The Fault Tree

by Louise Ure

  Chapter 78

  It was only a half hour before I heard Kevin’s car in the driveway. He knocked and called out, “The Bernadette and Teresa Dulcey Express now arriving on Platform Two!”

  I opened the door to child squeals and a bracketed hug around the hips as my nieces caromed past me and into the house.

  “I want to hear ‘The Dump Truck Song’ again,” Bernadette said.

  “Ah, the joy of CDs. Put your earphones on, honey. We don’t want to drive the whole neighborhood crazy,” Kevin said. “Nice fashion statement, Cadence.”

  He tugged at the gauze wrap around my throat. I’d been tempted not to wear it at home—it was already sauna hot without the cooler—but decided to go through with the charade.

  “Yeah, it’s all the rage right now.”

  Together, Kevin and I first checked the fuse box for the cooler and the wiring at the switch. I couldn’t be of much help with the color-coded wires, but Kevin thought everything looked okay there. Next place to check: the roof.

  The swamp box cooler, sitting like a small metal shed on the roof, works by forcing air through a wet straw pad. Not exactly the elegance of the big refrigeration systems in use in most businesses and new homes in Arizona today, but somehow a more natural and pleasant way to cool off, I thought.

  Kevin and I traipsed through the house and into the backyard. I located my collapsible ladder lying horizontally against the back fence and stretched it to its fullest length. It fit snug against the edge of the roof, buttressed by the small overhang that marked the back porch. I slung the tool belt around my hips and started up. Kevin held the bottom of the ladder until I reached the roof, then followed up behind me.

  “Can I water your plants, Aunt Cadence?” Teresa called from the front yard.

  The plants were probably parched in this heat. “Sure, honey. But stay there in the front yard where we can see you.” Well, where your father can see you, anyway.

  “Thanks for taking the time for this, Kev. What else is on your schedule today?” We crab-walked up the slope of the roof and started work at opposite sides of the metal box, removing screws to get to the inner workings of the cooler.

  “It really is the Teresa and Bernadette Express, I wasn’t kidding. We’ve got to pick up some incredibly important yarn and shells for a dream catcher they’re weaving with Emily, then a ballet rehearsal for Bernadette and a Brownies meeting in the park for Teresa.” Kevin knew how to smile with his voice.

  We opened the damper and I reached inside. The straw pads were slick with moss and there was a drip from a loose connection at the water hose. “These pads aren’t in great shape.”

  “Ah, here’s the problem,” Kevin said, reaching past me. He handed me a rubber snake.

  “Broken fan belt on the blower. No wonder it quit. I’ve got another one in the garage. And some extra pads. Wouldn’t hurt to change them as long as we’re up here.”

  “No problem. I’ll get the old ones out. When you get back with the new pads, just lift them overhead and I’ll grab them from you. That should be easier than trying to climb with them.”

  I nodded and scooted on my butt back to the edge of the roof, then felt left and right until I located the ladder.

  Bernadette was still in the living room, singing along to some song that had more rhyme than reason. I opened the kitchen door that led to my small garage. It was hot and musty inside, but I found the new straw pads and a spare fan belt just where I thought I’d left them.

  “How’s the jasmine doing?” Kevin called down to his daughter. His wife had taught Teresa more plant names by the time she was seven than I knew at thirty-two.

  “It’s okay, Daddy. But the lavender needed some water.” The hose scraped across the gravel and water splashed on the concrete path to the front door. I was glad Kevin had managed to successfully plant the jasmine for me after I’d dropped it the night of Juanita’s attack. That plant would always remind me of how important my friendships were.

  The roof creaked with Kevin’s footsteps overhead. “You have any bleach, Cade? That’ll help keep the moss down.”

  An ice cream truck tinkled a song somewhere in the neighborhood and a brace of jets from Davis-Monthan Air Force Base streaked overhead, trailing a whoosh of sound behind them like audio litter. Two car doors opened nearby.

  I was turning to retrace my steps to the backyard when I heard the scream. Had Kevin dropped something? I hadn’t heard anything slide. Had Teresa tripped and hurt herself? I rushed out the front door.

