The Laura Cardinal Novels

by J. Carson Black

  Men don’t cry. He knew that, but he figured this time he was allowed. Ruckus was the only friend he had left, and now he was, in a sense, betraying him, too.

  He let Ruckus jump in the cab with him instead of the back, where he usually stayed. Found himself stroking the shiny black labrador coat, over and over, Ruckus licking his face, his tail thumping against the passenger door of Josh’s new Nissan.

  Josh drove the few short blocks to Seth Janney’s house. Seth had always liked Ruckus, and Ruckus got along well with Seth’s dog Coalie. They had come from the same litter.

  Seth’s truck was parked out front, but the house was still. Coalie barked behind the fence. Josh took Ruckus over to the gate, opened it, unhooked the leash and left it on the fence. Squatting down, he held the dog’s face between both hands and planted a kiss on his nose. “Gonna miss you, bud.” Tears falling down on the perfect black face. Ruckus looking at him, his soul clear in his brown eyes. The reason Josh had no use for churches: If dogs didn’t have souls, then there wasn’t much of a point, was there?

  He wondered where he’d go. If he’d go anywhere. It might be just like sleep. He hoped that was the case. Just a long sleep, where you never felt anything again.

  He gave Ruckus one more pat, then took off.

  Leaving his best friend behind.

  Back at the house, he took a shower and changed into his uniform. He had the uniform dry-cleaned yesterday, had ironed the creases into the legs himself, polished his brass, cleaned his weapon. Now he turned on CNN and got online.

  The television was full of the story of Bobby Burdette. There was a reporter standing outside his house, talking about how his neighbors didn’t know him well, but thought he was all right.

  Josh opened up his website, thefoundling.com. He didn’t know why he’d named it that, except it sounded good. A foundling was a found baby. Maybe that was why he chose it. He wasn’t adopted, but he felt the way an adopted baby must feel—apart. Separate somehow. He didn’t have many friends. In fact, his best friend, Dan, had been not just his friend but his lifeline. When Dan went away to college, it had been hard to deal with. He always felt he didn’t fit into this family. His sister was strong, always knew what she wanted to do, but Josh had been aimless and unfocused until he realized he wanted to be a cop.

  The last blog, the one no one would be expecting, was ninety-nine percent finished. He’d written it like a diary, complete with times. He entered the time now: 6:03 a.m.

  What was he going to write? He wanted it to mean something. He wanted the few people out there who followed his site to understand what he was doing.

  And why.

  “Where you going?” Richie asked as Laura headed for the stairwell.

  “I just remembered something. Be right back.”

  She walked down to Evidence and checked out one of the boxes she’d taken from Dan Yates’s house.

  Her pulse quickening as she rummaged through it. She found the cigar box and signed for it.

  Her mind half-putting it together earlier, when Richie mentioned that strange day at the Wingate house, the day they had interviewed Luke Jessup. Richie remarking on Josh’s resentment of his mother.

  But something else tickled Laura’s memory.

  Something Luke Jessup said.

  She started up the stairs with the cigar box, stopped on the third step. Retraced her steps to the Evidence Room and asked for another piece of evidence. Filled out the forms.

  Back up the stairs to the squad room.

  Richie got up from his desk and followed her to hers. “What’re those?”

  “Some of Dan’s things. Greeting cards, letters.”

  He looked over her shoulder as she lifted out a stack held together with a rubber band.

  She spread the cards out on the desk.

  “See anything in common?”

  “They look like pictures I had in a book when I was little.”

  “What kind of book?”

  “Fairy tales. Passed down to me from my grandmother.”

  Laura looked at the cards. All of them appeared as if they had been painted or drawn long ago, possibly at the turn of the last century. She’d had a book like Richie’s when she was little, too, lots of pictures like this. Snow White and Rose Red. Sleeping Beauty. Rapunzel.

  A fantasy world of beautiful maidens and mean-spirited dwarves. Good versus evil.

  “You remember seeing anything like this recently?” Laura asked.

  Richie frowned. “Uh-huh. Somewhere.”

  “How about Barbara Wingate’s house? Unicorn Farm?” She remembered the print in the bathroom, the maiden with long, flowing hair.

  “So?”

  Laura opened a card. She felt Richie’s breathing on her neck. The card was blank inside, but written in beautiful calligraphy were the words Nothing can keep us apart.

  Richie said, “So?”

  Laura opened another card. We were made for each other.

  “Heart-warming.”

  Laura produced the textbook Kellee had with her at the campsite, Oedipus Rex. She opened the book and gestured to the facing page.

  Kellee Taylor, with a phone number underneath.

  Richie looked from the card to the book. “Different handwriting. Dan was getting love letters, but they weren’t from Kellee.”

  Laura reminded him about the day they went to Unicorn Farm: Luke Jessup outside by the barn digging postholes. “Remember what he said? Dan came by Mrs. Wingate’s house a week before he died.”

  Richie looked at her. “You’re thinking, why go to Mrs. Wingate’s house? Why not cut out the middleman and just go see his best friend? Tenuous, though. Tenuous is a word, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Could be nothing.” He tapped one of the cards. “Could have been a girlfriend from way back.”

