SHATTERED

by Alice Sharpe

  “It’s better than nothing,” Sarah said, but her face revealed she thought it had as much chance of making a difference as he did, and that wasn’t much.

  “I also want to grab my suitcase out of Mom’s car and go to the vet to see about boarding Skipjack for a while longer,” she added.

  “What will you eventually do with him?” Nate asked.

  “I guess I’ll sell him. Breaks my heart, though.”

  “Sell him to me.”

  She finally looked at him. “You?”

  “Sure. I’ve got room for another horse. I can hook up a trailer to the truck and haul him back to Arizona with me. Truth is, I’ve grown pretty fond of him.”

  “There’s a trailer out behind the barn you can use,” she said. “In fact, you can have it.”

  “Deal. And you can come visit him whenever you’re down my way.”

  Sarah smiled, the first one Nate had seen since she’d stepped foot on the ranch. He cupped her chin with his fingers and kissed her.

  “Watch your back,” she whispered as his lips left hers. “Don’t forget someone wants you dead.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The newspaper office consisted of a half dozen rooms all accessible through a lobby outfitted with a glass door. It was empty on a Sunday afternoon, but there was a note on the receptionist’s desk addressed to Nate, telling him to come back to the editor’s office. As Nate had visited the past September, he knew his way around.

  He entered a large office with a black desk at one end and a gathering of soft chairs at the other. The walls were covered with plaques and framed photographs surrounding a cabinet that Nate recalled housed marksman trophies that Stew Netters had collected over the years.

  Netters, a compact fifty-five-year-old with a prominent Adam’s apple, sat behind the desk. He was wearing a gray sweater and jeans. He had hair like his son’s, though the blond strands were sprinkled with gray. He was busily taking notes while the mayor, seated in front of the desk, spoke.

  Mayor Bliss was older than Netters by a couple of years and appeared extremely fit, sporting an out-of-season tan that showcased the brightness of his teeth when he smiled. He looked prosperous and sure of himself, and Nate had read that he won every election by a landslide. According to Gallant, this November would bring the same results. A small lapel pin shaped like a waving American flag festooned the lapel of a dark blue suit.

  There were hearty handshakes all around before Nate sat in the chair Netters indicated. “I understood you were out of town,” Nate said, addressing the mayor.

  “Just got home this morning.”

  “George flies himself all over the state,” Netters said. “He’s got his fingers in a dozen enterprises.”

  “Family business,” Mayor Bliss explained. “My grandfather started Bliss Chocolate fifty years ago. The old man would turn over in his grave if I let it flounder, and that takes a hands-on approach, despite my elected office.”

  Netters drummed his fingers on the desktop as though he’d heard this spiel before. “Did you fly up from Arizona?” he asked Nate.

  “No, this time I drove. I came to see Mike Donovan.”

  “I just heard he was killed the day before yesterday,” Netters said, sitting forward.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Enlightenment dawned on Netters’s smooth face. “Of course. Gallant wouldn’t release any names, but the buzz around town is there was a standoff of some kind out there. Did you have anything to do with that?”

  Nate shrugged.

  “How about giving me the story?”

  “When the sheriff says it’s okay,” Nate said.

  The mayor shook his head. His buzz-cut hair and the tan made him look ex-military. His mouth was on the small side and his lips were currently pursed. “It’s the people’s right to know what mayhem is brewing in their own city,” he said. “Especially after last Labor Day. People are nervous, and another killing is just going to make things worse.”

  “There’ll be more gun permits issued, you wait and see,” Netters said.

  “Speaking of which, didn’t you just buy Jason a gun?” Bliss asked.

  “I did,” the editor said, nodding. “Although I debated the purchase.”

  “Why?” the mayor asked.

  “He’s young,” the editor said.

  “You’re never too young to protect yourself and your family in these troubled times,” Bliss commented. “People tend to think the government is going to take care of them. How much did that belief help those poor children at the mall last year?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s what Morris Denton told the boy. Anyway, I’m hoping it will give him a leg up come fall.”

  Nate thought of that troubled kid with a weapon and inwardly cringed. He also decided to play dumb about Denton. “Morris Denton? Who’s he?”

  “A philanthropist,” Netters said. “He started this whole grassroots camp located on several acres up in the mountains. B-Strong, it’s called. He gets kids from all over. Jason went to one of his workshops not long ago. He really seemed to change after that.”

  “In what way?” Nate asked.

  “More sure of himself. Knows what he wants now. He’s going to join the military when he turns eighteen in October. Helped him find himself.”

  “Have you ever met Denton?” Nate asked.

  Netters shook his head. “Not yet, but I will. I think it’s high time someone interviews Denton and takes a look around B-Strong. Too little is known about it and about Denton himself, especially since Thomas Jacks spent a few weeks late last summer at his camp.”

  “As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask about Thomas’s brother, Peter,” Nate said. “Did he attend the workshop with Jason?”

  Netters nodded. “I think he’s the reason Jason wanted to go. They’ve been hanging out together.”

  “It doesn’t sound as though you know Peter Jacks is dead,” Nate said, watching both men.