  Kevin’s footsteps stuttered to the front eaves. “Hey, get your hands off her!” He didn’t go back toward the ladder. I felt the roof shudder as he launched himself into the front yard. Then a thumping crash and a groan.

  “Kevin? Are you all right? Teresa?” I stood alone on the front porch holding the cooler pads, like Don Quixote’s ineffectual armor, in front of me.

  Teresa screamed again and I plunged across the yard in her direction. A smashing blow rocked my head from the side.

  Someone grabbed my upper arm and shoved me headlong into the foot well of a small passenger car or truck. My cheekbone smashed into the gearshift and the door struck my ankle. Someone in the passenger seat pushed down on my back with both feet. I was bent and crushed into a space under the dashboard that was usually just big enough for a purse and a pair of knees.

  There was no sound from Kevin. Was he dead? Unconscious? Teresa was on the seat just above me and battered at all of us with fists and feet.

  “Hold her, Lolly.”

  Teresa’s wails became muted, the engine started, and we raced away.

  “Stop! Police!” It was a voice I didn’t recognize and it sounded far away. One shot rang out, but there was no answering ping of metal to suggest he’d hit anything. A few moments later, I heard a siren wail to life behind us.

  It got louder as we careened around a corner, tires chirping their pain. Two turns later, we screeched to a stop and the siren faded into the distance. There would be no rescue.

  I heard duct tape rip, then my legs were bound together. Someone slapped tape across my mouth, then grabbed my wrists and did the same to them, tying them tightly behind me. A foul-sweet odor of rotting fruit filled the cab of the car. The engine started again.

  I tried to scream but nothing came out. Blind, bound, and now mute. Terror froze my mind as well as my muscles.

  In an effort to gauge where we were going, I tried to count the seconds between turns but quickly lost all sense of time and direction. What I was counting instead was my machine gun heartbeat.

  Heartbeat. Heartbeat. Heartbeat.

  Heartbreak.

  I had failed to protect yet another one of Kevin’s children. And this time we were both going to die.

  Chapter 79

  The steering wheel was a blur in his hands as they slalomed around the corner. Where the hell had that cop come from? If he’d known the woman had police protection so close he never would have tried to take her.

  “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” Lolly chanted beside him, willing the car to go faster. Willing him to find a way to escape.

  They’d never outrun the cop. They had to find somewhere to hide. But where? The cop was only a block or two behind him.

  It would be tricky, but it might work. He’d noticed these carports last time he’d been in the neighborhood. At several houses, the residents had affixed a bamboo or straw rolling shade to cover the front of the open ramada and protect their cars from the worst of the afternoon heat. He needed a house with an empty carport and a rolling shade, and he needed it now.

  There! He squealed around the corner and up the driveway. Then shut off the engine and shoved the driver’s door open. He had only seconds left.

  He yanked the cords that held the shade in place, releasing eight feet of woven bamboo to unroll and hiding the car from any view from the street.

  Plastered against the front ramada post, he held his breath. The unmarked car raced past. The cop hadn’t even loo
ked this way.

  Chapter 80

  “This is going to make me go blind,” Nellis said, scrunching closer to the computer screen. The photos taken by the red light camera at Oracle and Wetmore the day that James McDougall had been murdered had been sent electronically to the Homicide Unit. They were reviewing the pictures taken from ten to four o’clock that day, widening the estimated time of death the medical examiner had provided.

  Nellis got up to close the blinds next to his desk. Dupree slouched in an armless chair behind him, and Detectives Hinds and Muller were reviewing the opposing camera angle at a computer across the room.

  The detectives didn’t know what they were looking for, so they didn’t dare hurry through the grainy images. They’d asked for the camera angles that showed the best view of the northwest corner, since the McDougall house was only a little farther down the block. Each time a car or van turned down the street, Nellis paused on the image.

  The time stamp on the photo showed 1:22 P.M. when the pale Econoline van turned left into the lane like a lethargic, elderly shark.

