2 Lost Legacy

by Annette Dashofy

  Damn right.

  Engle brought the revolver around, aiming it square at Zoe. Patsy cried out from behind her. For the second time in only a few minutes, Zoe faced the business end of Wilford Engle’s gun.

  “You know what they say.” Engle chuckled. “Ladies first.”

  Like a statue come to life, Harry threw himself at Engle. The flash from the muzzle momentarily blinded Zoe at the same instant the blast exploded in her ears. Patsy screamed. Harry had Engle by the wrists. Wrestled him for the gun.

  Zoe staggered forward, wanting to help. Harry was bigger. He should be able to take Engle down.

  The gun fired a second shot. This time the flash and the blast were muffled. Harry groaned. His knees buckled. And he slid to the ground.

  Thirty-One

  “This place sure is homey.” Sarcasm oozed from Froats’ voice.

  He and Pete stood in the middle of Wilford Engle’s stifling kitchen. Overhead, floorboards creaked as Baronick searched the rest of the house. “My pop said this place gave him the heeby-jeebies,” Pete said.

  The lack of any call from Zoe about Harry added to Pete’s gut feeling that something was very wrong here. His father’s voice and observation rising through the inner chaos didn’t help. Pete pulled out his phone as Baronick’s boots echoed thud thud thud down the stairs from the second floor.

  “All clear,” the detective called out.

  Pete pressed Zoe’s number into the phone. It rang and rang, finally going to voice mail. “Where are you? Call me.”

  Froats peered in the kitchen sink and shuddered. “Who’re you trying to reach?”

  “Zoe.”

  Baronick, wearing gloves and pinching a sheet of paper, appeared in the living room doorway. “She find your old man yet?”

  Pete wished he knew. He pointed at the paper. “What’s that?”

  Baronick waved it in the air. “James Engle was a very prolific writer.”

  “Another letter?”

  “Yep.” The detective strode into the kitchen and smoothed the page on the table top. “And they keep getting better and better.”

  Pete dug out his reading glasses, rammed them on his face, and leaned over the table.

  Dear Wilford,

  By the time you read this I can only assume you will know I do not have cancer.

  What I do have is a heavy burden of guilt for what you and I have done. I’ve often told you over the years that I wanted us to confess to our sins, but you, dear brother, would have none of it. I wanted you to believe I was a dying man with one dying wish: that you should admit it was you who killed the Miller brothers and Gary Chambers.

  But you refuse to grant my “final request.”

  Years ago, I swore on our mother’s grave that I would never betray you. But I cannot go on living with the knowledge that I took part in your madness. Without going back on my oath to you, I’ve tried to make some of it right with the survivors.

  You should know by taking my own life in the same manner as we staged Vernon Miller’s “suicide” and in the same spot, I hope to get the attention of someone who remembers and whose curiosity might drive them to look into the past and discover the truth.

  I implore you to confess. Turn yourself in. Certainly, the legal system will go easy on an old man.

  Please forgive me.

  Your brother,

  Jim

  Froats, who had been reading over Pete’s shoulder, let out a low whistle. “Where’d you find it?”

  “In an envelope on his dresser.” Baronick picked up the letter and slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag. “I recognized the handwriting from the other letters. By the way—it was postmarked last Wednesday.”

  “The same day he hung himself.” The letter may have offered a solid answer to many of the questions that had plagued Pete over the past week, but it did nothing to quell the unease building in his gut. “Does Engle own another vehicle?”

  “Nothing that’s registered.”

  “So either he’s here somewhere, or he caught a ride.” Pete stared at the phone. Noticed the symbol indicating he had a message. The call he’d ignored earlier.

  He pressed the button to retrieve it. While he waited for the automated prompts, he said, “Check outside. The garage. The barn. I think I remember a workshop out back.”

  Baronick handed the evidence to Pete and headed for the rear door. “On it.”

