Broken Lullaby

by Tracy, Pamela

  He entwined his fingers with hers and squeezed gently. Oh, he’d made the right decision. It was time for a lifestyle change and the woman sitting next to him, holding his hand, might be the best change of all.

  “I,” he cleared his throat. He needed to say something, let her know how much he liked her touch.

  Instead, as he turned into the cabin’s driveway, he noticed a shadow in the window on the second floor.

  “Is Justin home? Alone?” he asked tersely.

  She picked up on his tension and peered out the window. “No, he’s with Carl. What do you see?”

  “A shadow. You sure it’s not Justin?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The minute he stopped the truck, the shadow disappeared. “Call Ruth,” he ordered. “Tell her what’s going on. Call George and tell him, too. And you stay put.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. I don’t need to be distracted worrying about you.” Mitch stepped from the truck and tried to think of who legitimately could be at her place. He couldn’t come up with a single soul. The closest he came was a Santos brother, but they’d have a car parked out front. He crossed the front yard and carefully crept up on the porch, all the while looking around, trying to find evidence of an unwelcome visitor.

  Nothing.

  He thought about shouting, Police! but decided to wait. He did unclasp his gun.

  The front door was unlocked. He’d been here at least five times since she moved in, and during none of those visits had he noticed the front door had a creak so loud it could wake the dead.

  He took a few steps into the room.

  “Police!” he shouted and stood still, listening.

  He was hoping some friendly being would shout out a name and they’d both laugh over the adventure.

  Instead the world exploded as someone hit him over the back of the head.

  SIXTEEN

  For the whole drive up to the cabin, Mary had enjoyed the closed confines of the truck’s front seat.

  Maybe more, she’d enjoyed being closely confined with the truck’s driver. Mitch drove like he lived: carefully and purposefully.

  On anyone else, those traits might be boring. Not on Mitch.

  Especially since she knew he was as aware of her as she was of him.

  The fact that he was being careful with her, too, warmed her heart. She knew he was looking out for her safety by checking out the cabin first. But why wasn’t he back yet? Mary opened the door and sat sideways on the seat, poised for action should it be necessary. She had already called George and Ruth. After she told George what was going on, he didn’t even say goodbye. He just said, “Be there in five,” and hung up.

  Ruth had understood the situation even faster than Carl’s dad. Frustrated at being too far away to help, she had grumbled about Mitch taking chances when he was alone. Mary started to say that Mitch wasn’t alone, but while Ruth was still grumbling, the front door to Mary’s cabin opened and a middle-aged Hispanic man ran out.

  Roberto! Could it be?

  He looked left, right and straight at Mary before knocking over a rocking chair, jumping off the porch and taking off around the side of the house.

  Mary almost fell out of the truck. Then, she acted maybe a few seconds too late. She screamed what was going on, then scrambled out of her side of the truck, heart racing.

  “Hey, you! Come back here.” The words sounded hokey even to her, and she wasn’t a bit surprised when the man didn’t obey. He had a decent head start, but she followed him anyway, adrenaline replacing common sense. Mary skidded to a halt when she heard a four-wheeler roaring to life. A moment later, the man came straight for her. She jumped to the side, twisting her ankle, and, ignoring the pain, ran for the porch. What was she thinking? She had a son who needed her and Mitch was still inside the cabin. What had Roberto done to him?

  The quad zoomed down the driveway and turned onto the road. Mary took the front porch steps two at a time and headed for the door. Behind her, Carl’s dad whipped into the driveway in his truck. Two other men were with him in the front. Three were in the bed. Yeah! Mary believed in numbers! She turned, ran back down the stairs and pointed to the trail of dust leading toward Mitch’s cabin before shouting, “Whoever is on that quad was in my cabin! He just tried to run me down. And Mitch never came out after going inside.”

  “You okay?” Carl’s dad shouted.

  “Yes.”

  One of the men jumped out of the truck bed and ran toward Mary. Carl’s dad took off after the quad and Mary quickly led the way into the cabin.

  The sight of Mitch unconscious on the floor with blood pooling around his head, stopped her in her tracks.

