by Kym Roberts
Stone’s face defined closed. The potential for heat fizzled with darkening of his eyes as they narrowed to mere slits. My feet took an involuntary step back.
“What makes you think it wasn’t a murder?” Still raspy, his tone no longer held sex appeal, but accusation.
“You were right. Ryan cheated on his fiancée and got caught. He was avoiding a confrontation with his best man. It turns out he used my carving as payment for...” I struggled with the right way to put it. “...for ... services rendered.”
“And you believe that a man who placed a special order with you would use that piece of art as payment for meaningless sex?”
When he put it like that ... no. But what did I know about Ryan? Or men? Jacob was my first real relationship. Sure, I’d dated other men, but Jacob had been special, different, and the love of my life.
“Why is this so important to you?” My question sprung out of nowhere, but it was right on target.
For the first time, Stone showed a ruffle. Small, but evident in the way he rubbed his jaw. He inhaled, his chest expanding to an impressive breadth that caught my eye. His release made me wonder what he would look like without the t-shirt, then he finally decided to let me in on his secret.
“A friend of mine was killed on these tracks a little over a year ago. I was in the hospital recovering. He worked at Woody’s and ended up dead. On the tracks. The train crew said they’d seen him running along the tracks on numerous occasions. Then one day he was lying across the tracks. They said it was obvious he had a death wish. The coroner ruled it a suicide because of his blood alcohol level and because he’d been suffering from PTSD.”
The county had seen its fair share of suicides by train. And an army vet back from the war who’d been drinking could very well end up on the wrong side of the tracks. “We’ve experienced quite a few suicides in this area.” I tried to sooth Stone.
It had the opposite effect. “Max ran everywhere. He viewed everything as an opportunity to work out, to train and make himself faster. He’d run to the store for milk. He’d run to the post office to mail his bills. He’d run the tracks if it made him improve his stride. He was dealing with the PTSD. He had meds at home, but he wasn’t using them anymore. Not because he refused to take them, but because he’d learn to deal with the issues that haunted him in another way.”
Stone had given this defense before and obviously gotten nowhere. Now he was giving it to me, but I could hear in his voice that he thought I wouldn’t believe him, even though he hoped that I would.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t give him much, just more questions. “Was he in your ... your squad?” My complete ignorance of military jargon left me unable to communicate on a level that might ease his stress.
“He saved my life. When I was bleeding out, he applied the tourniquet to my leg, carried me out so I could be evac’d by a helo. I lost my leg, but three of our buddies lost their lives.” Stone’s voice turned hard. “It wasn’t a suicide. Max was murdered. That’s why I’m here. That’s what I came to prove. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get him justice.”
***
Putting on makeup had earned me a smile this morning, then my conversation with Stone had turned macabre. Honestly, all this talk of death was wreaking havoc on my psyche. I don’t watch the news, because I don’t want to hear about death. If it bleeds, it leads, and I just can’t bear it. Not anymore.
I live for the day.
I don’t read the paper, because then I’d have to see the names of the dead in print. I don’t read Internet gossip about the rich and famous, because then I’d have to see the images of all their charitable deeds for those less fortunate. Yes, their actions helped. But how much did they really give of themselves?
I know the real cost of sacrifice. It’s not about making a commercial or a TV variety show. People give their lives to save someone else.
Jacob did.
And Stone. He’d given more than a piece of himself. His devotion to country, and friends should have been honored from here to Timbuktu. He lived to pursue the real ‘justice for all.’ Despite everything he’d lost in war and at home, he was a living breathing member of society because of someone else’s good deed. He was everything that I’d avoided for the past two years, nine months and twenty-five days.
Had I voluntarily returned to my cave after receiving the information I wanted from Steve? Was I accepting Ryan’s death as limply as I had Jacob’s? Defeated by the divot life had delivered, like a stop cut on the wood that prohibited my knife from following through. Was I refusing to follow through?
