Rugged Defender

by B. J Daniels

  He sped on up and pulled in front of the main house. There was only one truck out front, one that he recognized, which also took him by surprise. By now his father would have had a least one new truck. He usually traded pickups every three years.

  Turning off the motor, he sat for a moment. He felt as if he was getting out in the middle of the lions’ den and that they hadn’t been fed in a very long time. Opening his door, he stepped out. Looking at the house, he got his second surprise. It needed paint. For a moment, he wondered if his father still lived there.

  But then the front door slammed open and Bert Calhoun, a man bigger than life, stepped out holding a shotgun in both hands.

  “Welcome home,” Justin said under his breath.

  Chapter Seven

  Chloe couldn’t get Justin off her mind. Why had he really come back? She hoped he wasn’t planning to do anything crazy. It was clear at lunch that he had a lot on his mind. She hadn’t been surprised when she’d seen him drive off in the direction of his family ranch. Since she knew he’d stayed out at the Rogers Ranch last night, she worried about what he was planning to do.

  He was worried about her? How long it had been since he’d seen his father? What was Justin hoping would happen when he saw him? She doubted Bert Calhoun had mellowed in the past five years or even if he had fifty years. What was Justin walking into?

  She knew the only thing that would keep her mind off worrying about him was continuing her investigation. It was at least one way that maybe she could help. Also she felt she’d started something she had to finish—no matter what.

  Pete Ferris owned a small insurance company in downtown Whitehorse. It was early afternoon when she pushed open the door and stepped in to find the receptionist’s desk empty. Past it was one large office.

  Even from where she stood she could see the nameplate on the big desk. Peter Ferris. Past it was the man himself sitting behind the desk, leaning back in his large office chair, a landline phone to his ear.

  A former football star at the University of Montana, Pete was a nice-looking man in his late forties who appeared as if he still worked out often.

  As the door closed, a faint bell sounded. Pete looked up and was instantly wary. Had Monte got to feeling guilty and called Pete? It would appear so.

  “I have to go,” he said into the phone and quickly hung up. Getting to his feet, he came around the desk. “Can I help you?”

  At a sound behind her, Chloe turned to see a fresh-faced young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty. She came in through the door with a stack of mail which she dropped on the receptionist’s desk, then started to take off her coat.

  “I think we should talk about this in private,” Chloe said as she turned back to Pete. “Don’t you?”

  He looked as if he had been planning to throw Chloe out of his office building before his receptionist had come in. Now he reluctantly motioned her in, going behind her to say something to the young woman before he closed the door.

  “What’s this about?” he asked, impatiently as he took his chair again.

  “I think you already know. Drew Calhoun.”

  Belligerently, he asked, “And what business is it of yours?”

  “None. I’m an investigative reporter. I don’t believe Drew’s death was an accident.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Pete snapped. “The sheriff—”

  “I’ve already talked to the sheriff and I’ve seen the coroner’s report.”

  “Then I would think that would be the end of it.” He started to get up.

  “I understand you had reason to want Drew dead.”

  He froze for a moment, before dropping back into his chair with a sigh. His face a mask of fury, he bit off each word. “This is none of your business.”

  “Murder is everyone’s business. Your wife was having an affair with Drew. How long had you known about it?”

  He pushed to his feet again. “I’m not answering your questions.”

  “Maybe your wife will be more forthcoming,” Chloe said, rising as well.

  “You are not to go near my wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you do...”

  She merely looked at him until he sat back down. She’d interviewed CEOs of big corporations, high-powered politicians, murderers and assorted criminals. An insurance man didn’t scare her.

  “It wasn’t what everyone thought, all right?” Pete finally said.

  “How is that?”

  “Drew... My wife... They were just friends.” He seemed at a loss for words and she felt sorry for him. No one wanted his dirty laundry hung up before a stranger. Especially a reporter.

  “How long did this friendship last?” she asked.

  He looked away, his jaw working. “For a couple of months.”

  That was the heartbreaker, she knew. When everyone in town knows but you’re the last to hear. It was the trouble with small towns. But betrayal hurt no matter how many people had been talking behind your back.

  “I’m sorry. How long have you been married?”

  “Twenty-six years. We were high school sweethearts.”

  “The marriage survived?”

  He met her gaze. “I didn’t divorce her, if that’s what you’re asking. Nothing physical...happened between them. They got too close as friends. Drew became...dependent on my wife emotionally. There was no...affair. I don’t expect you to believe that, but it’s true.”

  He was the one having trouble believing it, she thought. And he also hadn’t forgiven his wife. Nor had he gotten over Drew’s betrayal. “You and Drew were friends?”

  “We played poker together.”

  “I see.” And she did. Nici had said she didn’t think Drew had friends. “Okay, but if you didn’t shoot him, then who did?”

  * * *

  “GET OFF MY PROPERTY!” Bert Calhoun called to Justin. “You’re trespassing.”

  “The house needs a coat of paint,” Justin said as he continued walking toward his father. “Also there are some fence posts I noticed on the way in that need to be replaced.”