  Netters sat forward. “Dead? When? How?”

  “Yesterday,” Nate said. “He was about to shoot someone else.”

  Netters looked truly shocked. “My God.”

  Bliss spoke up. “Who was he going to shoot?”

  “Mike’s daughter, Sarah Donovan.”

  “Sarah is back in Shatterhorn?”

  “She’s the one who found her father’s body,” Nate said.

  Stew Netters ran a hand through his sandy hair as though giving himself a moment for all this to sink in. He stood abruptly and took a few steps toward the door. “That damn Gallant is keeping things from me. I’ve got to get some reporters in here.”

  “Did you hurt yourself?” Nate asked, his voice kind of quiet. Netters had a pronounced limp.

  “Damn arthritis in my left knee. Doc wants to replace it—I don’t know, guess I’m dragging my feet. Where does that secretary keep my phone book?”

  Nate studied the man as he searched a nearby shelf, looking for any sign of equivocation. Was arthritis really why he limped or had he been wounded by a bullet from Mike’s saddle rifle, a bullet Nate had fired? There was just no way to tell without saying a lot more than he had any intention of saying. Instead, he asked, “Before you get back to work, would you please take a few minutes to tell me what you and Mike talked about the last time you saw him?”

  Netters seemed to look longingly at the door, but eventually he limped back behind his desk and sat. His turned-down mouth and wrinkled brow suggested he didn’t much like recalling Mike’s last visit. Before he could launch into his story, the mayor spoke up.

  “Was that the day Mike burst in here?” he asked. “You remember, Stew. You and I were just chewing the fat when Donovan showed up.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Netters said. “How could I forget? It was last week sometime
. He pushed his way past the receptionist and plowed through the door.”

  “Why was he so angry?” Nate asked.

  “Because I wouldn’t print his half-baked theories about some countrywide conspiracy.”

  “He talked to you about those?” Nate asked.

  “He talked to everyone. Man couldn’t get enough of hearing his own voice,” Netters said. “He thought there was one person behind all of the shootings with some crazy agenda, but he had no facts, just a lot of jumping from one big idea to the next. I don’t think his feet ever touched down.”

  “So, he wanted you to interview him and float his theories?”

  “That’s about it. When I refused, he started insinuating I was part of the conspiracy. He called my newspaper ‘biased.’ Those are fighting words to a newspaperman like me. He was steaming hot under the collar, calling me names and threatening me.”

  “Threatening you in what way?” Nate asked.

  “I don’t remember,” the editor said, his gaze shifting to the floor.

  The mayor jumped in. “He said if he could prove you were part of this so-called conspiracy, he’d see you hang.”

  Netters seemed to blanch. “Donovan kept waving an old leather book wrapped up with rubber bands in my face. He swore he had proof. He was fishing—I don’t think he knew a damn thing. I mean, does he think he’s the only one who’s been working on figuring all this out? I’ve got my suspicions about what’s going on, too, but you don’t find me attacking people. Man, the jerk was practically foaming at the mouth.”

  “He wasn’t the only one,” Mayor Bliss said softly.

  Netters frowned. “Okay, I admit it. I got angry, too. Who did he think he was, coming in here and acting like he had a right to say any damn thing he liked? I punched him, okay, I did, but it was provoked, wasn’t it, George?”

  The mayor shrugged. “Violence rarely solves anything, Stew—you know that. And Mike Donovan along with Mr. Matthews here and Alex Foster did come to the town’s aid last Labor Day and help prevent that tragedy from being any worse. You yourself called them ‘heroes.’ I hailed them as patriots.

  “Mike said he was going to call you and Alex,” he added. “He said he wanted to get your feedback. Did he have a chance to talk to you before he died?”

  “No,” Nate said.

  “You shouldn’t have come here,” the editor mumbled. “It’s like you’re a catalyst or something.”

  Nate didn’t respond to the comment.

  “Anyway,” the editor continued, “all our compliments must have gone to Donovan’s head.” He looked at Nate and added, “After all, you didn’t go psycho.”

  “Everyone copes in their own way,” Nate murmured. “By the way, does the number twenty-eight mean anything to either of you?”

  The mayor scrunched his brow. “Twenty-eight what?”

  “I don’t know,” Nate admitted.

  “Like a date?” Netters asked.

  Nate shook his head. “Just wondered,” he said.

  The editor studied his hands for a moment, then looked defiantly at Nate. “I guess I shouldn’t have punched Mike. I didn’t like what he was insinuating. Rumors get started, a man’s career goes up in smoke. You have to be careful what you say about people. Truth is, he was lucky I wasn’t packing a piece or I would have shot him then and there.”

  His words, spoken softly and in light of what had eventually happened to Mike, fell like an atom bomb. And then someone cleared his throat and all three men turned to find Netters’s son, Jason, standing right inside the door.

  “Jason?” Netters said. “What are you doing here?”

  Jason looked from his father to the mayor to Nate. “Nothing,” he mumbled.

  At that moment, the desk phone rang. Netters grabbed it, listened without taking his eyes off his son, then glanced at Nate. “It’s for you,” he said.