Jacob had died in an unexplained forest fire. His body had never been found. And after my initial questioning, I’d disappeared. Hibernated in the dark, while the storm passed. Stone would have searched for the evidence himself. Demanded the entire forest be examined for the source of the fire, leaving no questions left unanswered. He would have located the DNA evidence to prove Jacob’s death.
I’d done none of that. Oh sure, I’d started out with emotional pleas to all the right people, but then I’d let them drop. Accepted the lack of answers as the truth.
Now, I was shamefully aware that I had not done my best for Jacob. And, I’d been prepared to give up on Ryan as well. Until I got all of the answers in his death, nothing was certain. Nothing could be absolute. And Brandy Kay was the next step. No matter how ugly the truth might be, it deserved to be laid out and examined for Ryan and his bride.
Bogart and I headed back to the cabin with a little less perk in our step. His sad eyes peeked at me from time to time, always right before he glanced back at the empty woods behind us. He was undoubtedly wondering if life in the forest could possibly be as bad as it was with the flakey chick next to him. I didn’t blame him one bit. A wet tongue on my hand told me to knock off the sulking, I wasn’t the only one adjusting to life’s twists and turns.
Once we reached the back of the cabin, I altered our path when I spied Shea’s tow truck lifting up the rear end of a newer model Chevy pickup in Woody’s lot. At least one of the tires on the newer model truck was flat.
Shea stood at the side of the vehicle, working the wench that allowed his truck more muscle to haul extra weight. He waved when he caught sight of us approaching. Bogart stayed right next to me, nudging my hand the entire time.
I waited for the mechanical whine to cease. “Hi, Shea. How’s it going?”
Shea examined my face up and down, then side to side before his eyes met mine. “No complaints. Woody’s makes sure I have no lull in business. How are you doing? You look — different.”
I remembered my makeup and the stupid reason I’d put it on, and blushed for the second time that day. “I’m fine.” Desperate to change the subject I asked, “Another victim of tire damage?”
“Yeah, one of Woody’s employees.”
“Oh.” I studied the truck more thoroughly, immediately recognizing who it belonged to.
Shea pulled out a set of lights to mount on the cab, adding to the flashers warning other motorists. “Yup. One of the bouncers came out this morning and found his two rear tires cut.”
“Can you tell me which bouncer?” I don’t know why I asked. I knew who the owner was, I said hello to him almost every night when I closed the shop and he showed up for work.
“Tommy Keyes. He called about three-thirty A.M., but luckily for me he got a ride home with his girlfriend. He asked me to come out this morning to pick it up. Are you being careful?”
“Sure, but I don’t think the person doing this is targeting just anyone. I think it has to do with Woody’s.” (Or maybe my shop, but I wasn’t ready to go there — not out loud anyway.)
Shea didn’t look convinced. “Whatever their reasoning, it’s not rational. And that makes everyone vulnerable. What do you think this is going to do to the insurance rates in this area?”
Shea had a point. No matter what anyone felt about Woody’s or its clientele, damaging other’s property wasn’t right, and even my pocket
would feel the pinch when the crime stats were tallied, if the responsible party wasn’t stopped soon.
Mayor Bob crossed the street to join us. His curly receding hair swayed in the wind, and a pleasant smile graced his chubby cheeks.
“Good morning, Rilee. Shea, you seemed to be doing as much business towing cars as Woody’s does attracting them.” Bob patted his stomach with a laugh reminiscent of the red-suited Saint Nicks I sold in my shop. His dishwater blue eyes glistened with mischief.
I glanced at Shea to see if he saw the same thing, but Shea was Shea — laid back, easygoing, willing to accept the oddest of behaviors as normal.
“I can’t complain about the business, but as I was telling Rilee, who knows what the increase in the crime rate is going to do to our insurance rates?”
Jolly old Saint Nick disappeared, the redness filling his cheeks having nothing to do with weather or good humor. Bob had lost his innocence over Woody’s, just not in the same sense a teenager might want to.