  But Laura had that feeling, the same feeling Richie had when he saw the photographs lined up together. That feeling of inevitability, when it couldn’t be denied. That solid kachunk.

  Barbara Wingate loves fantasy art. She even names her ranch Unicorn Farm.

  Dan comes to town, visits Barbara Wingate, not Josh.

  A week later, Josh shows up at Dan’s place, “agitated.” Mad at his best friend.

  Laura knew that Barbara Wingate saw herself as a beauty. She’d seen the way she used her looks for effect. She had a flirtatious quality. Her awareness of men always front and center.

  Laura had seen the fantasy Barbara, the lovely, star-crossed creature who had borne so much adversity with grace and dignity. Even Wendy, the night clerk at the Pioneer Motel, had fantasized about being like her when she was a little girl. Barbara Wingate was the composite of the perfect woman. Gentle, kind, beautiful, but with a tragic air. Strong enough to prevail through tragedy, but the kind of woman men liked to protect. A princess, a maiden, thrown to the wolves and in need of a champion.

  The romantic ideal.

  But Laura had seen the mask slip. She had seen what was behind the mask—a cold, calculating evil that could have taken her life.

  A maiden in need of a champion.

  Was Barbara Wingate capable of seducing her son’s best friend?

  Laura was willing to bet the answer was yes.

  Josh found himself driving again. The blog had been good—if shocking. He had decided to be completely truthful about everything, even the parts that would normally have embarrassed him. He wanted everyone to know how deeply he had been betrayed, by both his best friend and his mother.

  She had to be held accountable.

  People wouldn’t be expecting it. They were used to a little philosophy, commentary on this crazy modern world. But he’d said it right out:

  Have you seen true evil? I mean looked it in the face and recognized it for what it is? I have. And you know what? It’s a face like any other.

  And here’s something you may not know. The face of evil belongs to my mother.

  All those years, his friend Dan and his mother, leading
a double life. Pretending to his face that they weren’t fucking each other. His best friend. He felt it all over again, the rage building up, so when he stopped the truck outside the entrance to Cataract Lake, he was glad again.

  He sat in the truck, staring down through the trees at the lake. Remembering.

  He’d thought it was just going to be another dinner at his mom’s. But when he’d gotten there, she was in her nightgown. He had to admit she looked beautiful, younger than her age. And tragic.

  She’d played that part before.

  His mother was a lot like this lake—beautiful—but there were bad things underneath, things that could snag you and take you under, like it did with that kid and his teacher.

  Another case of statutory rape.

  He forced himself to remember.

  She had come up to him, wine glass in hand—half in the bag—telling him before he was even through the front door that she had taken a whole bottle of pain pills. Swooning against him.

  He didn’t know if that had been part of the act. But dutiful son that he was, he had driven her to the Health Care Center. And they had pumped out her stomach. Telling him it was good he had arrived when he did, because otherwise she would have died.

  He doubted that. His mother’s will to live was remarkable.

  She’d asked him to come to dinner at six. Probably took the pills at five ’til.

  He’d stayed at her house for a few days, as the doctor suggested, to keep an eye on her. Nurse her back to health.

  Sitting in the truck now, he laughed.

  She had been fine the next day, as if nothing had ever happened. But she’d stayed in bed, asking him to bring her things. A tray of food, and asking really nice if he’d get some flowers from the garden and put them in a cut-crystal vase so she could see them.

  Pretty soon, she had started crying. He’d felt he had to listen. And pretty soon, she had told him everything.

  In duplicate. In triplicate. Every detail she could think of. Her tears turning to rage at Dan, that rage transferring to him. He could have sworn she got off on it. Got off on telling her son that all this time, all this fucking time, for years, she had been fucking his best friend. That all this time, he had been a dupe, and how did he like that?

  We love each other, she’d wailed. He doesn’t want that girl. He’s just doing it because he knows no one would accept our love. He doesn’t love her, he loves me.

  Me me me.

  She had enjoyed shocking him. He could tell. Enjoyed his hurt, even enjoyed his rage. “You want to hit me?” she had demanded. “Go ahead. I deserve it. I love you, and I’m sorry I hurt you. You must hate me!”

  How he’d wanted to hit her.

  He remembered getting out of there. He couldn’t stand the sight of her. He remembered driving around. He always liked to drive; it calmed him. But this time, it had only made him madder.

  He’d worked his shift, acting as if nothing happened. There had been a lot of sympathy about his mother. How everything was too much for her, the death of his older brother, raising her granddaughter by herself, how much she had suffered.

  And after shift, he had driven around some more. All the way to Wickenburg and back, not seeing the scenery, not seeing anything except her face when she had told him, the satisfaction lurking behind her tears. Driving in a daze. He had driven to Flagstaff, looking for Dan, wanting to punch him out, wanting some closure. But Dan had not been there.

  It had made him feel impotent. All that anger and nobody to hold accountable.

  Exhausted, he’d gone home and slept for hours.

  When he had woken, it was night. He’d driven to his mother’s farm. He would tell her what he thought of her. He would get it out of his system at least. Her house quiet, the lights out.

