The Hero’s Sin

by Darlene Gardner

  “How are you?” Sara asked the instant the delivery girl was gone, her eyes soft with compassion, making Laurie glad she’d confided in her boss about the past.

  “Okay. All the pain came rushing back for a moment, but my miscarriage was a long time ago.” Laurie sighed, unwilling to examine her feelings in depth or to admit she still yearned for a baby. She wasn’t ready to figure out if her longing was for Kenny’s baby. “Come on, let’s talk about something else. Like your hot guy. Let me take a guess. Mike Donahue?”

  “It’s not what you think.” Sara’s face flushed, telling Laurie it was exactly what she thought. “We only went to dinner so he could show his face in town and prove he had nothing to hide.”

  Laurie carried her meatball sub to the reception area, sat down in one of the orange chairs and popped the top of her diet soda while Sara did the same.

  “What would he have to hide?” Laurie asked.

  Sara paused in the act of bringing her calzone to her mouth. “You haven’t heard about Quincy Coleman?”

  “What about Quincy Coleman?” Laurie said.

  Sara put her lunch back on the wrapper. “He’s been missing since Sunday morning. It’s possible he had a hiking accident but the police don’t think so. His kitchen was a mess. Smashed bottles and plates. Overturned chairs. A streak of blood.”

  “How did I miss this?” Laurie figured out the reason on her own: She’d been distracted with thoughts of Kenny. “Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Only one—Michael. They say he was tired of Coleman constantly demeaning him.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Laurie exclaimed. “The Mike I knew in high-school wasn’t vindictive. I can’t believe he’s changed that much.”

  “He hasn’t,” Sara said. “He’s completely innocent.”

  “Then why do the police think he’s guilty?”

  Sara wrapped her hand around her soda can but didn’t pick it up. “I take it you haven’t talked to Kenny this weekend.”

  Laurie’s breath caught and she had to will herself to exhale. “What does Kenny have to do with it?”

  “Quite a lot. He claims he overheard Michael threaten to kill Coleman.”

  “When was this?”

  “Saturday afternoon.”

  Yet on Saturday night Kenny hadn’t mentioned Mike Donahue to Laurie, not that they’d done much talking.

  “Some other people also heard the argument,” Sara continued. “Kenny’s the only one who reported the threat.”

  “You don’t believe Kenny, do you?” Laurie asked.

  “Michael said it didn’t happen. So no, I don’t.”

  The scent of meatballs reached Laurie’s nostrils, and her stomach turned over, her appetite gone. Even without all the details, she believed Michael over Kenny, too.

  “Are you okay?” Sara placed her hand over Laurie’s, her expression concerned. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Laurie said. “You just knocked some sense into me.”

  MICHAEL LAY on the soft mattress of the queen-size bed with his eyes wide open, but it was so dark in Sara’s bedroom he could barely make out the shape of the ceiling fan.

  He should be weary from a long day spent traipsing through the woods, futilely searching for any sign of Quincy Coleman. But now that Sara was asleep, the mystery turned over and over in his mind.

  He hadn’t thought about much except Sara when she was awake. He’d arrived earlier that evening bearing takeout deli sandwiches and a rented DVD, but they hadn’t gotten around to watching the movie.

  They’d entertained each other much more enjoyably in bed.

  They hadn’t talked much about Quincy Coleman, either, which could be why thoughts of the man buzzed in his brain. The longer Michael stayed awake, the less likely it seemed that Coleman had been the victim of foul play.

  The man had been well on his way to getting falling-down drunk Saturday afternoon. The empty beer cans in the garage, the bloodshot eyes and the slurred speech left that in no dispute.

  The whiskey bottles in Coleman’s kitchen strongly suggested he’d kept on drinking after Michael had left. Yes, there’d been blood on the wall but not much. Coleman could have cut himself on a broken piece of glass after anger got the best of him.

