his head. He collapsed to the floor, and the world abruptly went black.
Chapter Seventy-six
Mike woke up lying on his back. Pain seared through his skull. Blood gushed from his forehead. His nose bubbled like it was broken. His side ached, his ribs were cracked. Fire blazed near his feet. He was in Helmand after the grenade blast. He didn’t know where Chatty or the Afghan boy were. He had to get up.
“He couldn’t let it go. He had to play detective. He brought it on himself. Well, it’s over, it’s finally over.”
It was John MacFarland. Mike recognized the voice. He opened his eyes and saw through a curtain of blood. They were in MacFarland’s family room, but they weren’t alone. Karen Quarles MacFarland stood in front of the fireplace, yelling at her husband.
“Over, John? Evidently, it’s never over! You got her pregnant? What were you thinking? How could you make such a colossal hash of our lives? A year later, we’re still cleaning up your mess!”
Mike tried to understand what was going on. Karen must have come in and hit him from behind. A heavy brass lamp lay by his side. He hadn’t heard her enter because of Gigi’s barking. John must have beaten him while he was unconscious.
“I said I was sorry.” John sounded more sad than angry. He shoved the wing chair onto its side. “I’ve said it a million times, and you’re not cleaning anything up, I am. I took care of Scanlon, and I took care of Hambera. You haven’t gotten your hands dirty at all.”
Mike couldn’t think about Sara now. He struggled through his pain to think of a way to save himself. He had no idea what happened to the police.
“I shouldn’t have to do anything!” Karen shoved over an end table, and framed family photographs slid to the rug. “You’re the one who cheated. You’re the one who got her pregnant. Can you imagine, if she had your child? How could we explain that? My father would disown me! Thank God she died!”
“Karen, don’t say that. Don’t you have human feelings left, at all?” John picked up a lamp, raised it high, and slammed it to the hardwood with a loud thud. Gigi barked louder, frenzied. “It’s sad that she died, and the baby. My baby. That’s sad, Karen.”
Mike realized what was going on. The MacFarlands were destroying their family room to make it look as if there had been a struggle. They thought he was dead and they were going to claim self-defense. The cops would believe them, given his assault on Pat.
“Really, John? Please understand if I don’t cry over the death of your mistress and your bastard child!” Karen swept a lamp off the end table. “You’re getting weepy all over again, over the wonderful Chloe? You disgust me!”
“Karen, enough.” John kicked over the fireplace stand, and the poker and other implements clattered to the hardwood, making Gigi crazy. “Let’s call it quits, after this. I’m begging you. Give me a million bucks, and I’ll go away. We’ll get a divorce, like everybody else in the world.”
Mike could barely see them for the blood in his eyes. He couldn’t die tonight. He was a father. If he wanted to live, he had to fight. He hadn’t fought for her in court, but he’d fight for her now. Emily.
“John, I’m not paying you a cent, and we’re not getting a divorce until Pat is back on track! He doesn’t need us to screw him up more than we already have! You’ll get your money then and only then!” Karen tossed a pillow onto the rug. “Look at you! Tears in your eyes, crying over your precious baby! We dodged a bullet, and I was smarter than I knew!”
“What are you talking about?” John stopped knocking things over, and so did Karen, as they faced each other before the dying fire.
“I was there, John. I went over to her house that night to give her a piece of my mind, but she was lying on the floor, bleeding to death. You know what I did? Nothing. Zilch.” Karen snorted, triumphant. “I watched your mistress die, and it was the smartest thing I ever did. Ha! I even redeemed myself for not getting a pre-nup.”
Suddenly John bent down for the poker, snatched it up, and whipped it savagely alongside Karen’s head. Her hands flew up defensively, blood sprayed from her cheek, and she emitted an agonized cry. She staggered sideways, but John whacked her again, grunting, and she collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Mike felt horrified. He couldn’t watch Karen be beaten to death. He had to act now or John would kill them both.
John raised the poker to deliver a mortal blow to Karen’s head.
Mike seized his chance.
Chapter Seventy-seven
Mike lunged for the brass lamp beside him, scrambled to his feet, and charged blindly at John.
“No!” John whirled around, his eyes wide with surprise. He caught the lamp and shoved Mike off.
Mike reeled backwards, dizzy. Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream, leaving him shaking. His pain vanished. He edged away from John, backing into the kitchen. “Stop. Don’t do this. The cops are on the way.”
“Excellent.” John dropped the lamp and wielded the poker. Blood and hair stuck to its curved edge. “They’ll find you dead. I had to kill you in self-defense. You killed my wife.”
Mike looked wildly around for a weapon. All he saw was a Cuisinart. A toaster. A small television. He grabbed a fruit bowl and threw it at John, who ducked it and came at him, swinging the poker b
ack and forth like a scythe.
Mike leapt backwards, shaking blood from his eyes. John took a mighty swing with the poker. Mike jerked back, and it missed him by an inch. The poker wedged in the door of the Subzero, piercing its stainless steel. John tore it out and kept coming. Gigi clawed at the door to the laundry room, then body-slammed it so it rumbled on its hinges.
“Gotcha!” John backed Mike into a corner and raised the poker.
Mike was trapped between the sink and the refrigerator. Suddenly he spotted a knife block behind the toaster and yanked out a knife. It was only a steak knife, no match for the poker.
John whipped the poker at Mike. He jumped out of the way, but the counter hemmed him in. The poker caught him in the stump.
Mike cried out in agony and fell at John’s feet, dropping the steak knife. Gigi kept throwing herself at the laundry room door. The banging sounded like grenades going off. Ordnance. Troops in contact. He was back in Helmand. He was going to die.
John stood above Mike and aimed the pointed end of the poker down, like a bayonet.
Mike forced himself into the present. The steak knife was inches from his hand. He’d used a scalpel under pressure. He knew how to screen out distractions. It was his moment of truth. He said his homemade prayer.
John plunged the poker downward. Mike rolled out of the way at the last minute, grabbed the steak knife, and severed John’s Achilles tendon with a loud snap!
John howled, dropping the poker. He collapsed to the floor, folded into the fetal position, and held his calf. Mike scrambled backwards, knowing John’s pain would be unbearable. His Achilles would roll up like an old-fashioned window shade.
Mike jumped to his feet. Blood streamed down his face. He wiped it but it kept flowing. He felt dazed and dizzy. The knife slipped from his blood-slick grasp. John rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled away, toward the family room, trying to get to the entrance hall.
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