by Lisa Gardner
“When Telly went inside, he found Richie dead, as well as the cashier. Not knowing what else to do, he walked into the line of sight of the security camera and shot it, maintaining his ruse as the guilty party. He had to, in order to keep Sharlah safe.”
Rainie pulls away, her brow furrowed. “So David’s right-hand man sends his son, Richie, to get Sandra’s banking password. Richie kills Sandra and Frank. And then someone else kills Richie?”
“Yes,” Quincy says.
“I don’t like this story,” I say quietly.
“Hell, I don’t completely understand this story,” Shelly says. She’s rubbing the back of her neck. “Sounds to me like there’s someone else in play. Maybe a rival to Doug Perth?”
“A logical assumption,” Quincy says.
“So this mystery man takes out the competition. Then once again utilizes Telly as the patsy. Meaning he must know that much about Richie’s plan,” Shelly states.
“Meaning we’re not talking outside competition, but an in-house rival. Someone with knowledge of the original plan,” Quincy says. “In an organization such as GMB Enterprises, that kind of competition can’t be too surprising.”
“But he still doesn’t have the password,” Rainie says. “So he returned to the Duvalls’ house tonight. Found you guys there and opened fire.”
“For twenty million dollars, why not?” Quincy shrugs. Then self-consciously touches the gouge on his temple.
I close my eyes. My head hurts. I want to go home and sleep . . . forever. Except, I know when I wake up, nothing will be better. In fact, if we can’t figure out some way to help Telly, to identify this mystery rival, things might be much, much worse.
“Telly described the shooter from the EZ Gas as being an old man,” Quincy says now. “But he looked away as he said this. He also claimed he’d never been to the EZ Gas before. But again, I got the feeling he was lying.”
“Covering for someone?” Shelly asks. “You mean Henry Duvall? But why?”
Quincy looks at Shelly. “Henry admitted his grandfather approached him first. We only have his word that he never followed up with meeting the man. What if he did? And his grandfather told him about the twenty million dollars?”
“You think Henry killed his own parents?” Rainie asks.
“No, I think Richie killed the Duvalls. Which gives Henry double the motive to go after Richie—first for revenge for killing his parents, second to grab the twenty million for himself. Henry also has incentive to set up Telly: Clearly there’s no love lost between those two. As long as Henry’s world is going to hell, why not make his foster brother pay as well? I think he’d find a certain justice in that.”
“But why wouldn’t Telly admit that much?” Shelly asks. “Given the mutual love affair, doesn’t Telly have just as much incentive to turn over Henry to us?”
“Not if he plans to go after Henry himself.”
“One more person left to kill,” I say abruptly.
Quincy looks at me. Nods slowly.
“Exactly.”
Then the adults are once more up and exiting the room.
Chapter 41
SANDRA AND I DIDN’T SPEAK of that night. We fell back to routine. Summer school for me, household projects for her, some science camp duty for Frank at the local Y. Three people sharing a house, each waiting for the other to make the next move.
I started going for a run early in the mornings. Trying to burn off “extra energy,” as Aly would say, so I could focus better in class. I didn’t know if I really had more tolerance for school, but the running felt good. One of the only times my head cleared and the pressure would lift from my chest. No more wondering what would happen to me in one more year. No more echoes of my sister screaming. When I ran, it became just my arms pumping and my heart pounding. I would focus on my own ragged breath and for a quarter mile, half a mile, four miles, I almost felt free.
I returned early that Wednesday, having made record time. The house was empty. Frank already off to camp, Sandra most likely at the grocery store—she liked to go first thing. I walked into the bathroom, already shedding stinky clothes. Quick shower, then time to head to school. I was in my bedroom, pulling on my T-shirt, when I heard the garage door open. Sandra returning from the store, I thought.
Shorts, socks, lace-up tennis shoes. I opened my door, and I . . .
I heard them.
Sandra, talking in a low voice to someone with an even raspier reply. I knew immediately she was meeting with her father.
He sounded terrible. Even weaker, threadier, than the day he’d met Frank. If I hadn’t believed he was dying then, I definitely believed it now.
I crept down the hall, the old man’s voice too hoarse to carry. I crouched down low at the very end, where I could just see them. Sandra’s father, still wearing his tan trench coat even though it was warm out, collapsed in an easy chair. Sandra standing across from him, her arms wrapped tight around her waist. I couldn’t see her face but could tell from her body language she was tense.
“Coupla . . . things . . . ,” the man was wheezing. “Not much time . . . You . . . oughta know.” He started coughing then. Wet, phlegmy. Sounded to me like a guy drowning in his own lungs.
Sandra didn’t move. Offer him water, anything. She just stood there, waiting.
“Doug . . . Remember Doug? Smart man. Doug . . . He’ll . . . run business.”
Sandra didn’t say anything.
“Could arrange . . . make you an officer . . . Put you on the board.”
“No.”
“Real business . . . Irene—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Real company. These days.”
She stared at him in cold silence.
“You are . . . my family. . . .”
She remained silent.
“Man . . . wants to honor . . . his family.”
