Backfire

by Catherine Coulter

  They climbed out of the Suburban into the drizzling cold rain and mud and trudged after the sheriff for about twenty yards.

  Hibbert stopped. “There it is.”

  They stared at a dilapidated wooden shack, probably older than Sheriff Hibbert’s parents.

  Sheriff Hibbert motioned them back. He opened the creaking wooden door, his gun drawn. They heard him suck in his breath.

  He stepped back, his face set and pale as death in the dim light. “You’re not going to like this.”

  The shack was a single room, maybe twelve by twelve, the floorboards rotted through. Part of the roof had caved in, probably years before, and rain flooded in. A single metal cot was shoved against the back wall, beneath some remaining roof. There was a dirty blanket hanging off the bed, nothing else.

  The blanket and the mattress were soaked with blood, dried black. There was blood splattered on the wooden floor planks, even on the walls.

  Cheney pulled out his cell phone. “Joe? We found the kill site. I need you to bring a couple of your people over to us.” He handed Sheriff Hibbert his cell.

  “Ask Deputy Millis to show you the way. The shack is off Mason’s Cross Road. You’ll have to walk a ways.” He handed the cell phone back to Cheney.

  None of them said any more. They all knew Mickey O’Rourke had spent the last three days of his life tied down to that cot, alone, knowing in his gut he was going to die. And he had. He may have wanted to die at the end. By the look of the shack and the spattered bloodstains, he’d been beaten. For information?

  It was difficult to step back, cut off the rage and sadness, to force their minds to focus on what was in front of them. Sherlock said, “There’s a chance he left fingerprints.”

  Eve said, “He hasn’t missed a single trick so far, but he never expected anyone to find this shack. So maybe you’re right.”

  Harry asked Sheriff Hibbert, “Do you have any idea how long this shack has stood vacant?”

  “At least twenty years, maybe longer. I haven’t heard of anybody staying out here since I’ve been sheriff. We get some homeless people squatting in our abandoned buildings now and then, but not here, because it’s too remote.” He looked up at the boards sunk in on the crumbling ceiling. “It’d be safer to camp under a tree.” He looked toward the bed. “How I hate this smell, the smell of death.”

  Cheney took one last look around the room, and said, more to himself than to the rest of them, “It’s up to me to tell Mrs. O’Rourke her husband’s dead. I’ll take a chaplain with me.” He sighed. “As if that will help.” He looked up. “This guy doesn’t deserve to walk the earth.” He paused for a moment. “I know a woman didn’t do this. If this was Sue, then Sue is a man.”

  —

  It was odd, Eve thought, looking out the Suburban window as Harry drove them back to the city, how the ride home always felt quicker.

  She listened to the windshield wipers clapping steady as a metronome, the rain, now that they weren’t getting soaked standing in it, oddly soothing, somehow comforting.

  She saw Cheney’s eyes were on his hands, clasped in his lap. He had to be thinking about Mrs. O’Rourke and the girls and what he would say to them—it couldn’t be the truth, at least not all of it.

  Harry looked stiff, mechanical, as if he was afraid to express anything for fear he’d yell with it. Savich and Sherlock, too, were without expression, but Dillon was pressing his wife’s open palm against his thigh. She wondered how much horror they’d seen. Too much, she thought. What were they thinking?

  Eve felt a wave of despair, not just because of the bloodbath they’d found in the shack but because it was the naked proof that some people were simply evil, some people were simply missing all compassion or any human feelings at all. How else could this monster have killed Mickey so brutally?

  RIP Mickey. She wanted to kill him herself.

  She met Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock said, “How’s your back, Eve?”

  She snapped back from the edge. “Thanks to Harry the Hands, I’m feeling fine.” She added, “Harry was at my condo this morning, and let me tell you he’s got the greatest hands. I think he even got a moan out of me, it felt so good.”

  No one said a word.

  Where had that come from?

  Eve cleared her throat. “What I meant to say was that he massaged my back with muscle cream and—”

  “Let it go, Eve,” Harry said. “No one thinks there were any prurient thoughts in your head or mine. Your back is purple and green, and you were hobbling around like a crippled old deputy marshal retired lady.”