  “You’ve got gall coming here and telling me what needs to be fixed,” his father ground out.

  “It’s been five years. I think it’s time we talked.”

  Bert raised the shotgun. “You think? Who do you think you are?”

  “Your son.”

  His father shook his head. “You and I don’t have anything to talk about. You’re dead to me.”

  Justin stopped at the foot of the porch steps. “Then I guess pulling the trigger on that shotgun won’t change a thing, will it? I’m not leaving until you hear me out.” He planted his hands on his hips and looked up at his father.

  From a distance, Bert Calhoun had looked just as big and rangy as he remembered him. But up close, his father had shrunk. He looked older than his age and not half as strong as he once was.

  Drew’s death had killed a part of his father. Justin could see that as clearly as day. He wanted to feel sorry for him since Bert Calhoun had put everything into his eldest son—including all his love. All the old resentments and hard feelings came to the surface like oil on water. But he refused to voice them standing out here in the snow in front of the house where he’d been raised.

  He was a Calhoun, son of Bert Calhoun, and damned if he wouldn’t have his say.

  * * *

  CHLOE FELT SORRY for Pete Ferris as she left his office. He hadn’t wanted to tell her who else she should talk to.

  “Isn’t it time you quit covering for Drew Calhoun?” she’d asked. “Do you really owe him anything?”

  He’d denied it and finally given her a name. It hadn’t been one she’d expected. She’d thought it would be another one of the men Drew had played poker with.

  “Tina Thomas?” she’d repeated.

  “That’s right,” P
ete Ferris had said with no small amount of apparent enjoyment. “The mayor’s ex-wife.”

  “Ex before Drew or after?”

  “After. He’d threatened to kill Drew and on more than one occasion. But the mayor didn’t have it in him. Tina...well, she had reason to kill Drew and would have done it without breaking a nail.”

  The last made Chloe think of the scratches on Drew Calhoun presumably from a woman.

  City Hall was in a brick building at the center of town, while the mayor’s house was up on the hill overlooking it. The newest houses were out on the golf course or east of Whitehorse proper, past where the new hospital had gone up.

  The houses on what was known as Snob Knob on the hill overlooking town were split-levels from another era. On the short walk up the hill, Chloe put in a call to her sister Annabelle. “What do you know about Tina Thomas?”

  “Who?”

  “The mayor’s ex-wife.”

  “Let me make a call. I’ll get right back to you.”

  Annabelle called back almost at once. “I just talked to Mary Sue—she is a fount of information. Tina was half Ralph’s age so no one was surprised when the marriage ended. From what I heard, she’s a bit snooty, thinks she’s better than everyone. Shoot, that’s what some people still think about me,” Annabelle mused and Chloe spurred her on with a yeah, yeah. “Anyway, she’s probably lovely and nice.”

  “Just misunderstood like you, right?” she laughed as she thanked Annabelle and disconnected.

  Chloe felt as if she wasn’t getting anywhere. Digging into Drew’s past just felt dirty because all she was turning up was an assortment of women—usually someone else’s. That Drew had cheated at gambling didn’t feel like much of a surprise. Nor did Monte Decker seem like much of a killer, although she knew killers didn’t have a certain look.

  Any of Drew’s addictions could have gotten him killed. But none of them felt substantial enough, although she’d heard that the number one cause of murder was a domestic dispute.

  So far she hadn’t heard much good about Drew. Maybe Tina would have glowing things to say about him. Or not since Pete had said Tina had reason to want Drew dead. After climbing the steps to the front door, she rang the bell. It chimed inside the house. She waited and then rang it again.

  The woman who came to the door was tall and slim with large luminous brown eyes, and close to Chloe’s own age. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore active wear though she didn’t appear to be working out at the moment. But she did sound breathless as if she’d run down from upstairs.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, glancing at Chloe, then out to the sidewalk as if she was looking for someone else.

  Chloe suddenly had the feeling that Tina wasn’t alone. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, I—I’m sorry, what do you want?”

  On a hunch, Chloe said, “I’m the one who’s sorry. I must have the wrong house. I was looking for... Never mind.” She took a step back leaving a perplexed Tina staring after her as she walked away.

  But she didn’t go far. She walked partway down the hill to the park where she had a good view of the back of Tina’s house and waited. The house was at the end of the street so the backyard was fairly private. It opened onto an alley that led down to the park.

  Chloe cleaned snow from one of the swings and sat. She had a feeling that her stopping by had cooled whatever had been going on in the house. And it appeared she’d been right. She hadn’t been waiting long when a young man wearing a baseball cap came out of the back of the mayor’s house.

  He kept his head down as he crossed the yard out of view of the neighbors and then turned down the alley, walking fast until he reached an older model pickup parked behind a fence on the far side of the small park.

  But she still recognized him. Deputy Kelly Locke.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE WASTING YOUR BREATH,” Bert Calhoun said, pointing the barrel end of the shotgun at his son as Justin climbed the steps.

  He half expected his father to pull the trigger, but he wasn’t backing down. He’d done too much of that in the past. As he reached the porch, he pushed the shotgun barrel aside and, opening the front door, walked into the house.