Still nothing.
“Your son.” The old man switched gears. “Bright boy.” Cough, cough, cough. “Going someplace . . . in life. Offered him a job.”
“Leave him alone.”
“Not really . . . your choice.” The old man smiled. It was a hideous sight. His wide, gaping mouth, skeletal cheeks. He looked like an animated corpse, grinning wildly. I dropped my gaze to the carpet.
“Leave him alone!” Sandra ordered again.
“Whattaya gonna do . . . kill me?”
Sandra stiffened. From where I stood, I could see her trembling with rage. “What do you want?” she asked coldly. “Just tell me, and let’s get on with it.”
“Your mom,” he said, and for the first time, I saw Sandra flinch. “Buried her . . . No one at the funeral . . . Not even her own daughter . . . pay her respects.”
“What about Mom?”
“Gonna be buried next . . . to her. That way, if you want to see her . . . gotta see me, too. That’s the deal. Visit us both. Honor your parents.”
“You always were a manipulative bastard.”
The old man laughed. Or tried to anyway. It ended in another wet, ragged cough. When he finally fell silent, so did the whole room.
“Don’t hate you . . . ,” the man said at last. He sounded . . . reflective.
Sandra didn’t answer.
“Admire you . . . even. Heard . . . you killed a man. Your first.” He nodded slowly. “My daughter. Raised you right.”
With her back to me, Sandra shivered. I couldn’t decide if that was because she agreed with his words or was horrified by them.
“Your mom . . . too soft. Too sick for another baby. I wanted a boy. Had to settle for you. But you! Got me. Got me good. Boy would’ve betrayed me to my face. Knocked me off. Taken over. You . . .” The old man nodded at something only he understood. “Played the long game . . . better than anyone . . . I ever met.”
Sandra didn’t speak.
She seemed to know what the man was going to say next.
“All games end.” He looked up at his daughter. Stared at her with his rheumy eyes. “When I die . . . Others know, Sandra. Doug knows. That account, our little secret . . . got published. Not our secret anymore. Not our little game anymore. Take the money. Just do it. Empty it all out. Don’t care. Can’t hurt me anymore. But do it. Before real people suffer.”
“I’m already hurt.”
“Doug’ll want the money. Part of the business . . . in his eyes.”
“He can have it.”
“Don’t be stupid!” For the first time the man snarled, reared up. “Didn’t raise you to be stupid.”
“No! You raised me to be violent, greedy, and mean. Well, too bad. I don’t care about your damn money. I don’t even remember the stupid pass code anymore. You want Doug to have it, then transfer it all over to him. I’m not stopping you.”
“Your boy—”
“Leave Henry alone!”
“Because all children . . . follow their parents’ wishes?”
“Time for you to leave.” Sandra started to turn.
“Wait! Irene—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“I’m trying to do right. Can’t an old man . . . repent?”
But Sandra remained with her back to him. Minute dragged into minute. The old man issued another long, ominous sigh. Then . . .
He rose shakily, leaning heavily on his cane. Sandra made no move to assist. Belatedly, I realized they’d be headed through the kitchen, toward the front door.
I backtracked to my bedroom, then, thinking quickly, grabbed my cell phone, shimmied open my window, and climbed out. I ran straight ahead, figuring I could reach the cover of the rhododendrons before Sandra’s father completed his painful trek.
I was just rounding the corner, bringing up my phone so I could snap some pics, when I ran smack-dab into Frank’s crouched form, also taking cover in the rhodies, phone camera held before him.
“Shhh,” he said immediately as I dropped to the ground beside him.
The front door was just opening. We didn’t talk anymore. Just started snapping photos. I had a branch blocking the view on the front porch. I scooted around Frank, caught up with the old guy as he made his way gingerly down the front steps, came to a halt in front of the garage. Snap, snap, snap.
No driver. This surprised me. In the movies, the big crime bosses always have drivers, bodyguards, minions. But Sandra’s father painfully folded himself into his black Cadillac on his own. Then he sat there for several long moments, no doubt gathering his breath.
A man drowning in his own fluids. You could hear it when he talked. He hadn’t lied before. Anyone who sounded like that wasn’t long for this world.
Sandra remained on the front porch. Just standing. Till at last her father started up his car, put it in reverse, drifted down the driveway.
At the last moment, I thought I saw her raise her hand. I thought, zooming in through the lens of my phone, I might have seen some lines of moisture on her cheek.
A daughter, saying good-bye for the last time.
Then she turned, walked into the house, closed the door.
Frank and I sat together in the dirt.
After a moment, I couldn’t help myself. “Did you hear?”
“Enough.”
“So what’s all this money he’s talking about?”
“Doesn’t matter, Telly.”
“He said something about Henry—”
“Don’t worry about it. Henry’s a smart boy. He knows who his real family is.”
“Old man really is dying?”
“Yep.”
“And she really doesn’t care?”
“Nope. Old man always did underestimate his own daughter. She saw this day coming even if he didn’t. As for the money and everything else . . .” Frank turned to me, finally smiled. “Sandra’s already taken steps. Joke’s on him. Even dying. Joke’s on him.”
