Fatal Trust

by Todd M Johnson

  Somebody had broken in. And if Ian wasn’t home, that left Martha in there alone.

  Katie patted her pockets, then let out a low, frustrated hiss. She’d left her phone in the car. If she went to retrieve it now and the intruder was still here, she could get caught between them and the street. Not where she wanted to be.

  She considered sliding open the patio door and entering the dark house that looked like a bear’s den . . . except she couldn’t get her feet to move another step closer.

  I will not leave Martha alone in there with a burglar, Katie commanded herself silently. She wouldn’t. With Ian gone somewhere, nobody was around to watch out for Martha.

  Katie walked backward down the steps without turning her face from the door. On the grass again, her fear eased enough to let her pivot and race across the lawn to behind the hedge at the rear of the vegetable garden. She turned to face the house again.

  She cleared her throat and tried to imagine herself surrounded by her choir. She began to sing. “‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .’” It was the first song that came to her, and one of the few she could remember all the words for in the grip of her distress.

  Her voice came out thin and weak, like hands were tight around her throat. Slowly, the fingers relented and her voice rose in volume: “‘. . . was lost, but now am found.’”

  She felt the fear lifting as she sang. Boldness took its place.

  Lights came on in a neighbor’s house. Katie raised the song to another key, keeping her eyes locked on Martha’s back patio door.

  The door was moving, sliding slowly open . . .

  Katie stopped singing. “I’ve got a gun!” she called out. “You just go right out the front door and I’ll let you be.”

  The figure didn’t move for a long moment. Then it took a step toward her, crunching glass underfoot.

  Nausea filled Katie’s stomach. Her mind said run.

  She pictured Martha inside the house. She stayed.

  A buzzing sound began. The figure hesitated before pulling a phone from a pocket and putting it to an ear. After another minute, the figure stepped back into the dark interior of the house.

  Katie heard the distant slam of a door. It took several deep breaths before she began crossing the backyard toward the house again.

  The figure reappeared at the patio door and stepped out, freezing her.

  Stunned, Katie blurted out, “I told you, I’ve got a gun.”

  “It’s me,” a voice answered softly.

  Katie’s breath came out of her. “Martha, honey, is that you? My Lord, protect me. I thought you had a burglar.”

  Martha stood on the deck like a statue, a breeze rippling her cotton bathrobe. “I don’t know,” she said at last. “I really don’t know.”

  34

  SATURDAY, JUNE 9

  10:17 P.M.

  MEDICINE LAKE

  SUBURBAN MINNEAPOLIS

  Ian led the way in the dark down the slope toward the lake through brush and trees several yards to the right of the staircase. Twisting around the larger bushes he could make out, he fought to maintain his footing on the uneven, descending ground.

  The heavier footfalls of the Marine behind him signaled his nearness. With each of the big man’s steps, Ian could imagine the handgun pointed directly at his back.

  The wood-chip path grew visible below, washed white in the pale moonlight. Ian lifted his foot for another step when he heard a grunt followed by a muffled “Uumph.”

  He looked over his shoulder. High above, multiple room lights were coming on in the house. Only ten feet up the slope, the Marine lay splayed on his back. The gun was no longer in his hand.

  Ian spun around and plunged the remaining distance down to the path, twisted left, and began to run. He passed the staircase and the dock. Slowing, he began scanning the woods to his left for the rotted log.

  A crash of brush up the trail told him the Marine was up and onto the path. Ian could feel the gun’s sight on his back. He gasped out a prayer that the Marine wouldn’t take a chance firing with houses so close.

  There was the log, straight ahead. Sweat stinging his eyes, Ian vaulted over the log. He crouched down and felt for the hollow gap. His fingers brushed the cold steel of the barrel. He pulled it out, got his fist around the handle. Staying low, he raised the weapon toward the path with both hands.

  The Marine came into view. He was moving more slowly now, scanning the woods. Leaves and dirt covered his shirt. The gun was back and raised in his right hand.