  With each step, he fought memories, both bad and good. There’d been a time when he was young that his father had put a hand on his shoulder or let him climb up into his lap. But always when Drew wasn’t around. But he’d never doubted that he had his mother’s love and attention. If she hadn’t died, maybe things would be different.

  He glanced around the house, seeing that nothing had changed. Except for the need of paint and a few repairs, the place looked the same, he thought as he stopped just inside the door to wipe the snow from his boots.

  Behind him, he could feel the cold rushing in. He’d left the front door open, not sure his father would follow him. He stepped in to warm himself in front of the fireplace, his back to the door. The rancher wouldn’t shoot him in the back—not in the house. He wouldn’t want that image on his mind every time he built a fire in the fireplace.

  Behind him, he heard the door close. As he turned, he watched his father lean the shotgun against the wall by the door and hesitate a moment before crossing the living room to the bar along one wall. He watched his father make himself a drink, noticing that the elderly rancher’s hands were trembling.

  “I figured you’d show up eventually,” Bert said as he poured himself a Scotch. He didn’t offer Justin one as he brought the old-fashioned glass to his lips and took a gulp. “You know what they say about bad pennies.”

  “No, but I know what they say about fathers and sons,” Justin said as he took off his hat and sat down. He rested the Stetson on his knee as he looked at his father. “Say what you will, but I’m your son. Your blood courses through my veins. I’m not any happier about it than you are.”

  His father finished his drink and set down the glass a little too hard. “Have your say and then get out.”

  “It’s time you quit blaming me for your mistakes,” Justin said. “I didn’t kill Drew. I didn’t like him, but then again, no one who knew him did.” His father started to argue, but he cut him off. “You and I agree on one thing though. He didn’t kill himself. He was too arrogant, even drunk and beaten up, to take his own life. He was also too familiar with a gun to kill himself accidentally. I’ve seen him a lot drunker and a lot meaner. When I found him, he looked...scared. I think you’re right about someone shooting him.”

  “Hell yes, I am,” Bert snapped. “And I know who.” He glared at him with such contempt that Justin felt it down to the toes of his boots.

  Why had he expected this might go differently? Nothing had changed from five years ago. His father was convinced that he was responsible for Drew’s death. Drew hadn’t just been the favorite. He’d been the prodigal son. With him gone, Bert Calhoun was withering up, rotting away in his grief and anger.

  Justin swore under his breath as he thought of what Chloe had said. He’d wanted no part of her investigation. He’d come here to set the record straight not play detective.

  “Quite frankly, I don’t give a damn who killed Drew,” Justin said as he glanced around the living room. “It’s one reason I left and didn’t come back. I didn’t want to keep hearing about it. The perfect son. Dead and gone.” His gaze settled again on his father. “I came out here to tell you that I am moving back and I don’t care if you kept believing I killed Drew until your dying day. But seeing you, in the state you’re in, in the state this ranch is in, you’ve left me no choice.” He rose to his feet and turned to leave.

  “What are you saying? You think you can just walk in here and—”

  “And what?” Justin snapped, swinging around to face him again. He’d never stood up to his father before. It didn’t make him feel good. But then again, he hadn’t felt good about his father in a very
long time. “Tell you that you look like something the dogs dragged in? That you’ve clearly been so busy wallowing in pity that you’ve let the place go? That your hate is eating you up alive? Who else is going to tell you, old man? You see anyone else around here who gives a damn?”

  His father took a threatening step toward him. Justin didn’t move. His father didn’t come any closer. “It’s none of your business,” he said, but there was little strength behind his words.

  “As long as my last name is Calhoun, it sure as hell is my business,” Justin said. “You can say I’m dead to you, but don’t kid yourself. I’m a whole lot like you and that isn’t anything that makes me proud.”

  “If you just came out here to insult me—”

  “I’m going to find out who killed your precious son,” Justin said with a curse. “It’s the last thing I want to do, but I don’t see that I have any choice. And when I do find his killer, I’ll be expecting an apology from you and damned if you won’t give it to me.”

  With that, he turned and walked out.

  * * *

  BERT CALHOUN STARTED to stumble back to the bar to pour himself another drink, but changed his mind. His heart was racing and he felt light-headed. He made his way to a chair and fell into it. He’d never thought he’d see Justin again—let alone the Justin who’d just been in his living room. It had come as a shock seeing him drive up like that.

  But when his youngest son had gotten out of the pickup...

  He felt weak with fury. The cold nerve. The past five years had changed Justin. He’d obviously been doing a lot of manual labor. He was bigger, stronger, more confident and self-assured than he’d ever seen his youngest.

  It was a man who’d climbed out of that pickup.

  He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Justin had Mary’s coloring and the same cornflower-blue eyes, unlike Drew who’d taken after him with dark hair and pale blue eyes. It had been startling to look into Justin’s eyes. How could he not see Mary in their son?

  And yet their oldest, Drew, had taken more after his mother in ways that hadn’t done him well. He lacked ambition and drive. Mary had been sweet as sunshine, but she’d been fragile even before the cancer.