  “Stop it there!” Dupree jumped from his chair. “Can you zoom in on it?”

  Nellis clicked on the enlargement button and the image of the van filled the screen. “It’s got the stolen tags on it,” he confirmed.

  “Can you tell who’s driving?”

  Nellis recentered the image and zoomed in again. Dupree exhaled in satisfaction. The man’s profile was grainy but clear. It matched the MVD photo on Gerald Pickett’s driver’s license.

  “Gotcha.”

  “Let’s see if he comes out the same way.” Nellis crawled through another seventeen minutes of photos before the Econoline appeared again at 1:39 P.M. “There he is.”

  The van faced east this time and turned right on Oracle without using its blinker.

  “There. Can you see it?” Dupree’s index finger hovered over the passenger window of the van. Her face was turned away. Long, straight blond hair flew out the open window like a pennant. “Beatrice McDougall is in the van.”

  Detective Hinds tapped Dupree on the shoulder. “That’s not all,” he said. “You’ve got to see this angle.” They hustled across the room to the second computer terminal.

  Dupree leaned in to see the image frozen on the screen: the Econoline van facing west, time stamp on the photo matching the van’s 1:22 P.M. entry to the neighborhood.

  Beatrice McDougall’s smiling face was clear. Her arm stretched toward the unseen driver.

  “Damn. She’s been in on this all along.”

  “We’ve got trouble.” Sergeant Richardson waved from his office doorway. Nellis and Dupree met him halfway across the room.

  “He’s taken Cadence Moran. And her seven-year-old niece.”

  “What the hell happened?” Dupree asked the officer who’d been guarding Cadence Moran. “We had men outside the house, and she said her cousin was coming over.”

  “The cousin did come over, sir. It’s his seven-year-old daughter that’s been taken, along with Ms. Moran,” Officer Dolenz said. “Officer Travis was replacing me. He’d already shown up—parked down there at the end of the block—so I was checking the alley. Came running when I heard the gunfire.”

  Dupree turned to the second police officer. Pat Travis had only been on the force for a year, and the excitement of the chase had left his cheeks flushed with a ruddy glow. He held himself ramrod straight to deliver his report.

  “What happened?” Dupree asked.

  “I confirmed that Officer Dolenz would stay with the injured man and I gave pursuit, sir. Code three,” Travis said. “I wasn’t but a couple hundred yards behind them. Then they took one corner and disappeared! I patrolled a six-block grid until backup got there and we could organize a more thorough search. But the vehicle had slipped away by then.”

  “Did you get the license plate?”

  “Yes, sir. Just a partial, but we called it in, along with a description of the truck.”

  The paramedics were still attending to Kevin Dulcey, who lay splayed in the gravel driveway. One medic held his neck still while another maneuvered a spinal board under him. Dulcey’s younger daughter, Bernadette, clung to the leg of a female officer and never let her eyes leave her father’s face.

  “Is he okay to answer some questions?” Dupree asked the EMT. Blood oozed from Dulcey’s forehead and his left leg canted sideways halfway down the shin. Kevin Dulcey didn’t seem to notice.

  “His vitals are okay,” the paramedic answered. “Let me get an IV started. You’ll only have time for a couple of questions before we take off. Got to get him to a trauma center fast.”

  Kevin wasn’t willing to wait. He struggled, but the medic held him still. “They’ve got Teresa! You’ve got to find them!” The paramedic tightened the straps on the long board and started the IV.

  “We’ll get him, Mr. Dulcey. We have a description of the truck, and we’ve already got an APB out,” Dupree replied.

  “It was a small light-colored pickup. A man and a woman, I’m sure. I don’t know why they grabbed Teresa. Maybe it was just to get Cade out of the house. That’s when they hit her over the head and took her too.”

  “What did the man look like?” Dupree asked.

  “Early twenties, maybe. Baseball cap. Hefty build. He looked strong.” Dupree recognized the description as the same man he’d seen in the red light camera footage, behind the wheel of the Econoline van. Gerald Pickett.

  “What about the woman?”

