by Lisa Gardner
“You grabbed the guns and the truck and fled.”
“There was another note. On my bed again. It said, ‘You did this.’ With it was a burner phone. I got the message just fine. My foster parents were dead and I was to take the blame. All over again.”
“Or else?”
“There was another picture of Sharlah. Except this one was taken at her house. On her front porch. I didn’t know what to think anymore. I didn’t know what to believe.”
“You ran.”
“I grabbed some stuff. Best I could. The journals, the photos. Figured as long as everyone was going to start looking for me, I’d give you the right things to find. But then after I set up the camp, the burner phone I’d found on the bed rang. Some guy. Said he had another job for me. It was time to meet.
“So I drove to the EZ Gas, except the truck overheated. Had to walk the last quarter mile.”
“You’d been there before,” Quincy said. “With Henry.”
The boy shook his head, but he looked away as he said this, no longer making eye contact. “I got there just in time to hear the shots,” Telly said. “I ran. I had a gun of my own now. I swear I tried. But they were already dead. Instead, some old guy was lounging outside, still holding the pistol—”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. Never seen him before.” But the kid’s gaze slid away again.
“He pointed it straight at me,” Telly continued now. “He said, ‘Remember, you did this.’ Then he slapped the pistol in my hand and walked away.”
“He gave you the firearm used to murder both victims at the EZ Gas.”
“There was blood on it,” Telly whispered. “From the girl, I think. Blowback? Isn’t that what you guys call it? Blood on the gun, and then me. I tried to wipe my hand clean. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t. . . .”
The vomit, Quincy guessed. Telly had been in fight-or-flight mode at his home. But then, at the EZ Gas, staring at the blood on his own hands, the horror of the situation finally sinking in, the boy had thrown up. Though what he’d done with the incriminating pistol was a better question.
“I don’t have it,” Telly said now, as if reading Quincy’s mind. “The nine mil, I ditched it first chance I got. I watch enough cop shows. I know he gave it to me to frame me for both murders. I’m not a total idiot.”
“We need a description of that man. We need you to come in and work with us—”
Telly was already shaking his head. “Can’t do it. You don’t get it yet. Why’d I walk into that store? Why’d I shoot out the security camera?”
Quincy frowned. “So we’d see you—”
“Yeah. ’Cause I did this. Don’t you get it yet? As long as I’m the one police are looking for, I’m upholding my end of the deal and my baby sister is safe.”
“Telly, you’re not just being tracked by every law enforcement officer in the state. There’s tons of yahoos and local boys also running around with rifles at this point. Any of them find you first . . .”
“She’s the only family I have left.”
“Is that why you shot the search team?”
“I had to! I had to get away, keep them looking. I tried . . . I tried to just wing them, you know, aim for the shoulders. Are they okay? Are they going to make it?”
“One is still in critical condition.”
The boy sagged. For the first time, Quincy could see the weight of stress and fear bowing his shoulders. The boy was trying to hold it together, but that didn’t mean he was winning.
“You know what the funny part is?” he whispered. “I’m not even that good a shot. Especially with a rifle. Frank just started teaching me this past year. With a pistol, I’m pretty good, standing five yards from a target. The rifle, though, I’ve never really gotten comfortable with it. See how many shots it took me tonight just to hit a parked truck? But here I am, the most feared gunman in the state.
“I had to do it,” he said again, voice stronger now. “I had to fire at those officers to keep them away. These people, they want something. Otherwise, why shoot Sandra and Frank? Why shoot the man at the EZ Gas? They’re after something. If I can find it first, maybe I can negotiate. Keep both me and Sharlah safe. It’s the only hope I have left.”
“Come with me. We’ll keep you safe. You have my word.”
The boy looked up. Smiled, a flash of white in the night. “After I just saved your sorry ass?”
“Telly—”
“You can’t help me. But that’s okay, you know. All I need from you is to protect my sister.” He hefted up his rifle. “If I can’t find what has these people so hot and bothered, they’ll go after her. I know they will. Lives mean nothing to them. They just want what they want, and we’re all disposable in the end.”
