He stood on a patch of concrete a hundred yards behind the perimeter on the east side of the hotel with Malin. Officers from his unit were closer in because they wanted to get a good look at the helmets and flat vests as SWAT dropped to a combat crouch keeping the back door squarely in their field of fire. Suzi was already inside and it troubled Temeke that she took two patrol officers with her and didn’t leave room for him and Malin.
Behind Temeke was the Beercat SWAT vehicle parked on Estancia Drive where a sergeant reviewed quick and dirty contingency plans. Officer Manning’s K-9 seemed to be doing a good job of soaking a tire and it was likely he had been drawn to the scent of oil and flatulence.
“The service went well,” Malin said, looking up at Temeke from under a Blue Lives Matter cap. “When we left the guests were already beating a path to the picnic tables in Haynes Park.”
“I’m sorry for the family.” Temeke breathed in the scent of pine needles and looked up at a blue sky. “Any sign of Rosie Ellis?”
“She was with two other women in the parking lot. I wasn’t close enough to hear what they were saying.”
“I’d rather you keep this between ourselves. But I would like to take another look in Rosie’s house. Preferably when she’s not there.”
“What are you thinking?”
“It was something Violet said. She said Rosie was well educated. Liked to read. Worth checking out that statement.”
From the edge of the trees Temeke thought he heard the panting of a dog echoing off the back wall and the scrape of a boot on the pavement. A bird rustled in a roost above them, took off so fast Temeke didn’t see where it went. He felt the current of air on his head and he heard a sudden gasp seeping into Malin’s lungs. He touched her on the back, saw her settle back down. It replayed a sharp memory in his head, one he hadn’t thought of in years.
He was nine when his father drank a bottle of scotch in the late afternoon and had slept it off under a tree in London’s Clapham Common. Temeke had wandered off to a small peninsular in Mount Pond and played among the rocks and stones until the light faded and everything went black. A leaden sky reflected in a pool of sooty water, and trees and shrubs were mythical creatures rising up out of a crack in the earth, bodies hunched and ready to pounce. He sat there trembling with cold, staring out at the shadows and the terrible silence. There wasn’t a hand on his back to steady him then, but he remembered the sound of each rasping, nine-year-old breath. Until he heard a hi-lo siren and saw a Ford Anglia with a checkered rally stripe. It was his mother’s voice that drifted over the common and the sound of his chattering teeth. David...
Temeke didn’t feel as confident as he did when he first arrived at the Hampton Inn. Quite the opposite. The dial on his watch showed three fifteen and Suzi’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear. You’ll stay there all evening and well into the night if that’s what it takes. A gust shook the trees now and then, but for all the activity outside it was unnervingly quiet.
“Sir. Based on the intel, McCann could be armed, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you think SWAT will drill a hole in the bedroom wall next door and use a pinhole camera to keep an eye on him?”
“I doubt it. That would be operating on a surplus of confidence and a shortage of common sense. They’ll call the room number and tell McCann there’s a package waiting for him downstairs. Us.”
He heard her chuckle and then saw her hike her chin at Luis. “He picked up something interesting on the radio while we were waiting. Suzie asked him how come you thought McCann was here? Luis told her a veteran like you had contacts and many friends. I’d like to know what she meant when she said she’d be laughing her ass off if you were wrong.”
“Kind of warms your heart, doesn’t it?” Temeke didn’t bother to hold back the grimace.
His mood had already taken the course he had feared and the vision of a likely murder weapon found its way into his mind. Photos Maggie had taken of McCann’s old pickup showed a forty-one inch tire iron, or thereabouts, and a crowbar in the flatbed. Something in his subconscious triggered a warning bell.
“What’s the betting McCann’s already left? Probably saw us coming,” he said, mind whirring into overtime. “I say we take a trip to Haynes Park.”
“I’m game.”
Malin’s voice was interrupted by a sharp sound and it took Temeke a few seconds to realize it was a fire alarm. In those few seconds all he could think about was whether Suzi Cornwell could lead a case such as this. Because a fire alarm meant three things. A genuine fire, a test or a stupid prank. If it was the latter, their fugitives would be outside in less than five seconds and it would be a huge loss of prestige for Cornwell.
Three teenage girls in swimsuits were the first to appear, running under the porch in bare feet, purses slapping against bare thighs. An overweight man struggled with the towel around his waist and an elderly couple hobbled as far as the nearest planter. Temeke ran forward to assist, sensing Malin at his left shoulder looking around as he did for any signs of McCann.
Before he had a chance to consider the rear exits, Temeke caught sight of Suzi slouching toward them, hands shoved in her pants pockets. Her expression changed when she spotted him, face plastered with a phony smile.
“Looks like we just missed them,” she said, amping up the smile. “How they got out is anyone’s guess. But let me ask you something? Was it a raw hunch you knew they were here? Or was it a dark red Cutlass one of my officers saw?”
FIFTY
Flynn stood at the southwest corner of Haynes Park behind the community swimming pool. His cheek felt warm against Jesky’s chest and he could hear the tick, tick, tick of his big old heart.