  The voice on the recording sent Pete reeling. He caught his balance on the tacky kitchen counter. “Pete? It’s Zoe. I have a problem. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think Wilford Engle might have something to do with the shootings. At least Mr. Kroll’s.” There was a pause. When she continued, her voice trembled. “I’m afraid he might have snatched Harry. Patsy and I are on our way to Wilford’s place now. I’ll call you when we find him. I’m so sorry, Pete.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Froats demanded.

  Pete gripped the counter. He should have taken that call. How long had it been? Zoe must have already been here and gone. Engle had Harry. Where were they?

  Pete pressed Zoe’s number again. It rang. Rang again. So the phone wasn’t turned off. Why wasn’t she answering? Wait. He glanced at the phone. She’d called from a different number. He fumbled with the menu buttons. Pulled up the number from that last call and dialed. Like Zoe’s, it rang until going to voicemail. At the tone, he shouted into the cell. “Damn it, Zoe. Call me. Now.”

  The last time he hadn’t been able to reach her by phone—last winter—she’d been facing down a killer. He prayed history wasn’t repeating itself.

  But his gut told him otherwise.

  Froats stepped in front of Pete, getting in his face. “What’s going on?”

  Pete stared into the old chief’s eyes. “You worked those cases. You knew these people. If Wilford Engle were going to take someone somewhere—to kill them—where would he go?”

  The question took a moment to sink in. Froats’ eyes widened. “Holy hell. You think—”

  Pete pushed away from the sink. Carrying his crutches he hobbled to the screened back door. “Wayne,” he shouted into the night. “You find anything?”

  “Nothing,” Baronick called back. “It’s clear.”

  “Then get in here and order a countywide BOLO.” Pete hit speed dial for Seth’s cell.

  Froats appeared to have shrunk three inches. “You think Wilford Engle has your father.”

  “I don’t think. I know.” The line rang in Pete’s ear. “Not just my father. The bastard has Zoe, too.” When Seth picked up, Pete updated him on what they knew and what he suspected. “Be on the lookout for Zoe’s truck. And use caution. Consider Engle to be armed and dangerous.” Like an old wounded grizzly. A grizzly that had dragged off Zoe and his pop.

  Baronick had come inside with his phone pressed to his ear. Froats paced the kitchen, rubbing his beard. Pete pivoted, looking around the filthy room, searching for some sign. Some tidbit. A breadcrumb to let him know Zoe and Harry were okay. Better yet, where to find them.

  “An old codger like Wilford Engle doesn’t like change,” Froats said, his gravelly voice low. “His world’s been rocked by the suicide of his brother. He’s trying to bring it back to an even keel.”

  By getting rid of everyone Engle saw as a threat to his freedom. Not exactly a comforting thought.

  Baronick turned around. From his expression, Pete knew it wasn’t good news.

  The detective lowered the phone. “We’ve located Zoe’s truck.”

  Pete jumped toward him, forgetting about his foot. He winced, but ignored the razor-sharp pain. “Where?”

  “In the Brunswick Hospital parking lot. Looks like she never left. But they said her cell phone’s on the seat.”

  Pete yanked hi
s phone back out of his pocket. Pulled up the voice message. Played it again. “She said she and Patsy were on their way here. This must be Patsy’s number. Patsy Greene. Get a make, model, and plate number for her vehicle and put the BOLO out on it. Then we’re going over to James Engle’s place.”

  “Why there?” Froats asked.

  “Because you said Wilford didn’t like change. I’ll bet he’s a creature of habit. Criminals like to revisit the scene of the crime. Maybe he’s going to use one he’s used before.” Besides, Pete couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d go. He jammed the crutches under his arms and headed for the front of the house in long, swinging strides.

  “Wait,” Froats called from behind him.

  “We don’t have time to wait,” Pete barked.

  “I know that, damn it. Listen to me. Have one of your men check out James’ place. They’ll know where it is. You and me? We’re gonna check someplace else. Someplace they’re not gonna know. At least not the exact location.”

  Pete spun. Studied the gleam in the old police chief’s eyes. “Wayne,” Pete yelled. “Come on. Froats is navigating.”