  Insanely, Eve wanted to laugh.

  When they arrived at the Federal Building, Cheney said, “I’m going to pick up the chaplain in my own car and drive over to see Mrs. O’Rourke. As for the rest of you, it’s Sunday. Take some time off, try to let go of all this. We need all your brains ready tomorrow morning. We can bank on hearing from forensics and the medical examiner first thing.” He paused for a moment. “Wish me luck.”

  They did, all of them grateful they weren’t walking in his shoes today.

  Eve said her good-byes and went walking in the rain. She realized her mistake a couple blocks later when every step made her back hurt. She saw a taxi, and, miracle of miracles, it stopped for her. She directed the Ukrainian driver to Saint Francis Church on Larkin, a fixture in her Russian Hill neighborhood for nearly a hundred years. The rain was coming down heavier when she opened the side door and slipped inside. It was warm and dim and ancient. She breathed in the soft air scented with incense. She always felt safe here. She sat awhile, absorbing the quiet and gazing at the many symbols of hope that surrounded her, hope she knew was embedded in the very walls. She eased forward on the pew and sent a prayer of gratitude that Eleanor and Rufino were alive. She prayed to find this man who’d wantonly killed Mickey O’Rourke, who’d tried to kill Ramsey. She didn’t pray that she would kill him; she didn’t think she should push God on things like that. And she prayed for Mickey O’Rourke’s soul.

  When she walked back to the vestibule, she saw Father Gautier standing by the big closed double doors, arms crossed over his chest, an umbrella open at his feet to dry. He was St. Francis’s longtime pastor, always soft-spoken and patient. Father Gautier gave her a long look. “I hope you found what you needed, Eve. I noticed you weren’t in church today. Is something troubling you?”

  She told him that Mickey O’Rourke, whom Father Gautier had known as his parishioner far longer than she had, was dead, a violent death. She gave him no details.

  He took her hand as he closed his eyes a moment. He whispered, “I am so very sorry, for his family, for all of us. Requiem in pace.”

  They stood quietly for a moment, then Father Gautier said, “You’re wet,” and his voice held a touch of humor, bless him.

  Eve said, “Not so much now. It’s so very warm inside. I think I’d like to stay that way.”

  When Father Gautier left her, she pulled out her cell. “Harry, sorry to call when you’re just getting home. Would you come get me at Saint Francis Church on Larkin? It’s not too late, and I could use the company. I can make us something to eat, if you like.”

  “If you’re up to it, so am I,” he said.

  Judge Sherlock’s home

  Mulberry Street, Pacific Heights

  San Francisco

  Sunday evening

  Sean was lying boneless against Savich’s shoulder, Savich stroking his back. He’d fallen asleep between his grandparents in front of the TV watching Sunday Night Football.

  He took Sean to the second guest room next to his and Sherlock’s bedroom, gently eased him down on his back on the twin bed, the crib long stored away in the basement. He pulled the dinosaur sheet and two blankets over him, since Sean liked to be warm when he slept. He kissed him, breathed in his kid smell, and
straightened. He felt the light touch of Sherlock’s hand on his arm.

  “He’s so beautiful, so perfect, and we made him,” she whispered. “Isn’t that amazing?”

  Savich turned and hugged her. He said against her ear, “I was thinking that right now it’d be good to be as innocent as Sean.” He closed his eyes and pressed his face against her hair. “I can’t get Mickey O’Rourke’s face out of my mind, or that farm shack where he was beaten and murdered.” He hugged her more tightly. “Life is so fragile. You’re here, then you’re not, and it’s final, no going back, no changing anything at all.”

  She held him, stroking her hands up and down his back and said against his cheek, “Dillon, I’ve been thinking about what Cheney said—that a woman wouldn’t have killed Mickey O’Rourke like that. I don’t see it, either. Not only was the killing savage, she would have had to carry O’Rourke back to the car, a good distance from the shack, and then she would have had to carry him an even longer distance to bury him. Remember, Ellie and Rufino said after he left O’Rourke’s grave, they heard the car start up from a good ways away? Sue is slightly built. Even with superior upper-body strength, I don’t see how she could have managed. O’Rourke was a big guy—taller than you. What does it mean?