  “Lower the gun,” Ian commanded, crouching even lower.

  The Marine stopped abruptly and squinted into the darkness, in the direction of the tree line and Ian’s voice.

  Ian swallowed his fear. “I will shoot you, Aaron. I’d rather face the police than your boss.”

  The Marine slowly lowered his gun.

  “Now drop it to the ground.”

  The gun fell.

  Ian looked around, calculating how to keep the man from following him. Past the outline of Aaron’s still form, a loon flapped its wings on the surface of the lake.

  “Drop your phone to the ground too,” Ian said. “Then turn around and walk into the lake.”

  “What the . . .” the Marine protested. He started to bend toward his gun.

  “Which lung are you less fond of?” Ian said.

  Aaron stopped and straightened, shaking his head. With a curse, he pulled his phone from his pocket and tossed it to the ground. He turned and walked to the water’s edge, then started taking off his shirt.

  “Clothes stay on.”

  Cursing again, the Marine stepped gingerly into the water up to his ankles.

  “Keep going. Keep going until I tell you to stop.”

  Aaron waded slowly out into the lake, his arms in the air. Thirty feet out, the water was up to his waist. Another ten feet and it reached his chest.

  “Good enough,” Ian called out.

  Picking up the Marine’s weapon and phone, Ian headed back up the path at a run, away from the house where he’d spent the night.

  11:45 P.M.

  MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE

  LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS

  They sat with teacups on their laps as though it were a summer afternoon of catching up, Martha on the couch and Katie in a chair. Except Katie’s eyes were scanning the clutter of boxes that were now blanketed with torn chair cushions, emptied drawers, and the broken frames of every large picture that once hung on the walls of the house.

  Martha sat calmly amid the destruction, sipping her tea. Thank goodness for small favors, Katie thought. The woman didn’t seem to notice that the room looked like it had been bombed.

  Katie knew she should already have called the police. But she couldn’t do it. The police coming would mean news of the burglary could get back to Brook. She’d then tie it back to the retainer money of stolen cash Brook claimed they’d deposited. Which would mean discovery of the trust money in the new firm account—and the fact that the money was now missing. Then the client would learn the money was gone. At which time that poor woman sitting on her living room couch sipping tea would be dragged somewhere and bombarded with questions she wouldn’t even comprehend.

  It was a horror show with the volume turned up. She may not be right about it all, but Katie knew she couldn’t call the police—not without first reaching Ian.

  “Hon,” Katie piped up using her best carefree voice, “you’re sure you didn’t see anybody tonight? Hear anything?”

  Martha shook her head. “Why, no, Katie. Do you know when Connor will be home?”

  “No, dear,” Katie said, gratified, at least, that Martha continued to recall who she was. “I’m sure it will be soon, though.”

  Martha frowned. “Maybe I should tidy up a bit before he does.”

  “You know what, Martha? I think you ought to get some rest now. Let me do the tidying for you.”

  “Thank you . . .” The older woman paused and took another sip o
f her tea. Then she smiled. “They’ll never find it, you know.”

  “Find what?” Katie asked.

  “I don’t even understand how they know about it. But they’ll never find it,” she repeated.

  Martha was looking straight through her now. Katie rose, took Martha’s cup from her hand, set it on the coffee table, and then led her to the bedroom.

  Minutes later, Katie surveyed the mess in the living room. She steeled herself. This was her forte, bringing order from chaos. If she could do it for three lawyers over her career, she sure could do the same for a few rooms.

  Within an hour, she’d made a stack in one corner of the room of the prints, paintings, and photographs that had been torn from their frames. The boxes that once occupied the living room she’d moved to another corner. The trash of broken frames and destroyed cushions she piled in the middle. With a sigh she picked up the first armful of trash to take out to the garbage cans.

  The lid to the largest trash can in the garage was ajar. Katie dropped her load, set the trash lid on the floor, and leaned down to pick up her load again.