  It made more sense that he had gone into the woods to blow off steam than that someone had killed him and taken away the body. When the heavy rains came, it was easy to imagine Coleman getting hit by a fallen tree branch or tripping and injuring himself.

  The problem with Michael’s theory was that the police had considered it, too. Search teams had scoured the area Coleman could have reached on foot and found nothing.

  On foot.

  The two words jumped out at Michael, bringing him even more fully awake. Coleman’s Cadillac was still parked in his garage, but it didn’t necessarily follow that Coleman had been on foot.

  Not when Michael clearly remembered his surprise at seeing a second vehicle in that garage: An off-road motorcycle.

  He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, groping in the darkness for his clothes on the floor. If Coleman was on the motorbike, the search teams hadn’t covered a wide enough area. He pulled on his jeans and shirt, dressing as quickly as he could manage.

  “Michael?” Sara’s sleepy voice penetrated the quiet darkness. The glowing red numbers on her bedside alarm clock showed it was well past midnight. “Where are you going?”

  She’d probably try to talk him into waiting until morning if he confessed his destination was Coleman’s garage.

  “I’m leaving now,” he whispered, “but I’ll see you tomorrow. You’re coming over to give Aunt Felicia an update, right?”

  “I don’t have anything to tell her yet. I need to contact more lenders.” Her voice was heavy with sleep, her sentences barely comprehensible. She seemed completely vulnerable, totally trusting. Of him.

  Tenderness rose up inside him. He walked to the opposite side of the bed, sat down on the edge of the mattress and kissed her.

  Her arms came around him, her soft, pliant lips molding sweetly to his, the sleepy feel of her making him want her all over again.

  “You don’t have to go,” she said when he lifted his mouth.

  Yet he did. As much as he wanted to stay here in Sara’s bedroom and let himself tumble into love with her, he couldn’t pretend they were a normal couple or that these were normal circumstances.

  “Yes, I do.” He kissed her again, swiftly so he wouldn’t yield to his desire to crawl back under the sheets. “Go back to sleep.”

  The town was as sleepy as Sara, with few cars on the street and little noise except for the cries of night birds, crickets and tree frogs. He turned off Main Street, and the night seemed to get even quieter. With the windows of his PT Cruiser open, he could hear the whisper of the wind rustling the leaves in the trees.

  The night was overcast, the clouds blocking out the moon, with only the headlights of Michael’s car and those of another vehicle maybe a half mile behind him shining through the darkness.

  Michael changed his mind about pulling up in front of Coleman’s house and parked a block away as a precaution. Moving quickly and silently, he walked down the street and around the house to the detached garage.

  The sliding garage door had four window panels across the top, high enough that it wasn’t necessary to stoop. Michael peered inside, saw only blackness and immediately regretted that he hadn’t brought a flashlight.

  Cursing under his breath, he moved to a window panel closer to where the motorbike had been parked but still saw nothing.

  He headed for the side entrance door, holding his breath as he twisted the knob. Bingo. It was unlocked.

  Light bathed him before he could pull the door open.

  “Freeze and put your hands where I can see them.”

  He recognized Wojokowski’s voice and silently cursed himself for letting this happen even as he obeyed the police officer. But how had Wojo caught him? H
e hadn’t been on Coleman’s property long enough for the police to respond even if a neighbor had spotted him and called it in.

  “Now turn around,” Wojo ordered.

  Michael turned, the flare of the flashlight shining into his eyes and causing his pupils to contract. He shielded his eyes with a hand.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Wojo said. “You got three seconds to tell me what you’re doing here.”

  Michael quickly explained about the motorbike he’d seen in the garage and his theory that Coleman might have been riding it the night he disappeared. Wojo listened silently, then ordered him to stand against the wall of the garage while he frisked him.

  “Your story sounds like a crock of shit,” he said.

  “Aren’t you even going to check it out?”

  Wojo pulled open the side entrance door and swept the powerful beam of his flashlight over the interior of the garage. The aluminum frame of the motorbike reflected the light back at them. Michael’s stomach did a free fall.