  She hit the ground. “Oh, Father God. This is too much. Please don’t let anything happen to this man. He’s a good man. He’s helping me and I need all the help I can get. I need your help.” Unmindful of her over-thirty knees and the blood seeping onto her clothes, she whispered, “I’m right here, Mitch.”

  Roberto must have surprised Mitch and clocked him good. She felt for Mitch’s pulse, trying not to disturb him and wishing she’d directed George toward the house instead of after the quad.

  “Ouch.” Mitch opened his eyes, stared at her and started to raise his head.

  “Don’t move,” she said softly, still in whisper mode. “I’m calling 911.”

  Mitch ignored her and groaned.

  “There’s no emergency number in this area,” the man who had jumped out of George’s truck reminded her. “Since Doc died, we call the sheriff’s office.”

  “Don’t do that,” Mitch muttered. “It’s just a flesh wound.”

  “Your flesh wound is bleeding all over my clean floor,” Mary said.

  He lay still, which told her that he truly was hurt. She took the cell phone and started punching in Eric’s number.

  Mitch’s fingers closed around hers. “I’m all right. I’ve got a bump the size of a golf ball, that’s all. After we get the bleeding stopped, I’ll probably need about five stitches. Who hit me?”

  “A Hispanic man who looked a whole lot like Roberto. He had a quad behind the cabin and headed up Prospector’s Way.”

  “Did he do anything, say anything to you?”

  “He aimed the quad at me, but I got out of the way. Do you think it was him?”

  “We’re going to find out. Was he riding a three-fifty? A four hundred? Was it a Polaris or…” He finally caught on that his questions made no sense to Mary. Then, he looked at the man standing over him. “Who are you?”

  “It was a 2008 black and green KFX450 Kawasaki. I’m Michael Rains. I work for George Anderson,” the man supplied.

  Mitch nodded. “A 2008? That makes it so much easier. Just get me to town and we’ll go from there.”

  The man got Mitch under the arms and soon had him to his feet while Mary ran for a towel and began applying pressure to Mitch’s wound. He was hot, sweaty and none too steady on his feet. It took all her strength to keep the towel on the wound since Mitch insisted on walking to the door. The cowboy had a firm grip, but that didn’t prevent Mitch from leaning on Mary. She felt the warmth of his body, and every fiber of her being shouted I’m alive!

  Once they got Mitch outside, he looked up the road at two dirt devils spiraling in the distance and said, “What’s going on?”

  “George is chasing Roberto,” Mary said.

  Mitch stood up straight, maybe too fast because almost immediately his knees buckled. She caught him but just barely. Mitch turned to face her, clearly agitated. “You got his cell number? Call him back here. We don’t want civilians getting hurt.”

  “Mr. Anderson’s not going to get hurt,” Michael said. “It’s five to one. He brought plenty of hands with him.”

  About the time Mary and the cowboy finally loaded Mitch in the truck, Carl’s truck came back over the hill.

  Sure enough, they’d caught their man. He was in the back, tied like a calf and shouting words in Spanish that Mary hoped Justin would
never hear. Maybe she’d think twice about letting him learn Spanish in school.

  “Unbelievable.” Mitch shook his head. Then he held his head and moaned. Mary ran into the house, got a clean towel and ran back outside. George was already at the passenger side door running his fingers across Mitch’s wound.

  “Yup,” Carl’s dad said. “You’re gonna need some stitches, and you’re not going to enjoy your next few haircuts. Other than that, you’ll be fine.”

  “Is he talking?” Mary asked, looking over at the truck where two cowboys guarded Roberto.

  “Other than bad words? No.” George looked at Mitch. “Where do you want me to take him?”

  “The jail in Broken Bones will do just fine. You got him subdued? Need me?”

  “He’s subdued all right. My men can handle it until we get to Broken Bones. Maybe you should get some medical attention first and take care of our friend next.”

  “No, I’ll meet you at the jail.”

  George raised an eyebrow and looked at Mary before saying, “You need help?”