  On top of trash already in the can was a yellowed newspaper lying atop a closed box marked with an X of red tape. The newspaper was clearly very old. Curious, Katie picked it up.

  It was a copy of the Star Tribune, dated January 15, 1983. The oversized print of the front-page headline read, Rockwell Paintings Stolen in Daring St. Louis Park Art Theft.

  Katie stared at the headline. She read the first few paragraphs of the article.

  “What in the world is this doing here?” she called out.

  Her voice echoed in the quiet garage. Shaking her head, Katie walked back inside the house. She went to Martha’s bedroom door and opened it a crack.

  Martha lay asleep. After a moment’s thought, Katie backed away and closed the door again.

  She looked again at the newspaper in her hands. Why had Connor or Martha kept this newspaper? And why was it thrown away now, so many years later?

  She heard her cellphone ringing from her purse in the living room. Katie returned there and lifted the phone into the light.

  “Katie,” a familiar voice said when she answered it.

  “Ian. Ian, is that you?”

  “Yeah, Katie. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. Listen, I’m worried about Mom. I haven’t been back there since yesterday afternoon. It’s a long story, but—”

  “Don’t worry about Martha,” Katie interrupted. “I mean, there are things we’ve got to talk about, but she’s fine right now. I’m with her at her house.”

  She heard a sigh of relief. “I owe you so much, Katie. Thanks. But I need you to get her out of there. I need you to take her someplace safe.”

  “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  Katie exhaled, trying to think how best to explain things. “Hon, do you know about the cash in that new account at the office?”

  “I do. It’s the trust money. I’ll explain about it later.”

  “Okay. But you ought to know the money’s gone.”

  “I heard that.”

  “You did? How?”

  “Very long story. One I can’t go into right now. What else?”

  “Your mom’s house got broken into tonight.”

  “Is Mom okay?” Ian asked breathlessly.

  “Yeah, hon. She’s fine. But the place was trashed. They even tore down all the frames and pictures, every one of ’em. And your mom said something about ‘they’ll never find it.’ You know what she’s talking about?”

  Ian’s voice rose in alarm. “You’ve got to get her out of there. You can’t take her to your home either. That’s too obvious—and risky for your family.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a cousin who’s out of town. I’ve got the keys to her house. I’ll take your mom there.”

  “It’s asking a lot, Katie, but can you stay with her? She’ll be disoriented in a different place.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. One more thing. Your notes said Brook implied the trust money may be stolen cash. I think she’s right. The retainer and the rest of it.”

  Katie realized she was no longer surprised at the notion. She explained her full encounter with Brook at the office. “Ian, can I trust Brook? Can I talk to her?”

  “Yes. She called me in for an interrogation on the stolen money, but managed to tell me more about the investigation than she got out of me. There’s more I need to tell you, Katie. A lot more. But . . . wait. A pickup’s slowing down.” The line went silent. In the background, Katie could hear Ian talking. “Minneapolis . . . or actually, St. Paul,” he was saying. “That’d be great.”

  His voice returned fully to the call. “I’m hitching a ride now. Can’t talk anymore. Please, move Martha as soon as possible.”

  The phone went dead. Katie put it back in her purse. She folded the yellowed newspaper and slid it into her purse as well.

  Suddenly she felt as though not alone, as though the house were alive and watching her every movement. As though if she walked out the front door, the police or the crazy St. Paul client would be standing there ready to pounce.

  A tremble went through her. She recalled the fear that had frozen her on the back deck and how she’d gotten past it.

  “Enough of this,” Katie said out loud. She’d let Martha get her sleep, and use the couch for herself. Then, in the morning, she’d get her moved.

  Ian and this family had been at her side her whole life. She wasn’t going to let them down now.

  Humming “Amazing Grace,” she launched herself into the task of carrying the rest of the trash outside.

  35

  SUNDAY, JUNE 10

  12:49 A.M.