  “Like I said, a crock of shit,” Wojo said. “I could arrest you for trespassing, but we’ll be arresting you for something a whole lot more serious soon enough. So why don’t you save us a lot of trouble and just tell me where Quincy is?”

  “I don’t know,” Michael said tightly.

  “I got to hand it to you, Donahue. You sound convincing. You using that same innocent act on that pretty lawyer? Is that how you got her to sleep with you?”

  “Leave her out of this,” Michael bit out, wondering how Wojo could possibly know about Sara.

  “I didn’t bring her into it,” he said. “You better get out of here while the gettin’s good, Donahue.”

  Michael retraced his path, passing within steps of a generic four-door automobile that hadn’t been parked in front of Coleman’s house ten minutes ago. He recognized it for what it was: an unmarked police car.

  Wojo’s comment about Sara suddenly made sense.

  The policeman knew Michael was sleeping with Sara because he’d been following him.

  SARA’S HEART raced and her legs pumped as she ran, her long, gliding strides carrying her around the high-school track that the receptionist at the dentist’s office next door had recommended.

  The track was considerably flatter than the hilly three-mile course she usually ran in the mornings and also much quieter. The only other person in sight was a lone woman standing at the opposite end of the oval.

  Sara slowed to a jog and then to a walk, her body flushed with the natural high she often got from running. Although today she couldn’t swear that her morning run was the cause of her euphoria.

  The more likely reason for that was Michael Donahue.

  The pure and simple truth was that he made her happy. Her life made sense since they’d started sleeping together two nights ago, as though he’d filled the last piece of emptiness inside her. She wrapped her arms around herself as she cooled down, hugging the knowledge to herself. She refused to think about what the future would bring.

  For now, she was just going to be happy.

  The track made a loop around the high-school football field, with goal posts positioned on either end. Sara rounded one of the curves, closing the distance between herself and the woman. She placed the woman’s age at about sixty. She was dressed in low-heeled shoes and a navy dress too dark for the sunny day.

  What was she doing here? Sara wondered. She obviously hadn’t come to exercise.

  “Good morning,” Sara called to her.

  The woman had been standing still but now went into motion, walking directly toward Sara. Thin and pale and graying, she looked as though a strong wind might blow her over. She clutched what appeared to be envelopes tied together with a pink ribbon.

  “Are you Sara Brenneman?” she asked.

  “I am.” Sara came to a stop, her breathing only just now returning to normal. “How did you know that?”

  “I went to your office. Nobody was there yet the receptionist next door told me where to find you,” the woman said. “I’m Jill Coleman, Quincy’s wife.”

  So that was the reason for the woman’s frazzled appearance. Somebody had told Sara the couple hadn’t lived together in years, but Jill Coleman obviously still cared for her estranged husband. Sara temporarily shoved aside her curiosity over why the woman had gone to such lengths to seek her out.

  “I’m sorry about what you’re going through,” Sara said. “Is there any news about your husband?”

  “None,” Mrs. Coleman said.

  “Well, I hope they find him soon.” Sara waited, her mind rewinding to the visit Jill Coleman’s husband had paid her a week ago today. She’d also been dressed in running clothes that day. She got the uneasy feeling this confrontation wouldn’t go any better than that one had.

  Mrs. Coleman moistened her lips. “I hear you’re Michael Donahue’s lawyer.”

  Sara swallowed a sigh. On some level she’d known this was about Michael. “I’m his great-aunt’s lawyer. Michael doesn’t have a lawyer because he hasn’t done anything to warrant one.”

  “Chief Jackson told me you got Donahue released after the police arrested him.”

  “Michael was never under arrest,” Sara said.

  “If you hadn’t interfered,” Mrs. Coleman countered, “the police could have made him tell what he did to Quincy.”

  “I’ll say this again, Mrs. Coleman.” Sara called upon her professionalism, never mind she was sweating lightly and wearing running shorts and a tank top. “Michael isn’t involved in your husband’s disappearance.”