  “No, I can handle this.” Making sure Mitch wasn’t looking, she mouthed We’re going to Gila City and the emergency care center there.

  Proving it wasn’t just mothers who had eyes in the back of their heads, Mitch said, “No, Broken Bones jail first and then the emergency care center in Gila City.”

  “Bully,” Mary said.

  Mitch, for all his pain, managed a weak smile.

  George nodded, looking at Mitch’s reclined head and the blood already staining the car seat. “You’ll be okay. Looks like the bleeding is slowing down.”

  Mitch just groaned. “Let’s get moving.”

  Mary climbed behind the wheel and called to George, “Will you give Justin a call and tell him to meet me at the side of the road?” The old truck sputtered to life as the man nodded, and Mary shifted gears.

  She headed down Prospector’s Way, one hand on the wheel and the other on her cell phone. First, she called Ruth—who immediately headed for Broken Bones instead of Gila City. Fingerprints from the man and a positive identification from Alma would speed up the process. Mary promised to call the Broken Bones sheriff’s office to let them know what was in progress. With Mitch so incapacitated, it was good to hear Ruth issue orders. Plus, Mary had seen Ruth boss Mitch around. Ruth was one of the few people Mitch really listened to. Then she realized that he had also been listening to her lately and a thrill warmed her heart.

  She slowed the truck as they approached Justin, and her son climbed in and stared at Mitch. “Wow, dude, what happened to you?”

  “I’m having a bad day.” Mitch opened his eyes and tried to manage a grin.

  Justin studied the blood in the seats. “Uncle Eric’s not going to like this.”

  “Luckily,” Mary said, “your Uncle Eric likes me, which means I’ll clean the seats and Eric won’t say a word.”

  “So what happened?”

  Mary glanced at Mitch. Was it okay to tell Justin? Mitch’s eyes were closed. He was neither moving nor telling her how to proceed. Mary decided to stop worrying about what not to tell Justin. She pressed down on the gas and went a little faster. “Someone who looks an awful lot like Roberto Herrara tried to pay Alma a little visit and we surprised him.”

  “Where?”

  “At the cabin.”

  “How’d he know she was there?”

  Good question, and one Mitch no doubt would investigate. Mary waited to hear what Mitch had to say. His silence worried her. Mary peered around her son, trying to keep an eye on the road and check on Mitch. What she saw scared her. His eyes were closed, his face pale. Perspiration beaded across his forehead.

  “Guess Mr. Herrara surprised Mitch more than Mitch surprised Mr. Herrara,” Justin observed.

  “No, we surprised him more. Carl’s dad has Roberto in the back of his truck.”

  Justin perked up. “Cool.” He turned, so he could see the truck behind him. Mitch kept his eyes closed and his head back the whole time. Justin started to put his earbuds in, but Mary nudged him and whispered, “We can’t let him go to sleep. He might have a concussion.”

  Justin nodded and turned to lightly elbow Mitch. “Hey, I worked hard today. Harder than in my whole life, Mom. Mitch, look.”

  Mary dutifully admired the boy’s somewhat grimy and scratched hands. Mitch opened his eyes and also grunted his approval. Then Mitch was privy to a blow-by-blow description of Justin’s day. Mitch, even in pain, listened intently before asking, “I thought cowboys on horseback looked for broken fences.”

  “They do that, too, but only when they have company. I’m not company. I’m Carl’s best friend.”

  Broken Bones’ main street finally came into sight. George was still behind them, four cowboys sitting illegally on the sides of the pickup. No doubt their captive felt surrounded.

  Mary parked on the street in front of the jail and blinked. Had it really only been this morning that she’d explored the town, then driven to Gila City and discovered the armoire?

  The ranch hands all jumped effortlessly to the ground, and soon the Hispanic man joined them. George Anderson flanked him on the right and two cowboys flanked him on the left. Yet another ranch hand came up the rear. The last ranch hand held open the door to the jail. Mitch almost set his wound to bleeding again in his haste to exit the truck. Justin was on his heels.

  “Wait!” Mary ordered.