  Savich said, “It means our Sue isn’t a woman.”

  Hyde Street, Russian Hill

  San Francisco

  Sunday night

  Eve’s back hurt so badly when they arrived at her condo she didn’t think she could walk a step until Harry’s hand cupped her elbow. “Harry’s hands are here to minister to you so you have a chance at some sleep tonight. First, though, you need a long, hot shower. I don’t want you getting sick.”

  “I can make you some coffee.”

  “I’ll make it while you shower. After you’re dry and warmed up, I’ll see to your back. I’ll call Feng Nian Palace and get us some Chinese delivered. We can stretch out in front of the TV, watch what’s left of the football game, and munch on egg rolls.”

  After her shower, Eve walked into the living room to see the Patriots’ QB Tom Brady complete a pass to Wes Welker and gave a small cheer. “I think Wes Welker would make a great marshal,” she said. “He’s strong and fast, and you can tell that brain of his is high-voltage.” She grinned down at Harry as she tossed him the tube of muscle cream. She carefully sat beside him on the sofa, eased her robe off her shoulders, and leaned forward. Her hair was loose down her back. He looked at her hair for a moment, then shoved it over her shoulder and began smoothing the cream over her back. He stroked her until the final whistle blew. She really didn’t want him to stop, but finally she said, “Your hands will cramp up. I’m fine now, thank you. I can’t believe how stiff I was. Goodness, it’s almost nine o’clock. Are you hungry yet?”

  “Dinner should be here any minute. You feel okay?”

  “Better,” she said, “much better.” She realized her robe was still down. She quickly shrugged it back up, closed it, and tied the belt. She turned to face him, lightly laid her hand on his arm. “You’re very kind, Harry, thank you.”

  Harry was silent for only a moment, then said, “Sherlock told me about Mrs. Howell’s homemade pizza for her son, Boozer, how delicious it was at eleven o’clock this morning. I was thinking we eat too much pizza—so we’re having Szechuan. That okay with you?”

  “It’s great. Do you know I can’t imagine an amateur trying to find a vein in my arm and poking that needle in a dozen times? It’s too bad the guy had his face and head covered up.”

  Harry said, “Yeah, but we were real lucky today—if those kids hadn’t seen him, we’d still be looking for Mickey O’Rourke.”

  “Yes, forever. Hey, what do you want with your fried rice? A beer?”

  Harry asked for water. He watched her walk to her kitchen. She looked looser, walked more easily. He said, “I called Cheney while you were in the shower. He said Mrs. O’Rourke was brave, that was the word he used. I guess he was expecting her to fall apart, but she didn’t. She told him she wanted to be the one to tell her daughters. The chaplain stayed, but Cheney’s home now.”

  “I hope I don’t ever have to tell someone their husband or wife is dead. By violence.”

  “Agreed. I called Officer Mancusso and asked him to unplug the TV and call if Ramsey happens to find out something. He said he’d alert the nursing staff to keep quiet as well.”

  “That’s good, Harry. I’ll tell you, Molly looked so beaten down, so afraid for Ramsey today, that she shouldn’t have to handle any more tonight.”

  “We should be okay until morning now,” Harry said.

  Eve handed him his water. “I’m thinking our killer has been making a few mistakes. Like the kids seeing him today. You know he never wanted Mickey O’Rourke to be found. And he failed to kill Ramsey twice.”

  Harry took a drink from the Pellegrino bottle. “I can’t help but think he’s not altogether sane.” He stopped, shook his head. “Just shoot me. I don’t know what to think anymore, but I do know this has got to be a huge hit for him. Any time now he’s going to listen to the news and hear about Mickey O’Rourke being dug up. So what does he do now?”