  Thirty-Two

  As Zoe dove for Harry, she wasn’t sure if the scream came from her throat or Patsy’s.

  “Get away,” Engle said, sputtering.

  Zoe ignored him. Ignored everything but Harry sprawled on the ground. “I need light.”

  The hot metal of the recently fired gun muzzle pressed into her temple. “I said, get away from him.”

  She clenched her fists, too angry to be scared. Or maybe the adrenaline gave her courage. For a fleeting moment, she considered grabbing Engle’s wrist and prying the gun from his hands. But she’d just seen Harry—a bigger stronger individual than she—lose that battle. She managed to turn her head enough so she could shift her eyes and fix Engle’s dark silhouette with a hard stare. “You’re planning to shoot me anyway. So either do it now or get that gun out of my face and give me some goddamn light.”

  Engle stepped back. For a moment, the gun barrel wavered then he clutched the grip with both hands, steadying his hold. “No use wasting your time, girlie.”

  In the darkness, Zoe could only imagine his finger tightening on the trigger. But instead of one final blast from the gun, the old man’s knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, and the revolver clunked on the road’s tar-and-chipped shoulder, disappearing into the black of night.

  What just happened? Had Patsy clubbed Engle from behind? “Patsy?”

  “I’m here.” Patsy’s soft voice was higher-pitched than normal, but wasn’t near Engle. “Did he have a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know.” Nor did Zoe know where the gun was. “I need light.”

  “I have a flashlight in my glove box.”

  “Get it.” Triaging Engle’s collapse to a lower priority at the moment, Zoe fingered Harry’s neck for a carotid. She prayed for a pulse. Found one. And remarkably strong. Harry’s mind might be failing, but he had a helluva big heart. “Harry? Can you hear me?”

  He took a hoarse breath. “Yeah.” He moaned. “Damn.”

  “Where’s the pain?” She trailed her fingers down his shirt front, feeling for that unmistakable warm, sticky liquid that was no doubt draining from him in the dark.

  The gravel crunched as Patsy jogged up. Suddenly Harry was bathed in light from Patsy’s flashlight. Zoe almost wished they’d stayed in the dark.

  A glistening deep crimson spot was spreading across Harry’s polo shirt just above and left of his belt. With no ambulance and no supplies to work with, she pressed both her hands against the oozing hole in the center of the pool. “Patsy, do you have any towels in your truck?”

  “I have a blanket.”

  “Great. Get it.”

  Patsy pivoted away, leaving Harry in darkness again.

  “Wait. Leave me the flashlight.”

  As Patsy stepped toward her with the oversized black Maglite, Engle groaned. Patsy aimed the beam in his direction.

  The old man was on his hands and knees, hunched over. “I take these spells,” he mumbled.

  Where was the gun? Zoe scanned the ground around Engle, searching. The old man slowly lifted his head. And his hand—with the .38 in it.

  Fuck.

  “Enough.” With gun trained on Zoe, Engle lurched to his feet. “I’ve wasted enough of my time on the three of you.”

  Harry’s fingers wrapped around her wrist. “Zoe?”

  He knew who she was. Harry was bleeding to death on the side of a dark, deserted road, but he knew who she was. She choked. “Yeah, Harry, it’s me.”

  “I’m sorry. I tried.”

  Tears blurred her vision. “I know you did.”

  The revolver’s muzzle again jabbed into the side of her head.

  Patsy swung the beam of light into Engle’s face. “Wait,” she cried.

  Engle shielded his eyes with his free hand. “Turn that thing off.”

  “No. Wait. Listen to me.”

  What on earth was Patsy doing? But anything to delay Engle from pulling that trigger—and buy more time—was fine with Zoe.

  “You said your sister Mae died in childbirth. Right?”

  “Turn off that damned light.”

  Patsy seemed to ignore him. “You said she’d been gone from this earth forty-four years ago as of Friday, right?”

  “What difference does that make now?”

  Zoe’s breath caught in her throat as the realization sunk in.