  “She looked like a kid. Long blond hair, jeans, and a black T-shirt. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen or so.”

  That was Beatrice McDougall, except that the black T-shirt and jeans were new additions to the all-white wardrobe they’d found at the house. “Get those descriptions added to the APB,” he said, turning to Officer Dolenz. Dolenz nodded and moved back toward a squad car.

  The ambulance crew aligned Dulcey’s leg bone and moved him to a gurney. Bernadette, along with the female officer, accompanied him in the ambulance.

  “We’ll find them,” Dupree said under his breath. It was more of a prayer than an order. “I promised Cadence she’d be safe.”

  Chapter 81

  At the red light, Pickett glanced first at Beatrice in the passenger seat holding the little girl, then in the foot well on the passenger side, where the blind woman lay curled like a pillbug.

  “Oh, Jesus, Lolly, what have we done? We’ve got to change cars again. Those cops saw us. And that guy on the roof.”

  “Why didn’t you just kill her like you said you were going to?” Beatrice pushed her feet down on the blind woman’s back.

  “I got spooked by that guy on the roof. And the little girl was looking at me. I couldn’t think.”

  His thoughts were a little more settled now. He’d timed it perfectly, leaving the bamboo-draped ramada just an instant after the pursuing cop had turned the far corner. But the police would have a description of them and the truck on the airwaves by now. They’d have to dump the truck in a hurry.

  He turned off Country Club and into Winterhaven, the old central Tucson neighborhood famous for its lights and decorations at Christmastime. Traffic could get backed up for more than a mile when revelers came by to tour the lighted holiday displays by foot, by car, or by horse-drawn hayride. No worries about that in July.

  Christmas Street itself arced as gracefully as an eyebrow, with Aleppo pines and palm trees spaced along the street like strangers in an elevator. The neighborhood’s rolled curbs and green lawns put the world of car chases and police sirens a million miles away.

  After a tour up and down the block, he selected a house set deep in the subdivision, with a mature palm tree, a shallow, shaded porch, and an RV parked alongside the garage. If his luck was holding, these folks would have taken off for someplace cool to avoid the screaming summertime temperatures, and he could take his pick of the RV or whatever was in the garage. It would be easier if he had the keys and some cash to go with them.


  He unsheathed his hunting knife, told Beatrice to keep the woman and girl quiet, and approached the kitchen door. The knife had barely scratched the lock plate surface when a white-haired man in a polo shirt and khaki slacks opened the door.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing there?” The man’s hair stood up in back. He blinked and rubbed his eyes but took a step back as if inviting the intruder in.

  Staccato images flashed through Pickett’s mind. Lolly grabbing the blade in Mrs. Prentice’s kitchen doorway. Knife dance. Lolly’s father asleep with his arm flung to the side. Knife dance. The dark-haired woman in her car in the driveway. Another slashing knife dance.

  His arm seemed to operate independently from the rest of his body. He didn’t even have to will it to raise and gather speed and power. The knife flashed—once, twice—and the old man fell against the pristine white stove. Pickett panted and looked down at the crumpled form at his feet, the last moments lost to a black reverie that left him dizzy. He sat down at the kitchen table for a moment and dropped his head between his knees. He couldn’t risk passing out now. Just a little while longer. Keep his head clear. Then he could rest.

  There was no noise from the interior of the house or from neighbors. He steadied himself and saw a Peg-Board beside the door, with labeled key rings. As much as he wanted to, he knew he shouldn’t take the RV. Too easy to spot and too easy to stop. He reached for the keys to a Mercedes and backed out, wiping the area around the doorknob as he went.

  Trying to slow his breathing and his swirling thoughts, he pulled the small pickup truck behind the RV. He didn’t know how long it would go unnoticed, but if this man lived alone, it might give them enough of a head start.

  “Let’s leave these two here,” he suggested to Beatrice as he maneuvered the truck through the narrow gap beside the RV.

  “Only if you want to kill them both now,” she said without hesitation. She took his hand, massaging the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. “This—all of this—you did for us. So we could be together. Be a family. You’ve got to be the man now.”