“You gotta stop running, son,” Jesky whispered. “We’re all frail. That’s how we grow in this bag of bones.”
The air was laced with pine smells and the occasional waft of bitter sap. Flynn was too close now to stop and he was increasingly antsy as he watched cars flash by on the road. “You’re not frail,” he murmured. “Not like me.”
“’Course I am. Where there’s a rotten mind, there’s a rotten way. I’ve done things I should never have done. Here I am helping a wanted man. Not just any man. My boy.”
“The cops won’t make that distinction, Jesk.”
“They’ll understand. Got sons themselves. You’re back, ain’t ya?”
Yes, he was back. Not by his own choice but because Jesky had driven all the way to Gallup to bring him home. Flynn wasn’t a good candidate to be hiding out in the wilds of Sedona, nor did he escape scrutiny every time he came up for air. Men noticed him, women liked him. He’d never have made it.
He also knew the nightmares would never go entirely. Tarian would come at night, gliding toward him in a thin white body. Eye sockets staring out from a skull picked clean by worms and a jaw sagging from the weight of a howl. Random dreams that brought the deep rumble of a woman’s laughter and white fingers stretching out from beneath the sheets, cold fingers seeking his.
“I’m scared, Jesk” he said, winding his arms around Jesky’s back where they never quite joined.
“I can stay if you want―”
“No. You’ve done enough. Tell the cops you were held at gunpoint. Tell them you ran when you got the chance.”
“I don’t think that nosy detective’s gonna fall for that one, son. I might need a few bruises to go with it.”
Flynn could feel Jesky’s hand through his jacket, rubbing his back like it did when he was a boy. Like the time when the school bus came to take him to kindergarten when he was five and he was sobbing up a storm on the curb. “I’ll be right here, by the big yellow hydrant when you get back,” Jesky had said.
When Flynn got off the bus for the first time, there Jesky was, body hunched, arms out. He had darker hair then and white teeth. Flynn remembered because of the big smile he had. Now he had a vague sense he’d never see that smile again. Or smell the musty scent of stale cigarettes in quite the same way.
“I love you, son. Nothing’s changed.”
But it had changed. Everything had changed. Flynn lifted his head when he heard the sound of popping fir cones under the tires of an advancing car. He felt a surge of adrenaline, felt the strongest urge to run, to get as far away as he could. With any luck he’d be out in the foothills before nightfall with only the moon for a guide. He fought the impulse down when he saw the car and his mom’s pale face behind the wheel.
“You’ve lost weight,” she said as she opened the driver’s door. “And you’ve aged.”
“It’s hair dye, mom. It’ll grow out.” He saw the flicker of a smile as both her hands patted his chest and his cheek.
“I’m sorry about your dad. But he wasn’t one to stay in one place,” she said. “He loved traveling.”
“Yeah, well, he went further than he’s ever been. Must have ripped a hole in the damn sky. Listen mom, whatever they tell you, please don’t think I did anything bad. It wasn’t like that. Tarian and I... we would have made it if she hadn’t been so sick.”
Bernie gave a smile and there was a tear behind it. He could tell because her eyes were sparkly and sad like you’d expect. “Will you be OK?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be OK. Don’t cry, mom. And don’t worry about me either. Just got a few things to take care of.” He mentally crossed his fingers that Rosie was here, that she hadn’t changed her mind. It gave him a shiver of anticipation. “I love you, mom.”
The lump in his throat began to throb and Jesky’s brave smile triggered a sense of hopelessness. Flynn had just a few seconds to scan Jesky’s face as many times as he could, and make a careful sketch of it in the back of his mind. “I love you too, dad.”
For a moment he felt off-balance, breathing erratic and legs shaky from the stress. He didn’t hear what they said as he ran through the gate into the park. The trees arched over him in a protective canopy whispering in the way they had done the night of the fire. He slowed to a walk as he made his way across the gravel paths of the playground. Somewhere to his right he heard the soft gurgle of a little boy as his chubby hand threw a wad of bread into the duck pond, and between the sweaty bodies of two men on the running path Flynn could see the pavilion. Clouds cast shadows across the grass, turning the canvas into a blur of gray and sunlight slanted through the trees. The supporting ropes trembled in a gust of wind all the way down to the tent pegs, and random people walked in and out with glasses of wine in their hands.
Rosie sat beneath an overhang of white roses and blue statice, the same flowers Tarian had chosen for their wedding. She craned her neck for a better view, didn’t recognize him at first. When she did, the frown deepened across her forehead and her posture stiffened.
No, Flynn. No, she mouthed, eyes flicking to a coal skinned man in khaki pants. Flynn met his gaze, which sent out a message of confidence as he moved swiftly toward him. He was not alone; there were ten others with him scattered across the parking lot and surging toward the tent.
Flynn headed toward Rosie first, saw the rise and fall of her chest and he could almost hear the deep breaths she took. But he kept on walking until he stood in front of her.
“Here,” he said.
Rosie looked down at the wedding band and shook her head. “It’s yours, Flynn. I can’t take it.”