  * * *

  AFTER THE COINS had been locked in the evidence room at the sheriff’s office, Sarah walked out to the sidewalk and checked her watch. Nate would still be at the editor’s office and Sarah wanted no part of that. She’d heard the rumors about her father’s behavior and she couldn’t stand the thought of facing Stewart Netters.

  But since she had some time and the garage was just a couple of blocks over, she might as well go get her mother’s car and, more important, retrieve her suitcase from the backseat so she could put on some warmer jeans. As she walked, her brain finally kicked into gear. Now was her chance to drive out to the storage garage and see if her old boxes were in unit 118. She walked faster.

  The garage was shorthanded on a slow, cold February afternoon. The green toad looked more dejected than ever as the man on duty, who had just finished replacing Nate’s tires, looked up from his work.

  “Bud,” Sarah said, recognizing an old high school friend. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

  Bud hit the button to lower the truck from the lift. “Hey, Sarah, it’s been years,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand, seeing the grease smudged on his and smiling instead.

  She grabbed his hand and pressed it.

  “Hey, your dress,” he said.

  She laughed. “It’s okay. Boy, it’s good to see you.”

  “You, too.” He took a surprisingly clean rag out of his pocket and handed it to her. “I’ve been working with Dad since the economy took a downturn and I lost my job at the market. This pays better anyway, and seeing as I’ve got three kids to support, every bit comes in handy.”

  Sarah looked up from wiping away the tiny bit of grease on her fingers. “Three kids? Did you marry Janet Hawser?”

  “Right after high school.”

  “That’s great. You guys were a cute couple.”

  “Thanks. Hey, I heard about Johnny. Sorry. And now your dad. I don’t know what this town is coming to. Getting so you’re afraid to walk outside.”

  “Don’t talk like that, Bud. You’re raising kids. You have to have faith.”

  He grinned. “And a concealed-weapon permit. Listen, do they know who—”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Not yet, anyway.” She gestured at the car. “I came by to see if I can take this old wreck off your hands.”

  “Didn’t Gallant tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “It won’t start. That’s why we had to tow it in the first place.”

  Sarah’s brows wrinkled. “Why wouldn’t it start?”

  “Heck if I know. I think the starter is shot, but Dad will have to check to make sure, and he won’t be in until day after tomorrow. Then he’ll have to order the part, but it won’t take long to get here. Less than a day, probably.”

  Sarah sighed. “Rats.”

  “You need to get somewhere?”

  “Yeah, just a couple of miles from here on the other side of the tunnel.... Wait, is Nate’s truck drivable?”

  “I guess so. It doesn’t have a passenger window, but I got new tires put on and I vacuumed up the glass and stuff. It’ll be pretty cold and you won’t be able to lock it, is all.”

  “Then I’ll borrow that, okay?”

  “Do you have a key?”

  She sighed again as the memory of Nate holding his keys in front of the window and repocketing them later surfaced in her mind. “No, he has them.”

  “I found a spare in a magnetic box in the rear tire well. Here, I’ll get it for you and drive the truck out of the garage, okay?”

  A few moments later, Bud gave her a hand up into Nate’s truck, which he’d left running. She headed down the highway while cold air blew in through the broken window, chilling her to the bone. She zipped her jacket up to her chin with one hand and wished she had gloves and a hat. The road led through a long curvy tunnel at one point and the air in there seemed to have welled up right from t
he coldest spot in the world.

  When she arrived at U-Lock Garages, she thought she’d made the trip for nothing, as the gate was closed. But as she sat there wishing she could figure out what code to input into the security lock, a white van approached. Sarah moved Nate’s truck out of the way. The newcomer put in their number and the gate slowly opened, a sign on the inside warning that only one car should enter at a time. She quickly got behind the van and trailed it inside the gate, hoping it didn’t take a code to get back out.

  The row of tapioca-colored garages with red roofs stretched on for what appeared to be miles, crisscrossed now and again by roads leading to other rows of the same thing. The place had a desolate appearance. The van made the first left. Sarah followed the original row until a sign directed her to turn right. The numbers 114 to 118 were printed on a door that sat in the middle of a block of buildings. She parked the truck and tried the knob, which wasn’t locked. A weak light went on, revealing four more metal rolling doors, two on each side of a ten-foot hallway. One-eighteen was the last unit on the right. She propped open the outside door with a wedge of wood that looked as though that was its intended purpose.

  She could hear the buzzing of the timer light and hurried down the hall as she felt around for the paper-wrapped key in the depths of her handbag, where she’d deposited it the day before. Emerging with just the key, she closed it in her hand as she spied a piece of pink paper taped to the door. She unfolded that to find an eviction notice dated several weeks before, warning that the lock would be changed and the contents of the unit confiscated if her dad didn’t settle his bill by the previous Friday. That was the day he had been killed. She stuffed the paper in her purse.

  The padlock opened easily and she rolled up the door to reveal a very cold, very dark space piled high with shadowy boxes and other paraphernalia that looked as though it hadn’t been sorted or attended to in years.