  Justin listened; Mitch did not.

  Mary turned off the engine before exiting the truck and she and Justin hurried to catch up with Mitch. Maybe this was good, maybe this was okay. Her son needed to see that justice was served, that the good guys could win.

  The inside of the jail looked the same as it had more than a decade ago. Who had she bailed out that last time? Kenny? Her father? Eddie had somehow managed to keep his nose clean in Broken Bones. Maybe because he was good for the first two years of their marriage, and during the third and fourth years of their marriage, he was never there.

  The linoleum-covered floor didn’t look clean, though it was. No Smoking signs were posted everywhere. A young girl was at the front desk filling out some paperwork and a deputy was already reciting the Miranda and cuffing the captive.

  Even with bloody hair, a bloody shirt and trembling hands, Mitch clearly was in charge. He spoke to both the deputy and the prisoner, issuing orders Mary couldn’t hear. The deputy nodded, stepped back and placed his hand on the butt of his gun. The prisoner shook his head, stood still and stared at the deputy’s gun.

  Justin sat in one of the hard plastic chairs and decided watching the man being questioned was more interesting than listening to his iPod. Mary thought about sitting next to him but instead inched closer to Mitch. His shaking hands worried her and he was still way too pale.

  The deputy prodded the man toward a room with a table and two chairs. George Anderson and his cowboys waved goodbye to the deputy and the girl at the desk, then opened the door and stood back as Officer Ruth Santellis entered with Alma.

  Across the room, the deputy paused and the Hispanic man turned. Mary studied Alma’s face as surprise overtook her features.

  “Is this your stepfather?” Ruth asked.

  “No,” Alma said, tears starting to slide down her cheeks. “This is not Roberto.”

  SEVENTEEN

  In fact, there was quite a list Raoul Herrara could now be charged with. Aggravated assault was at the top, followed by reckless endangerment and trespassing. Mitch figured after he got stitches, he’d think of a few more serious offenses. Then, when his headache finally went away, he’d think of a few more. So far, Raoul Herrara had given them next to nothing about the babies, Alma’s family or why he was in Mary’s cabin. He pretended to speak limited English. And thanks to a slight case of double vision and a touch of nausea, Mitch wasn’t on top of things enough to adequately interrogate him. If only the five-piece band playing in his head would shut down for the night.

  Mitch checked his watch. It had been
almost a half hour since Ruth left to take Mary to her cabin to see if anything was amiss. They’d called upon arrival, both relieved because apparently Mitch had interrupted Raoul in the beginning stages of his search. He’d only managed to go through a few drawers in Mary’s bedroom.

  They should be back any moment now.

  Looking down, Mitch studied Raoul’s rap sheet. Mostly petty crimes, so he couldn’t threaten the three-strikes-you’ reout law. Still, the good news was Raoul was currently on probation. Committing a crime on probation meant a longer overall sentence if convicted.

  That’s the squeeze Mitch would use.

  He looked to see if there were a few more. Raoul was a legal immigrant, so Mitch couldn’t threaten deportation. Herrara adamantly refused to say why he was in Mary’s cabin. Then he remained silent when questioned about Roberto. According to Raoul’s file, he had five children. According to their mothers, he owed lots of back child support and none of them wanted him granted any kind of visitation rights. Raoul’s stony expression didn’t change when confronted with the pictures of the missing children, even Alma’s little boy.

  Mitch stood and walked to the door that led to the waiting room. Alma sat next to Justin. She had clearly been shaken by the resemblance Raoul bore to his older brother. Yet she’d kept her head and pointed out the differences in the brothers, namely that Raoul did not have a deep voice.

  Just when he was thinking perhaps he needed to sit down, a weakness he didn’t intend to show, the door opened and Ruth and Mary returned. Mitch let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Ruth could take care of herself, this was her job. But Mary was an innocent bystander and needed him.

  Mary Santellis Graham…innocent? And she needed him? Mitch felt the top of his head. The gash was no longer seeping, but he could feel the jagged ends and noted the increased swelling. This bump must be contributing to him losing his mind.