by Sharon Sala
Fagan’s heart stopped. Oh, shit. Now he knew why the man was here. Suddenly it made sense.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered.
Lincoln lost the last of his patience.
“Damn it, Sheriff. I’ve had just about all of this pussyfooting around the truth I can take. The little bastard knew the money that paid off this place was stolen.”
Fagan panicked. “So what if I did? It doesn’t make me guilty of theft.”
“Technically, you can be charged with abetting,” Marlow said.
Fagan stood up again, but before he could move, Fox was in his face.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Linc said. “And we’re not leaving until you tell Marlow how my dad found out, and which one of you killed him to shut him up.”
Fagan took a step backward and fell over the coffee table onto the floor.
“I can’t take any more of this!” Fagan shouted. “I’m grieving for my brother, and you-all can’t come in here and accuse me of something him and Wendell did just because we shared the same blood.”
At that point the deputy came back inside with the license tag neatly bagged for evidence.
“I got it,” he said. “And there’s an old wreck out behind the barn that fits the description of the car the thieves were driving.”
“That’s Pa’s old car,” Fagan said.
Marlow stood up. “Where’s your coat?”
“In the hall closet, but why—”
The deputy went to the closet and pulled out the coat. “Put it on, Fagan. You’re coming with us.”
“No!” Fagan cried, and began trying to explain. “No, you can’t! I’m turning my life around. See? I cleaned up the house and the dog pens, and I’m gonna start going back to church like we did when Mama was alive.”
“You might have cleaned a few floors and windows,” Linc said. “But it takes more than that to clean up the lies you’ve lived with. The lies that sent me to prison for a crime I did not commit.”
“I don’t know anything about that!” Fagan insisted. “I swear. That was all Lucy and my brothers. All I did was call in a fire. You can’t blame a man for calling in a fire. If you’re gonna take me, go open the gate to the dog pen so they can go in and out. I don’t want them penned up in there and left to starve.”
Marlow nodded at Eddy, who went out the back door. As soon as he was gone, Marlow started in on Fagan again.
“Out of curiosity, how did you come to learn there was a fire?”
Fagan was still trying to bluff his way out. “Wendell and Prince had been out running the dogs. They came home and said they saw it burning when they drove past. They drove home to make the call.”
Linc remembered the voice in the trees behind him yelling at a dog to shut the hell up. So Prince and Wendell had their dogs with them that night. “But they didn’t call it in, you did,” he said. “Where were they while you were on the phone?”
Fagan was beginning to shake. This was serious business, and they weren’t letting up.
“Uh...they drove on back to help fight the fire, I guess. I never left the house. Mama was sick that night, and I stayed home with her.”
Linc poked a finger in Fagan’s chest as Marlow put him in handcuffs.
“Too damn convenient,” Linc said. “Everyone who could alibi you is dead. I think you stole money and Dad found out. Did he threaten to go to the police? Is that why you killed him?”
Fagan was crying again. “I didn’t do it! I swear to God I had nothing to do with it! It was my brothers. They said he found out and told Lucy he was going to the police. She called Wendell and told him it was his fault, that he was bringing shame down on the family, and to keep it quiet, they had to get rid of your dad to shut him up. They did it on her order. It wasn’t me. It was them.”
Linc was shouting now. “You’re talking now, but you sat in the courtroom and let people tell lies about me. You knew all of this, and just sat and let a seventeen-year-old kid take the blame. That kid was me, you bastard, and you did steal something. You stole my life and everything that mattered. You’re a thief, Fagan White—the worst kind of thief. You’re the coward who watches while someone else pulls the trigger. Damn you. Damn all of you to hell and back for murdering my dad.”
Linc walked out of the house, so mad he was shaking, and slammed himself down in the front seat of the cruiser. He had to put distance between himself and White, and while this wasn’t nearly far enough, there was no way in hell he would be sitting in the back beside that bastard on the way down.