Engines roaring. Quincy heard them in the distance. SWAT closing in.
He wanted to say something. Tell the boy it would be all right. Tell him he could trust Quincy, that together they’d figure this whole thing out.
But even if Quincy didn’t know Telly, he did know Sharlah. And she would never believe such a line either.
So instead, he said, “I’ll take care of your sister. But make sure you take care of yourself. Because she needs you. You are her family, and she needs to see you again.”
“I loved Frank and Sandra,” the boy said abruptly. “I never told them that. Never knew how. But tell my sister, I found myself a real family. And it was . . . awesome. What we’d both deserved. Sharlah will understand. She’ll be happy for me.”
Roaring engines, much closer now.
Telly smiled one last time. Sad, Quincy thought. Forlorn. The boy turned, took a half step away.
“Stop,” Quincy tried, wiping a fresh rivulet of blood from his eyes.
“Or what? You’ll shoot?”
They both knew the answer to that.
The boy walked into the gloom.
Swaying on his feet, Quincy had no choice but to let him go.
Chapter 40
RAINIE AND I ARE SITTING at the conference room table when Quincy and the team finally return. It’s way late. One in the morning? I should definitely be in bed. But Rainie hasn’t said anything and neither do I. We’re holding vigil. I imagine much like other parents and children who’ve sent their loved ones off to war.
Luka is asleep under the table. The only one of us able to relax, yet still keeping close. When the sound of approaching footsteps hits the hall, his head pops up immediately, one ear pivoting. Police dog, ready for action.
Then Quincy appears and, for a moment, none of us can speak. All I see is blood. His face. His shirt, his arm. My father.
And for the first time, I get it. What’s really going on. What my brother might cost me.
“Are you—” Rainie starts, already on her feet.
As I hear myself say, “Did he do that? Did Telly hurt you?”
“I’m okay,” Quincy says quickly. “Just banged up. Ricochet.” He looks at me. “From another shooter, Sharlah. Not your brother. In fact, he may have just saved my life.”
“And Telly?” Rainie asks.
“He bolted right before SWAT arrived,” Quincy explains. “Given my, um . . . injuries, I was in no condition to stop him.”
I can’t get up. I can’t move my legs, I can’t feel my own body. Rainie is the one who crosses to Quincy. Regardless of blood and sweat, she throws her arms around him. Luka is already there, sniffing hard, whining low in his throat. Quincy winces but returns Rainie’s embrace.
He looks at me over her shoulder and I like to think he understands why I can’t move, all the things that once again I don’t know how to say.
These are my parents, I think. This is my family.
I get up. I cross to Quincy, to Rainie, to my dog. I throw my arms around all of them, best that I can.
I still don’t say anything.
I don’t have to.
Because Rainie and Quincy have always understood.
Quincy leaves to clean up. Sheriff Atkins is off talking to her sergeant. The tracker guy has joined us in the conference room. He is guzzling water, not really making eye contact. His hands are trembling hard. Whatever happened at the Duvalls’ house has shaken him up, but he’s doing his best to not show it. I feel bad for him. Luka goes to him, presses against his leg. After a moment, the tracker reaches down, scratches Luka’s ears. I am proud of my dog. He’s more of a people person than I am.
Sheriff Atkins barely looks up as she walks into the room. She is carrying a sheaf of papers, skimming rapidly through them. Sergeant Roy and my father file in next. Quincy has exchanged his bloody shirt for a spare deputy’s top. The sight of him in a brown uniform makes both Rainie and me smile. We quickly look down.
Shelly pauses long enough to wave hi. Quincy kisses Rainie on the cheek, pats Luka on the head, and, of course, gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
“Holding up?” he asks me softly.
“Did you really see my brother?”
“Yes.”
“Did you shoot at him?”
“Actually, he shot at the person shooting at me. I have to say, I appreciated his intervention.”