  Friday. Barbecue and beer. Patsy’s birthday.

  Patsy’s forty-fourth birthday.

  “Is that right?” Patsy demanded.

  Engle swung away from Zoe. The muzzle no longer pressed into her skin. She risked a glance.

  He had the gun aimed squarely at Patsy. And she kept the flashlight on him. He squinted hard into the beam. “I’m going to shoot that damned light and you with it.”

  “Did your sister die in childbirth on June twentieth?”

  Engle lowered the gun. A little. “That’s what I said, ain’t it? Why are you harpin’ on it?”

  Patsy’s face was in darkness, but her voice trembled as she said, “It’s my birthday. I was adopted. I’ve tried for years to find out about my birth parents, but all I’ve been able to come up with was they were from Monongahela County and were both dead.” She paused. “I think your sister was my mother.”

  Zoe planted a hand against the sharp gravel to keep her balance. Wilford Engle was Patsy’s uncle? She was his niece? As awful as it seemed for Patsy, this might be what could save their lives. Zoe had a quick mental picture of Wilford throwing down his gun and embracing his newfound family.

  The night fell silent except for the sound of Wilford’s wheezing breath. He didn’t throw his gun down. Instead he tucked it into the waist of his trousers. He took an uneven step toward Patsy.

  Then he let out a roar that sounded like a bear. He staggered toward Patsy, arms outstretched. He didn’t hug her. He grabbed her by the throat. The flashlight clattered to the ground. “You’re the bastard offspring of that son of a bitch Vernie Miller. You’re the reason Mae’s dead.”

  Patsy gave a garbled cry.

  Zoe took Harry’s hand that was on her wrist and placed it on his gunshot wound. “Press down, Harry. As hard as you can.”

  If he answered, she didn’t hear. She launched toward the scuffle. Before she reached them, Wilford Engle shoved Patsy backwards. She stumbled. Zoe heard the dull thud of Patsy’s legs against the guardrail. Caught a glimpse of Patsy’s arms flailing. And then with a snarl, Engle heaved Patsy over.

  She shrieked. Breaking twigs snapped and rustled as Patsy crashed down the rock face. The same rock face Zoe’s father had been driven over.

  A flash of lightning glinted off the gun in Eng
le’s waistband. At the same moment, Zoe spotted Patsy’s Maglite lying on the ground.

  Engle must have sensed what Zoe planned. He wheeled toward her, the gun back in his hand. Zoe leaped. Snatched the flashlight. Engle raised the muzzle. And Zoe swung the heavy barrel of the Maglite with everything she had. It cracked against Engle’s forearm. The gun sailed into the darkness. He swore and doubled over.

  Zoe huffed a breath. Relaxed.

  The old man lunged forward. He rammed the crown of his head into her, just below her ribs. Gasping, she slammed the ground with him on top. The flashlight flew from her grasp. Gravel bit into her elbows.

  Engle struggled to his feet while Zoe fought for air. Even in the dark, she could make out his right arm hanging useless at his side. She clawed at the ground, fingers closing around pebbles and dirt. He tottered away from her, head lowered. Looking for his gun.

  Air returned slowly. Zoe rolled to her side. Onto her knees. Engle bent down. Reached with his left hand.

  The gun.

  Zoe groped in the dark. Her hand fell upon something smooth and round. She dragged the flashlight to her. Held it close, shielded from view. A second chance. There would be no third.

  Engle staggered toward her, the gun in his left hand. “You bitch,” he hissed. He took another step toward her. And another.

  Come closer, she thought. It’s dark. You don’t want to miss. Neither do I.

  One more step. He stopped. Zoe, hunkered on the ground, hoping she looked to him as if she were hugging her ribs. She lifted her gaze to his hand. The gun trembled. He raised it. She tightened her grip on the flashlight.

  And came up swinging. A big upward arc that caught Engle’s left wrist from underneath. His arm and the gun snapped toward the sky. The blast nearly deafened her, but the bullet missed its target.