  ST. PAUL

  Ian looked out the window of the pickup as they passed through Minneapolis neighborhoods that melded seamlessly into St. Paul. Thick, puffy clouds were closing in, obscuring the stars. Maybe rain, he thought.

  The truck took the Snelling ramp off Highway 94, pulling to the top of the exit and stopping in the far right lane.

  “This work for you?” the driver said in a slow drawl. Ian hadn’t noticed the license plate, but took a guess at Kentucky.

  “It does,” Ian replied. “I really appreciate it.” He pulled out his wallet and extended a twenty.

  The driver held up his hands. “That’s not how it works in this rig. Don’t you worry about it.”

  Ian thanked him, opened the door, and started to step down to the pavement.

  “Hey, son?”

  He looked back up at the driver. “Yeah?”

  “Next time you hitch a ride somewhere, figure out a better place to stash those hog’s legs instead of under your shirt in your back belt. Those two pieces must’ve hurt like a son of a gun the whole ride. Besides, you’re liable to shoot the truck or yourself.”

  “That obvious, huh?” Ian said, embarrassed. “Why’d you pick me up then?”

  “Boy, something’s clearly on your mind that’s got you carryin’ those pieces—my four-year-old daughter could’ve told you that. But I’ve never seen a gangster in a suit needs cleaning, hitchhiking in the middle of the night.”

  As the truck rolled off, Ian looked around and got his bearings, then started walking.

  Reaching Callahan’s house twenty minutes later, Ian stood on the sidewalk and stared at the front door bracketed by tall windows. Shaking his head, he walked around the back. There were no windows for anyone to see who was knocking. He pulled one of the handguns from his belt and banged repeatedly on the back door.

  Footsteps finally approached, and the door pulled open a crack. Ian thrust the barrel of the gun through.

  Dressed in a robe and slippers, Sean Callahan stepped back and made room for Ian to enter. “Living room,” Ian said, kicking the door shut behind him. He followed Callahan down a shadowy corridor to the familiar room.

  “Didn’t expect all this after you missed our appointment yesterday,” Callahan said, t
aking a seat in his usual spot. Ian took the orange chair. “Though I was wonderin’ why Aaron hadn’t arrived or called back again.”

  “I’m sure he would have,” Ian said, “if I hadn’t taken his phone before he went into the lake.”

  Callahan’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask for more explanation. “So why’d you come back to me?” he said, resting his hands on his thighs.

  “Aaron must’ve relayed my story when he called. I came to tell you it was all true. I don’t know anything about the money being gone. I was planning to transfer it back to you this morning. I want to be done with the trust.”

  “Um-hm.” Callahan’s accent fully returned when he opened his mouth again. “That story you’re talkin’ about—ya mean about Rory trying to have ya beat up or killed? And ya goin’ out to Medicine Lake to ‘think it through’? I definitely want all the details. In fact, I’m plannin’ to write it down to share with some of my friends at the pub.”

  “What do I have to do to prove I’m not lying?”

  “Returnin’ my money would make for a fresh start.”

  “First,” Ian said, “I thought it was the trust’s money. Second, I’m telling you that’s what I want to do. I just don’t have a clue who took it or where it’s gone. Not yet.”

  Callahan raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Mr. Wells, do ya know why I’ve got that single, dreadful-lookin’ orange chair you’re sittin’ in, and why I seated you in it the very first time you were here?”

  “No.”

  “’Cause that chair, done up in Ulster orange amidst all this lovely Irish green, helps me remember who in the room I can trust.”

  “I didn’t steal your money.”

  “Then who did?”

  “If it wasn’t you, I’m thinking it was Rory. Or the banker.”

  Callahan shook his head. “The banker gets shaky at his own shadow. He’d not touch a penny of the trust. And Rory? He’s not as stupid as he looks, but I doubt he’s got a way with computers and hackin’ electronic bank transfers—which is the only way he’d have gotten the cash out of your account without your say-so, wouldn’t you agree?”