They brought Fagan out in handcuffs and put him in the backseat with Deputy Eddy. Marlow got behind the wheel and then stared Linc down.
“Are we good here? You’re not gonna fly off the handle on the way back and cause a wreck?”
Linc’s voice was deceptively quiet. Once again, he maintained a calm he did not feel.
“That’s an insult, and I’m sick of your insults. Just don’t talk to me again. I’m not the fool in this car who might be tempted to get away. No wonder I went to prison. I was too young and dumb to fight back,” he snapped.
Marlow hit the main lock. “No one’s going anywhere,” he muttered, and started the car. “I know you were done wrong, but I’m doing my best to make it right.”
“Granted, you weren’t party to putting me there, but you have been no better than everyone else since I came back. You haven’t believed a thing I said since you drove up on my property the night of my arrival. Not even when I told you who was stalking Meg. As for helping me clear my name, if it hadn’t been for me, Meg and Quinn, you’d still be sifting papers at your desk. You never would have figured this out.”
Then Linc turned around and pointed at Fagan. “You better hope they put you in jail when this is over, because if you walk away from it a free man, I’ll kill you myself.”
Fagan gasped. “You heard him! You both heard what he said!” he screamed.
Eddy elbowed him. “Stop shouting. I can’t hear a damn thing for all the noise you’re making.”
Fagan curled up in a ball and huddled against the door. He turned his face to the window as they drove away. He couldn’t bring himself to look back. It would likely be a long damn time before he saw the mountains again.
Marlow glared at Linc, but he didn’t have the balls to call him on his behavior, and he understood the anger. What had happened to him was unforgiveable, and he would do everything in his power to make it right.
Seventeen
Detective Kennedy was at his desk, writing up the last report he’d taken from Lucy Duggan. Even as he was typing he kept remembering what she’d said the night of the attack. She and her husband were separated. And once they found out her husband had been shot, under any other circumstances she would have been their first suspect. But they’d taken her appearance and her story as a plausible alibi. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking that they were missing something.
It was impulse that made him pick up the phone and call the hospital where Duggan was a patient. After being placed on hold a couple of times, he was finally put in contact with the business office. He identified himself and then asked for the name of the person responsible for Wesley Duggan’s affairs, and was given the name of a lawyer.
He thanked them and disconnected. So Duggan had a lawyer in charge of his affairs and not his wife, which made Lucy Duggan’s little fuss with her husband a bigger thing that she was willing to admit. He wondered what else she wasn’t telling, and decided to run a few questions by the lawyer and see what popped up that didn’t jibe with what Lucy had told them. He quickly put in a call to the lawyer.
“Simpson and Coyle, partners at law. This is Rhonda.”
“This is Detective Kennedy with the Mount Sterling P.D. I need to speak to Mr. Simpson.”
“One moment please,” she said, and put him on hold. He got an entire verse of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” before his call was answered.
“This is Dwight Simpson.”
> “Mr. Simpson. I’m Detective Kennedy with the Mount Sterling P.D. I’m calling about Wesley and Lucy Duggan, who I understand are your clients.”
“Well, technically Mrs. Duggan is no longer my client,” the lawyer said.
Kennedy smiled grimly. Looked like Lucy’s “separation” might be a little more than that. He took a shot. “In the divorce, you mean?”
“Yes. I will be representing Mr. Duggan, so she has been instructed to look for other representation. I’m sorry, I thought perhaps you were calling about the other matter.”
The other matter? Interesting. Kennedy decided to push a little further. “Oh. I didn’t realize you would be handling the...” He paused, hoping Simpson would fill in the blank. He was not disappointed.
“The admission of perjury. Yes. We’re expecting the local D.A. to reopen the case, and my client is expecting that he and his estranged wife will both be charged. All the same, he’s very much hoping his testimony will clear the name of that boy—well, he’s a full-grown man now. Eighteen years is a long time.”