“Let me get this straight. Our insurance premiums are going to go up —” With a crack in his voice, Bob cleared his throat, “because Woody brought a bunch of trash with him to town?”
“I don’t know that Woody brought the trash with him, but our increase in crime will affect our rates.” Shea acknowledged.
I watched the color of Bob’s face transform from Santa’s rosy tone, to a perspiring beet red.
“Bob, you need to breathe.” I warned him.
But Bob was breathing. A hefty amount of air was going in and out his nose at rapid succession. The crease across the bridge of his nose deepened as his brow loomed over angry eyes. Even easy-mannered Shea was leaning back at the neck, like maybe his eyes weren’t focusing properly on the scene in front of him.
There was nothing wrong with Shea’s eyesight, but there was definitely something wrong with Bob’s blood pressure.
“Maybe we should go inside and have a glass of water.” I looked to Shea for support.
He jumped in quickly. “Sure, I could really use one; I left my cooler at home today. Come on Bob, let’s go see some of Rilee’s work while we’re at it.”
Shea placed a hand on Bob’s shoulder, only to have Bob angrily shrug away. “I’ve got work to do.” Bob turned and walked back to his store, his feet imprinting deeply into the mud on both sides of the street.
“Wow. Our mayor seems to be having some issues.” The front door of Bob’s store slammed.
“It’s because of the store closing, and I think the thought of losing more money...”
“I guess I blew the top off that one, huh.”
I couldn’t let Shea take all the blame. “There was no way for you to know. Mayor Bob’s been a little unpredictable lately.”
“I’ll check in with him a little later. Thanks for the offer of the drink, but my cooler’s actually loaded in the passenger side, and I really need to get this truck into the shop.”
“I understand. Tell your smarter half hello for me.”
“She’d definitely agree with you on that one. And after my big Bob blunder, I’m hard pressed to argue.” After a final check around the disabled vehicle, Shea climbed into the cab of the tow truck and headed out of town.
Shea was lucky enough to be driving away from all the drama that had come to Tickle Creek. Part of me just wanted to skip town and never look back. Then I thought of my Dad, and my fellow business owners, all of whom had stood by my side through the worse time of my life. I thought of our carving classes. With responsibility came love and friendship and a place to lay your head down at night.
“Come on Bogart, let’s go home.”
Chapter Nineteen
Business was sporadic throughout the day, with lulls balanced by a few mild rushes. I’d gotten in a supply of the newest midsize easy hollower tool sets that allowed wood turners to easily make vases and bowls of all shapes and sizes on a lathe. The set was made for all expertise levels and included three of the most sought after blades. The first one was straight and would hollow forms up to five inches in diameter. The second one had a slight curve, allowing the wood turner to create more of an angle on the inside of the project, and the third blade allowed for a heavy curve that would angle the interior of the vase or bowl up to the lip.
Many of my customers wanted the special set in order to make the latest wood turning project to hit the area, personalized urns.
There is no accounting for taste. My regulars had been excited about the set’s arrival, and now, two days into selling it, my shelf was empty. Everyone was knee-deep in making their very own urn to sit empty on their fireplace mantel until their time came.
I logged on to my computer and ordered another shipment, pleased with the sales, disappointed that I hadn’t had the foresight to order enough.
Bogart wandered to the rear door and sniffed. “Arrrrrooorrrr.”
The door opened and my dad stepped into the shop. “Well, at least he won’t let someone sneak up on you.” He patted Bogart on the head.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, honey. I brought the replacement glass to fix your door. And a little something for that mutt you took in.” He turned and put a bright red collar around Bogart’s neck.
Bogart shook his head and the metal tagged clanked against the clasp.
“Now if you get lost, someone will know to bring you back to Rilee.” Dad patted Bogart’s head, and I wanted to cry. It was stupid, but heartwarming just the same. He turned toward me and I blinked the tears away, but I know he saw it. “I left a leash at the back door for you.”
Where would I be without my Dad? He took care of me, and my dog and I relied on him to take care of the manly things around the cabin. Sure I could fix it myself, but life would be a lot harder without his help. “Thanks, Dad. I really do appreciate you.”