  “I see he has you completely fooled,” she said, her eyes as hard as her husband’s had been, using the same words he had, “just like he fooled my daughter.”

  Sara doubted she could say anything to change what Mrs. Coleman believed, but made a stab at it. “I’m sorry about what happened to your daughter, and I’m sorry your husband is missing, but I can’t let you talk that way about Michael.”

  “Then maybe you’ll listen to what my daughter has to say.” Mrs. Coleman untied the ribbon from the packet of envelopes and pulled worn, white sheets of paper from the first two. Sara couldn’t tell whether the slight breeze was rustling the paper or if her hands were shaking. “These are some of her letters.”

  “Mrs. Coleman, I hardly think this is necessary,” Sara said.

  “Well, I do,” she snapped. “You need to understand what kind of man you’re defending.”

  Mrs. Coleman began to read, her voice quivering.

  I cry all the time. I’d do anything for him, but it’s never enough.

  He comes home late and gets angry when I ask where he’s been. He’s cheating on me. I just know it.

  I think about coming back home, but I’d die without him. I never thought love would hurt like this.

  Mrs. Coleman wiped away the trail of tears dripping down her face before looking up. “I could go on, but I’ve made my point.”

  Sara crossed her arms over her chest, not sure how to get across to a still-grieving mother that she didn’t put much stock in what her daughter had written. Hadn’t Laurie told her Chrissy had pursued Michael? If anything, Chrissy sounded as though she’d been obsessed with him. “And what point would that be?”

  “That Michael Donahue can’t be trusted! Can’t you see that he’s behind my husband’s disappearance?”

  Sara wondered if the woman knew Michael was one of the volunteers who’d joined in the search and that he was probably looking for her husband as they spoke. “You’re wrong.”

  “Weren’t you listening?” Mrs. Coleman cried. “Didn’t what Chrissy wrote tell you anything?”

  “It told me she was a very unhappy girl.”

  “Because of Donahue! My daughter is dead because of him. My husband could be dead, too. Because of him! And you took his case. You’re helping him!”

  “Like I already told you, I’m not his lawyer,” Sara said, reining in her anger, remin
ding herself that the other woman was distraught because her husband was missing. “But I don’t believe he’s guilty of anything.”

  “You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?” Mrs. Coleman accused. “That’s why you won’t believe me.”

  “It’s none of your business who I’m sleeping with.” Sara lifted her chin. Her car was parked in the lot just beyond the track. She didn’t have to listen to this. “I’m going now.”

  She walked away, leaving Mrs. Coleman standing on the spongy surface of the track.

  “You’re a stupid, stupid girl.” Mrs. Coleman called after her, waving one of the letters. Sara kept walking, but she couldn’t get far enough away to avoid hearing the woman’s parting shot. “Donahue’s using you, just like he used Chrissy. By the time you realize that, it’ll be too late.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE CELL PHONE Laurie had tossed on the empty passenger seat rang, playing the tune of a love song she’d stupidly downloaded after her passionate night with Kenny.

  She picked up the phone, verified from the on-screen prompt that it was indeed Kenny calling and shut it off.

  She not only refused to talk to Kenny, she wasn’t going to listen to the strains of “I Will Always Love You” even one more time. Too bad wiping the song from the phone’s memory wouldn’t bring an end to Kenny’s renewed campaign to win her over.

  He’d left her alone for exactly two days and two nights before he’d started in again last night with the phone calls. Here he was calling again at not quite nine in the morning.

  If she didn’t pick up at least once, he’d follow up with a personal visit. Before he did, she needed to shore up her defenses so that they were impenetrable.

  She was getting there. Discovering Kenny had lied to get Chrissy Coleman’s old boyfriend in trouble was definitely not a point in his favor.

  The needle on her gas gauge pointed to empty. She made a quick turn into the station on her right and pulled in front of one of the pumps. Attached to the gas station was a popular repair shop the locals in Indigo Springs swore by.