“Holy shit,” Kennedy muttered. He hoped Simpson didn’t catch the surprise in his voice. Apparently not, because the lawyer went on without missing a beat.
“That’s pretty much what I thought when I first heard about it. I have to be honest. When I got the news that Mr. Duggan had been gunned down, I assumed his wife was behind it. Then I learned she was also attacked, and now I don’t know what to think.”
“How is Mr. Duggan, by the way?”
“My last report from the doctors was that he was holding his own. And how’s Mrs. Duggan?” Simpson asked.
Detective Kennedy frowned. “It’s a bit hard to say at this point, but I’m not feeling as sorry for her as I did before I called. Do me a favor and let me know when Mr. Duggan is well enough for visitors. I’d like to talk to him.”
“Yes, I will make a note,” Simpson said.
“One other thing. This kid who went to prison...what happened to him?”
“Oh, Lincoln Fox? He went back to Rebel Ridge just a few weeks ago to clear his name. I’m told he’s working with a Sheriff Marlow in Boone’s Gap toward that end.”
“Thanks. I’ll get in touch with Marlow for further info there. I appreciate your help.”
“Sure thing,” Simpson said, and hung up.
Kennedy looked at the report he’d just typed and hit Save without sending it to file. He wasn’t even close to being through with this case. Then he picked up the phone again and called information for the number of the sheriff’s office in Boone’s Gap, Kentucky.
* * *
Meg was nervous as to what Linc might do when they went to talk to Fagan, and when she was bothered about anything, the best thing she could do was work. As soon as she got home she let Honey out and then moved through the house, fluffing pillows, sweeping ash from around her fireplace, and then sat down at her desk and wrote out checks for the bills that were coming due.
Once she’d finished with that she meandered through the house, unable to focus on anything but what Linc was going through. The place felt different, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Maybe she was the one that was off today. Lord knew she was definitely unsettled.
She went into the kitchen and thought about what she would make for supper, then poked around in the pantry, looking at what she had on hand, but couldn’t make a decision. Later she went to get herself a snack, but she couldn’t decide what she wanted, so she abandoned that idea, as well.
It wasn’t until she went into her workroom to quilt that her anxiety settled. There was something intrinsically calming about putting the tiny, repetitive stitches into the layers of fabric and batting, turning plain cloth into usable works of art.
As she worked, she thought of the years of lies and deceit the White family had practiced. If Linc’s theory proved correct, the depth of damage they had caused was irreparable. The only positive things about the past couple of days were the renewal of her relationship with Linc and the news that Prince White was dead.
She worked at the quilt frame until her neck began to ache and then stopped. It got dark so early that she decided to go put up the chickens and feed Daisy. She put on her old coat, wound a red wool scarf around her neck and grabbed a sock cap to keep her ears warm. She was putting on her work gloves as she went outside to do the evening chores.
There was an odd gray cast to the sky, and, from the appearance of the gathering clouds, they were in for another round of bad weather. The air was sharp—cold enough so that when she took a deep breath it made her throat burn—and the wind was getting stronger. Her steps lengthened as she and Honey went to feed and water the chickens; then she gathered the eggs. She took them back to the house and set them just inside the door before heading off to the barn to tend to Daisy. She needed to throw some extra hay into the stall tonight. If a storm was moving in, plenty of food helped the animals to stay warm.
The old cow mooed, then head-butted her as she entered the barn. Honey yapped once, as if to tell the cow to back off.
Meg laughed and pushed the cow aside.
“I see you,” she said. “I’m not late, and there’s no need to be all insulted. Come on, old girl. Let’s get you into a stall where you’ll be nice and warm. Extra hay for you tonight, and if you don’t butt me again, I might toss a little ground feed into your trough, as well.”