“I knew it,” I say fiercely. “He is good. I told you he’s good. He’s my Telly. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.”
Quincy squeezes my shoulder again. “Pace yourself, Sharlah. It’s going to be a long night, and there’s still plenty of discoveries to go.”
“All right,” Shelly starts off briskly. “As we suspected, when Irene/Sandra ran away from her father and his criminal enterprise at the age of sixteen, she took an insurance policy with her. Before we were so rudely interrupted, I found a series of numbers taped to the bottom of the shelf where she kept her cookbooks. I plugged the numbers into the financial services database, and, believe it or not, I got a hit. Remember the Panama Papers, which revealed a bunch of hidden bank accounts owned by everyone from wealthy businessmen to high-ranking politicians? Well, you can add Sandra’s father, David Martin, to the list. Apparently, those numbers match his own offshore stash. I’ll work with Homeland to get more information, but the bits and pieces I got from the public doc indicate the account has been dormant for years. No additions or withdrawals. Which maybe goes to show the stalemate Irene had with her father. As long as he left her alone, she left the money alone.”
“So how much money are we talking about?” Quincy asks.
“At the beginning of this year, twenty million dollars.”
The room falls silent. I blink several times myself. Twenty million dollars. That’s . . . a lot of money. More than I could ever imagine. Real money. Serious money.
The tracker speaks up first. “Wait a minute. Her father is dead, right? So as his daughter, doesn’t Sandra Duvall get the money anyway? I mean, why keep the account secret anymore?”
“If Sandra came forward as David’s daughter and sole surviving heir,” Shelly says, “then yes, she’d get the money. But that would mean admitting she’s Irene Gemetti and then facing the murder charge from thirty years ago. So reclaiming her identity isn’t as easy as it sounds.”
“Twenty million dollars would pay for a hell of a defense lawyer,” Cal mutters. “I mean, if she wanted the money, seems like some crime committed when she was a minor, maybe even in self-defense against a known pimp, could be taken care of easily enough.”
“I don’t think she wanted the money,” Quincy says quietly. “If she did, she would’ve raided the account already. But she didn’t. Sandra made a choice to leave behind Irene Gemetti. I don’t think her father’s death changed that for her.”
“Meaning there’s twenty million dollars sitting in a bank account, just waiting to be claimed.” Shelly shakes her head. “Plenty of reasons worth killing for.”
“Who would even know of such a thing?” Rainie asks.
“Given the publication of the papers, anyone who takes the time to sort through one helluva long exposé,” Shelly supplies briskly. “I’ll be the first to say, however, not the easiest reading. So chances are, someone close to David Michael Martin. Which brings us back to”—she waves a new piece of paper in the air—“Douglas Perth, the new CEO of GMB Enterprises. As one of Martin’s long-term associates and head of the financial end of the company, seems logical he’d know about both the account and also the reason Martin had for leaving it alone. He’d also be the first to realize the implications of Martin’s death—that the account was now available for the taking.”
“I don’t understand,” I hear myself blurt out before I can stop myself. A lot of adult eyes, now staring at me. “If this Douglas guy knows about the account, why doesn’t he just take the money? Why involve Sandra at all?”
“Maybe because he can’t.” Rainie glances at Quincy. “Knowing about the account is only half the battle, right? You’d still need some kind of authority to access the funds. Sandra could do it—if she came forward as Martin’s lone surviving relative and automatic heir. But a business partner . . . Douglas Perth might know about the money, but that doesn’t mean he could do anything about it.”
“PIN code,” Cal mutters. He’s pushed back from the table, already up again, roaming the room. Maybe trackers don’t do well in such enclosed spaces. Now noticing we’re all watching him: “Most bank accounts have them, right? I want to withdraw money from savings, I punch in my PIN code. Overseas bank can’t be that different.”
“No,” Quincy says slowly. “Offshore accounts aren’t that different.” He tilts his head to the side, displaying his thinking face. “Maybe that’s what Sandra had that Douglas Perth truly needed—basically the key to unlocking twenty million dollars.”