—
I WAITED TILL THE POLICE LEFT, then doubled back to Frank and Sandra’s house, resuming my perch on the roof. I didn’t have anyplace else to go. Couldn’t make it far anyway, with only my legs for transportation and having already logged God knows how many miles. Besides, I doubted the night was over yet.
Sure enough, maybe an hour later. Twin headlight beams turning down the road, pulling over three houses back. Driver killed the lights. I waited, on my stomach near the chimney, finger on the trigger.
Figure appeared at the end of the driveway. Moving stilted. I looked for evidence of a gun but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness.
I waited until he was nearly at the front porch.
Then I said a single word: “Henry.”
Chapter 42
THREE A.M. ON A HOT SUMMER NIGHT, Henry’s strip motel was busier than Shelly would’ve liked. People hanging out in front of their rooms, sitting on folding chairs and drinking beer, which they discreetly tucked behind them as the sheriff pulled up.
First deputy’s car had already arrived on the scene. Shelly had Quincy sitting beside her. Roy followed in his vehicle. Plenty of people to confront a single man. As always, Shelly could feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins.
She also felt a corresponding sense of calm. She was the sheriff. This was her town, these were her people. Nothing here she couldn’t handle.
She parked outside the manager’s office. No flashing lights or sirens. It had already been a long day. Shelly wanted to keep this latest development as smooth and controlled as possible. Not to mention that regardless of their suspicions, Henry Duvall had also had a long, emotional day. In Shelly’s experience, tired, stressed people could become very unpredictable very fast.
Assuming Henry was armed—which they certainly thought he was—it was even more imperative to keep things quiet and quick. Knock on the door. Cuff him before he had a chance to blink. Cart him off for further questioning while Roy and Quincy searched the man’s room.
Shelly picked up her hat, jammed it down on her head. Final piece of the uniform in place.
Shelly and Quincy got out of the car.
Shelly entered the manager’s office first. Her deputy was already there, asking all the right questions. No, the night manager hadn’t seen Henry leave his room. And according to the vehicle log, his silver RAV4 was still parked outside. Perfect.
Shelly returned outside, motioned to Quincy and Roy.
“Henry should be in his room. We don’t want to make this any messier than necessary. Quincy and I will do the honors. Knock on the door, say we have information regarding his parents. He’s already answered questions once today, so hopefully our return won’t arouse his suspicions. Once the door is open, I’ll take him into custody.
“You”—she directed her gaze at Quincy—“keep your eyes open for a handgun. We don’t need any more drama today.”
Roy took up a cover position on the other side of the parking lot, tucking behind a vehicle where he’d have a line of sight on the open door but Henry wouldn’t be able to see him. Meanwhile, the deputy approached the closest group of loitering guests and quietly urged them to return to their rooms. They picked up their beers without argument.
Then, just like that, it was showtime. Again, that curious combination of surging adrenaline and steady calm.
Quincy nodded once. They made their approach.
Room was dark. Given the time of night, not a surprise. If their assumptions were correct, and Henry had started his day discovering his parents’ bodies before wreaking vengeance of his own, no doubt the man needed some beauty sleep.
Shelly stood front and center. A woman with nothing to fear. Quincy stood slightly to the side, having to watch his angle so he didn’t block Roy’s line of sight.
She rapped the door hard. “Henry Duvall,” she ca
lled out loudly. “Sheriff Atkins. Sorry to disturb you, but we have news about your parents. Thought you’d want to hear.”
Nothing.
She knocked again. Authoritatively, she liked to think.
Nothing.
She glanced at Quincy, who was frowning. Slowly, he moved to peer through the window. Curtains were half-drawn. He worked his way to the exposed slit in the middle, then shook his head.
“Too dark,” he mouthed.
Shelly’s turn to purse her lips.
“Henry Duvall,” she called out again. “This is Sheriff Atkins. Open up. We need to talk. This is urgent.”
Then, when seconds passed into minutes, “Get me the key,” she murmured to Quincy, who motioned to the waiting deputy.
He jogged over shortly, manager’s master key in hand.
“Henry,” she tried one last time. “This is Sheriff Atkins. I’m coming in, okay? Just need to talk. It’s about your parents.”
She slid the key into the lock, feeling Quincy tense slightly beside her. But his breathing remained slow and even. She concentrated on that as she twisted the key, felt the lock give. Moving to the side now, so the door would offer her at least some kind of cover, she slowly eased it open.
“Henry,” she called out again, voice softer now, eyes already sweeping the room.
She knew, though, before ever snapping on the light, that the room was empty. It had that kind of feel. Which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, given the man’s vehicle was still in the parking lot and his pack next to the bed.
“Shelly,” Quincy said softly.
Then she spotted it, subtle at first, mixed in with the mottled pattern of the comforter. Bloodstains. Even if they were hard to see, one step closer brought her the smell.
“Telly got here first,” she murmured.
“Then where’s the body?” Quincy asked.