Honey smelled mice and began nosing around inside the granary as Meg scooped feed into the feeder and tossed some extra blocks of hay into the manger in Daisy’s stall. There was plenty of water in the trough, but there was a thin film of ice over the top. She broke the ice, and then realized she’d left her pitchfork in the granary and went back to get it, laughing at Honey’s antics as she moved in and out among the sacks of feed with her nose to the granary floor.
With the pitchfork in one hand and the feed bucket in the other, Meg backed out of the granary, right into the barrel of a gun jammed into her back.
“Drop the pitchfork,” a man said.
She screamed.
Honey came running toward the doorway in attack mode.
“Shut the damn door or I shoot her,” her attacker said.
Meg slammed the door in the dog’s face and then groaned when she heard Honey’s frantic barking.
“Turn around, bitch.”
Meg took a deep breath, and just like that her panic morphed into rage. She turned slowly, her fists doubled and her feet slightly apart as if braced for a blow, and recognized Prince White.
He smiled. “Good evening. If you hadn’t been so damn unfriendly, we could have done this a different way.”
“Why aren’t you dead?”
His smile widened. “Because I’m smarter than the cops.”
“So shoot and get it over with, or state your business. It’s too damn cold for chitchat.”
Prince blinked. This was an attitude he hadn’t expected. Why the fuck wasn’t she crying and begging him not to hurt her? He shifted his stance and took a firmer grip on the pistol. He should have known she wouldn’t be easy.
“You have some information I need,” he said. “If you cooperate, you and I can go our separate ways and no one gets hurt.”
Her mind quickly putting the pieces together, she asked, “Is that what you said to Wesley Duggan before you shot him?”
Prince blinked again. “Don’t meddle in my damn business,” he muttered. “I need you to tell me where Bobby Lewis buried his dog, and then you and me are gonna take a little ride to his place and you’re gonna show me the spot.
Meg stared back, furious at fate for dumping shit into her life just when it was starting to get good.
“I already told Fagan I don’t know where the dog is buried. As for meddling in your business, you’re also meddling in mine,” she fired back. “So either shoot or get the hell off my place.”
He swung the butt of the gun toward her face so fast she didn’t see it coming. One second she was on her feet, and the next she was on the
ground and blood was coming out of her mouth.
Prince was dancing now from foot to foot, getting off on the sight of her in the dirt at his feet.
“Not so smart now, are you, bitch?”
Meg raised a leg, as if she was about to get up, and then launched herself toward him, kicking him right in the groin with the heel of her boot.
He shrieked several octaves above his normal vocal range. When he grabbed his crotch, he dropped the gun.
She bolted to her feet. The gun was on the ground between his legs—too far out of reach for her to chance it. Before he could pick it up, she was gone—running out the back of the barn and heading for the hills as fast as her long legs could carry her.
He fumbled for the gun as he tried to run, but he couldn’t move fast enough because of the pain rolling through his balls. He shot at her three times in rapid succession but knew he missed, because the last sight he had of her, she was flying.
“Son of a bitch,” he moaned, and doubled over, still clutching his crotch. It took another minute before he could move, but when he did, he took off after her. He needed to know where that damn dog was buried. Once he had the twenty thousand dollars Bobby Lewis stole from Wendell, he would be gone. Lucy’d gotten herself into this mess. For once she could get herself out—or not. He didn’t really care.
* * *
Meg was running in an all-out sprint, desperate to put as much distance between her and Prince White as she could. She knew the minute he could walk, he would follow.
At first she stuck to the trail, because she could run faster without having to wade through heavy underbrush, but she knew he would see her footprints and she would be easy to track. She needed to get farther away; then she could double back and head for Linc’s house. It was the only place she could think of that felt safe.
The rapid slap of her feet against the ground marked the distance she was putting between them, but the sound was soon drowned by the frantic pumping of her heart. The farther she ran, the higher up she went. When the trail began to get steep, she stopped and then took off her sock cap to listen. For a few moments she heard nothing, and then all of a sudden a large buck burst out of the trees and ran past her. Something had spooked it—most likely Prince.