Rainie continues for him: “So, Douglas sent his son, Richie, to hunt down Sandra Duvall and get the PIN code, password, whatever.”
“Roy’s been trying to reach Douglas Perth for the past hour, ostensibly to notify the man of his son’s death, but Mr. Perth isn’t answering any of his numbers. Which makes me wonder, of course, if Douglas Perth isn’t the other gunman running around my county.”
“He’s the one with the mole on his wrist?” I ask, frowning. “From the EZ Gas security tape?”
But Rainie is already shaking her head. “Why would Douglas Perth kill his own son? Especially if Richie was running around on his orders?”
“Valid point,” Shelly concedes. “For the record”—she looks at Quincy—“ME confirmed that Richie Perth had traces of GSR on his hands. Meaning he probably is the one who shot Sandra and Frank Duvall. Question is, what happened after that?”
“Telly told me he found his foster parents already dead when he returned to the house yesterday morning,” Quincy supplies for the group. “There was a note on his bed telling him that he did this. There was also a burner phone. Someone had been sending Telly pictures of you, Sharlah, threatening your life. ‘Further instructions to follow.’ He hadn’t figured out what to do when he found Frank and Sandra dead.”
I nod, though this doesn’t clear my confusion. I stroke Luka’s fur, trying to find comfort, but there’s none.
Quincy continues: “I’m fairly confident Richie killed the Duvalls. We’d need a gun for a ballistics match to be sure, but I think Rainie has it right: Doug Perth knows about this twenty-million-dollar account. He lacked, however, means of accessing it. So he assigned his son to get the information. Richie enters the home first thing yesterday morning. Shoots Frank Duvall immediately, which explains why the man never even sits up in bed. That alone sends a certain message to Sandra: Start talking or you’re next.”
“So she talked,” Shelly murmurs. “Gave up the password. At which point, he shot her as she tried to flee from the bed.”
“I don’t think so,” Quincy said. “I think Sandra might’ve proved stubborn on th
at subject. Hence people are still running around town, shooting at the Duvalls’ house. Someone certainly didn’t want us there. Maybe the same someone who turned around and killed Richie, and is now hunting for the password on his own. He wouldn’t want the police searching the Duvalls’ residence. We might find the banking information first.”
“But why Telly?” I interrupt. I can’t help myself. “Why blame him for all this?”
Quincy’s tone is gentle: “Because they can’t afford to have the police digging into Sandra’s past. They don’t want any questions about her connection to the recently deceased David Michael Martin or his business practices. And Telly, given his history, presents the perfect patsy. They make him take the blame for the murders—”
“But he didn’t do anything!”
“Except he still wants to protect you. He loves you, honey. You were right about that. Your big brother still wants to keep you safe.”
I can’t take it. I look down, stare hard at the top of Luka’s dark head, blinking my eyes rapidly. Rainie, who is sitting closer, puts her arm around me. I want to move away, be stronger, tougher, but I don’t. Mostly, I think of my brother, who’s still doing his best to protect me. His little sister, who hadn’t even bothered to talk to him in years.
I’m not sad; I’m ashamed.
“This is the part I can’t quite get,” Quincy is saying now. “According to Telly, after finding the Duvalls and the note, he loaded up the camping supplies, took the truck, et cetera. He knew he was in trouble. To keep Sharlah safe, he had to look like a killer fleeing from his crimes. So as long as law enforcement was looking for him, he wanted to give us plenty to find, including the photo of Martin taken at the Duvalls’ house.”
“He met with Sandra’s father?” Rainie asks, her arm still around me.
“No. According to Telly, Sandra did. Maybe at the end, she decided to make amends. Telly wasn’t sure. But after Telly fled from the Duvalls’, he received a call on the burner phone, with instructions to meet at the EZ Gas. There, he was met by someone who handed him a nine millimeter. ‘You did this,’ the man said, which was the same phrase used at the Duvall crime scene, then the man left.