  Eve said, “Good question. He isn’t going to give up, that’s all I’m sure of. If Savich is right, he’s in the spy business. I don’t imagine you can survive very long doing that unless you’re real careful. But he hasn’t been careful, has he, at least with his two attempts on Ramsey’s life?”

  Harry said, “He tried to be with burying Mickey O’Rourke; just bad luck for him there.”

  “We’ll find out from forensics tomorrow if he left any prints in that shack. And if Sherlock is right that he’s spent time in prison, we’ll have him.”

  Eve took a pull of her beer. “Why did you and your wife divorce?”

  The doorbell rang. The food.

  She said, “Give him a big tip, Harry, I’m really hungry.”

  They were eating hot-and-sour soup when Eve said, “I’m sorry I asked you about your wife. I didn’t mean to. It popped out.”

  “My ex-wife,” Harry said mildly, and finished off the bottle of Pellegrino.

  “Nevertheless, it’s none of my business. I’ve only known you for a matter of days. Isn’t that amazing? So much has happened, it seems much longer.”

  He said nothing, but she was right, it felt very odd.

  Eve sat back against the sofa and immediately sat forward again at the stab of pain in her back. “I hate not having control. My dad’s the same way. I’ll tell you, Mom had to belt him lots over the years when he tried to be her camp commandant. I’ll bet they’ve both lost count.

  “My four brothers are all grown up, and they laugh at him now when he tries to throw his weight around.” She drank the last of her beer. “My dad’s amazing. He reminds people of Tommy Lee Jones, though the two marshal movies came out before he started his service there.”

  “Service where?”

  “In Chicago. Didn’t you know, my dad’s the U.S. marshal in Chicago? He’s served as marshal there through two presidents.”

  “I thought the marshal changed out with every new administration.”

  “Once in a great while, an appointed marshal is so well regarded he’s left in place. My dad says he’s trained the toughest hard-asses in the United States Marshal Service right there in Chicago. He says they take no grief, since they have a responsibility to Tommy.” She paused for a moment. “He’s very good, my dad.”

  “How does your dad treat you?”

  Eve gave him a big smile. “You heard Dillon talk about the power of the ponytail? Works on my dad every time.”

  San Francisco General Hospital

  Monday morning

  Ramsey blamed himself, Eve saw it clearly on his freshly shaved face, just as she’d known he would.

  “It’s obvious to me
that by suspending the trial, I alerted the Cahills or whoever is working with them that I suspected something going on with Mickey’s prosecution. If only I’d held off that day, let the pretrial motions continue until I could talk to him privately, he might still be alive.”

  Eve said, “It isn’t like you to sit back and watch a train wreck, is it, Ramsey? You did what was appropriate, what your experience and your training told you to do. Who could have known what would happen?”

  Ramsey plowed right over her, shaking his head back and forth. “No, no, I should have thought it through better. I should have realized that with the death penalty on the table, whoever was controlling Mickey wouldn’t draw the line at anything. It’s my fault they killed him, no one else’s.”

  Eve said patiently, “Ramsey, say Mickey had succeeded in manipulating you, and you had ruled to dismiss the federal case against the Cahills. Do you think they would have let Mickey live? I think you know as well as I do after what happened that Mickey was dead the minute they threatened his family. If he’d come to you, maybe it would have turned out differently, but he didn’t.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. She hated it. He looked defeated. “I should have approached him differently, gotten him to confide in me—if he’d told me, I could have made sure he’d be safe. And his family.”

  She lightly tapped her fist against his arm. “Stop this, Ramsey, you’re pissing me off. A monster hiding in a human skin did this. No more blaming yourself or I’ll have to punish you for it when you’re well again.”

  He didn’t smile. “I’ve been thinking about why they shot me, of course. I’m a judge, and if a judge is doing his job, he’s providing an even playing field to give the jury the best chance of arriving at the truth, not to influence the jury in any one direction.

  “So why me? Most of my pretrial rulings had been in the Cahills’ favor, in fact. And the bigger question—why did they try to kill me again after the trial was dead in the water, at least in my court? We were done with each other, so why?”