  Driving home on Cataract Lake Road, he’d spotted Dan’s truck.

  Seeing his mother’s face as she had twisted the knife: “One of our favorite places was Cataract Lake. We’d tryst there.”

  Tryst there.

  After the shooting, he’d planned to drive to one of his own favorite spots, just a place out in the wilderness, and take his own life.

  And he would have, if it hadn’t been for Ruckus.

  If they weren’t found right away, if he wasn’t found right away, Ruckus might have had to do without water and food. He would have been trapped in the yard. Talk about betrayal. The idea of his only friend dying of starvation or lack of water had kept him from killing himself.

  He would have to find a place for Ruckus. Unlike his mother, he didn’t betray those who loved him. Even a dog.

  He’d gone home, heard the phone ringing, let the answering machine pick up.

  The shock of his life when he’d heard his mother’s voice. Alive and kicking. Calling him because she was worried about him.

  Richie made the call to the Williams PD.

  Laura listened to his side of the conversation. From the tone of his voice, she could tell he was met with skepticism.

  Better have a SWAT team just in case.

  He hung up and looked at her. He appeared weary around the eyes. “They’re on their way. I told them how dangerous he is—both of them—are.”

  Laura nodded.

  “Here’s an interesting tidbit. Josh Wingate has a 12-gauge shotgun. It’s one of his service weapons.”

  Laura looked at her watch. Even if they could get a plane now, it would probably be another two hours before they could get there.

  By then, the arrest would be made.

  Laura wanted to be there, but it just wasn’t in the cards.

  “What about the mother?” Richie said.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” she said. “She’s handled him so far.”

  One more thing he had to do: mail the letters. Unlike his mother, he faced his responsibilities.

  The pile of letters were on the seat next to him: one for the chief, one for Dan’s parents, one for Kellee’s parents. One for Erin.

  He didn’t know where to send Erin’s letter in Germany. Jeff, Michael Ramey‘s brother, had given him the address, but he’d been a little distracted lately and had lost it. He could look through his mother’s address book; she’d have his address.

  He pictured that, looking through her address book while she made him lunch.

  51

  Since she couldn’t do anything, Laura went home to officially start her vacation. For the first time in years, she felt disconnected from her work. It had consumed too much of her time and energy. Nice to think about puttering around in the garden, going for long hikes, spending time with Tom—if that was still a viable option. She turned on the TV while divesting herself of her work clothes. That was how she heard about it—on the news. The phone started ringing at the same time, but she turned the ringer down and sat on the edge of the bed, mesmerized by the scene, watching as the tech with the Coconino County medical examiner’s office wheeled a gurney out of the blue house where Barbara Wingate lived.

  Surprised that she wasn’t surprised.

  The reporter, a brunette with a wide mouth, talked over the buzzing in Laura’s ears. Laura caught the words “murder-suicide.”

  Suddenly it hit her, smashing into her stomach, a double-cut to the throat.

  She remembered Josh Wingate that first day, how she thought he was trying to be a good cop even though he had lost his best friend.

  Tears spilled out of her eyes and down her cheeks and onto the coverlet. Her chest ragged, and suddenly she was sobbing, as if a dam had given out and all the hurt and pain of the world poured out of her soul.

  That was the state she was in when Tom Lightfoot found her.

  They lay tangled together on the bed, Tom stroking her wet face.

  “It’s okay, Bird,” he said, holding her eyes with his. Stroking her as if she were a frightened animal.

  She had let go, let the tears pour out. She realized at some point the tears weren’t for Barbara Wingate or Josh Wingate, but for herself. Something was gone, som
ething she couldn’t quite recognize, but she knew it from the shape of its absence. Gone from her life.

  Making love to Tom had been wonderful at the time, comforting beyond belief, but now she felt stale. Stale and incredibly weary and sad.

  Tom looked in her eyes, said the right things, but she could almost feel the division between them, as if it were physical. Making love had been an illusion. Something was going on. It was in the way he looked at her, his eyes not quite focusing on her. Focusing around her.

  What was it—pity?

  She felt her heart close up. Had to get out of the bed. She got up and trailed the sheet to the bathroom, suddenly not wanting to be naked in front of him.

  Weird.

  She looked at her face in the mirror, the puffiness under her red-rimmed eyes. The ophthalmologist saying, We can fix that.

  She closed the door to the bathroom and put the lid down on the toilet and just sat there, wondering what was going on. Tom had made love to her. It was like any and every other time, more or less. And yet she knew it was over.

  After a while she got up and took a shower. Washing him away. She wrapped herself in a towel and walked back out into the bedroom.

  He was sitting on the edge of the bed in his jeans, no shirt. Staring at the floor.

  Looking like a man who dreaded what he was about to do.

  “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

  He looked up, his face immobile. Eyes sad, but she could see the resolve there.

  “It just isn’t working out, is it?” she said. Trying to sound flippant, like it didn’t hurt her.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “It was a mistake. This whole living-together thing. You’re a free spirit, I knew that. You need your space. You like your lifestyle just the way it is, thank you very much, you don’t need anybody and neither do I.”

  She sounded bitter to her own ears.