Dad smiled before adding, “Don’t thank me too soon. You’re the one who’s going to fix it. I’ll be watching to make sure you do it right.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” That’s the way it was with my Dad. He’d never done the work for me, he’d just always been there to guide me through whatever needed to be done. From the A-frame fort in the back yard when I was a kid, to installing a Plexiglas rear window on my 1978 Gremlin in college, I’d been working with tools my entire life. It was probably the reason why I was so comfortable around power tools when other women held up their hands in surrender.
I closed up the shop for the day, and put the deposit in the safe. My Dad and I proceeded to the back of the house and I grabbed my toolbox on the way. I’d cleaned out the shards of glass on the back door and boarded it up the previous day.
“Do you remember an Army vet who committed suicide on the tracks a year ago?” I asked while accepting the hammer from my Dad. He remembered most events that occurred in Tickle Creek — at least the events I didn’t hide from him. I was pretty sure he liked hearing the gossip so that he could separate fact from fiction in the daily lives of the locals. He wouldn’t participate with any one story, but whenever I asked him about something, he seemed to know every version of the gossip traveling through the town. Unfortunately his hearing was making that more and more difficult.
“Sure I remember. Max Gomez. He was Woody’s grandson. I seem to recall; he was an Army Ranger. He wasn’t a vet, he was still active duty, but he was on leave. He lived on Tom Dick and Harry Mountain in a cabin handed down through generations. They reported that he was despondent over what he had experienced in the war and the loss of his grandfather. If you remember, Woody was a recluse and very seldom came into town. When he did, he just grunted at everyone. He and Bob despised each other. But apparently the old man and his grandson got along great. The kid’s dad died when he was a boy. A semi-tractor trailer lost control on the mountain pass and crushed his vehicle, but the boy survived.” My dad shook his head. “Max never seemed to catch any breaks.”
“How come I didn’t know him?” I searched my brain for any recollection of a boy from what loca
ls referred to as the manly mountain, but came up empty.
I grabbed the hammer from the top tray of my toolbox, placed a scrap piece of wood under the back of the claw to protect the door, and began prying the nails loose from my temporary repair job.
“The old man sent him off to military school. Said it was the best thing for him. He worked the mill during the summer, but pretty much stayed with the old man when he wasn’t at school or working. He was with his grandfather when he died, and then he inherited the cabin. Not sure what happened to the cabin when the kid died.” Dad took the board and nails from me and handed me the caulk. “As far as I know, it’s still vacant.”
I was pretty sure the cabin wasn’t vacant any more. However he managed it, I felt certain Stone was the only man on the mountain, at least when he wasn’t in his sniper tent behind my house. Of course, up until I’d stolen Bogart, it’d been a man and his dog on the mountain.
I made a small bead along the window setting. Once the caulk was in place, I traded the caulk gun for the pane of glass in Dad’s hands. Wedging the glass into place, I made sure it was properly seated and tacked in place with glazier’s points before taking the frame pieces we’d marked the previous day and putting them in place. Using small, blunted nails, I nailed in the sections, being careful not to split the small pieces of trim. Then I seated each nail head deeper with a nail punch, and applied wood putty over the top to conceal it and protect it from the elements.
“Do you believe he committed suicide on the tracks?” I stopped to look at my father.
“I believe it’s possible.”
“But?” He was definitely holding back.
“But, I didn’t know him. No one around here knew him. I think the best one to ask that question would be someone who knew him well enough to make that judgment.”
I closed the door and looked out through my new glass. The only person who fit those qualifications was the man out in the woods. And he’d already given me his answer. So did that mean there were two unsolved homicide cases? Or were we clinging to an alternative answers for two deaths involving two different types of taboo — suicide and infidelity. But if I had doubts about Ryan’s death, didn’t he deserve more? And after all his service and sacrifice for our country, didn’t Max Gomez deserve even more than that?