He wrapped her fingers around it and he let her stare at it for a few seconds. A black tungsten flat-style ring engraved with a Celtic design. She would have recognized it. It was the one she had given him all those years ago.
The smell of the pine trees reminded him of the shed, the accusations, the beatings. What had happened that night and he would tell the police all he knew. There was nothing to lose.
He felt a hand on his arm as both wrists were tugged behind his back. The snap of cuffs reminded him of another time, only these were cold and permanent. He heard the words You have a right to remain silent... All others were a blur over the sound of a deep wail that came from somewhere in the heart of the pavilion. He saw a woman anchored by the waist and drooping like a rag doll in front of the man who held her. Mouth gaping like a fish and hands clawing the air, Miley Walley-Bennett began to scream.
Flynn didn’t want to see her, couldn’t listen to anger and grief rolled into one horrifying sound. Instead, he looked down into a pair of watery eyes and smiled. “Be brave for me, Rosie.”
He kept his eyes on that beautiful face until the car turned left out of the parking lot. Gazing forward through the partition cage, he counted the diamond slats to blank out the noise from the protestors in the street. Cameras flashed and fists pounded on the window and all he could see were stars. The Miranda warning kept replaying in his head and his mind couldn’t grasp why he was there. He didn’t remember the sergeant’s voice when he arrived at the jail or the photos they took.
But he did remember forcing his mind away from the clang of the cell door and how he pressed his hands to his ears to shut out the screaming.
FIFTY-ONE
Malin sat in a dismal conference room where aluminum blinds shaded her from the bright sunlight outside. She sat opposite Flynn McCann whose foot tapped relentlessly against the table leg to see if he could get a rise out of her. She had asked him if he wanted a lawyer and he responded no. Only guilty men lawyer up.
Suzi and Temeke were sitting comfortably in the next door interview room. Suzi leading, Temeke taking a back seat for a change. Captain Fowler and Unit Commander Hackett were watching behind the glass leaning their butts against the table and listening to every word. Half of Malin wanted to impress and half of her was complimented by Suzi’s insistence she talk to Flynn on her own. Because he liked her. Opened up to her.
Malin had already seen the bruises on Flynn’s back and arm, deep welts and scratches as if he’d boxed his way through a thorn bush. His lips were tight one minute and open the next and his eyes often came to rest on the digital tape recorder between them, mouth moving so fast it was hard to keep up.
“Your head OK?” she asked. There was no sign of a bandage but if the head injury had caused any internal damage it was a toss-up he would be lucid.
“I get flashes...” he said, patting the side of his head. “Flashes of her. What she did. Some of the guys warned me, said she was using. We all thought it was a rumor.”
“But it wasn’t, was it?”
“No.” Flynn’s eyes flicked from Malin to the floor and she had the sensation he was mentally crossing each item off as he talked. “When you’re living with someone who has a master’s in psychology arguing can get tricky.”
“I understand you met her through counseling?”
“Yeah. I didn’t know people could have extreme ranges of hatred and pleasure, and not show it,” he said. “I never knew when she was happy. Only when she was mad. Sometimes there’d be this dull film over her eyes like a fish you’re about to eat.”
Malin watched him wave that bottle of water in his hand, felt a ripple up her spine that ended near her hairline. Pound for pound Flynn was the greater threat.
“She was good at everything,” he said. “Tennis, horse riding, golf, things I didn’t have any interest in. I never understood why she wanted grubby, tacky me to wear a blazer and a tie when she could have had anyone else. Me with the lousy jobs and the hard-to-understand accent. Jeez it was embarrassing. I clam up around people like that.”
Malin wasn’t quite sure what he meant by hard-to-understand accent. She assumed it was just a dig at uncouth conversation. “People like what?”
“Preppy. I even stopped wanting to go out with her because she’d pull me down in front of her friends, make me feel worthless. Thing is, I didn’t realize how much she needed Cliff.” He broke the seal off the bottle and took repeated tugs, wiping his mouth each time. “I wondered why she was always snappy about the little things. Dirt on the hall rug, scuffs on the baseboards, grease on the gas rings. I told her I didn’t care. That was my biggest mistake. She started slapping me. When she’d had en
ough of the slapping she’d grab the nearest object and use that instead. It’s easy to beat an abused dog because they always come back.”
“Talking of bruises. Tarian had bruises,” Malin said. “I saw the photos.”
Flynn frowned, seemed to be raking his mind for the right thing to say. “She did it to get back at me. Hold me hostage.”
“You’re saying her bruises were self-inflicted?” Malin knew there were no bruises or cuts to Tarian’s back or rear. Mostly thighs, lower arms and belly. “I ask because the photos look like they were done by a professional.”
“I told you she’d strike back. Even the score.” Flynn’s eyes narrowed and then flickered a little as if he had a momentary spurt of fury. “I begged her to give up the meth. It was making her sick. Why would the police believe a big guy like me? They’re going to believe a woman every time.”
“Not every time,” Malin said.
“It got me evicted.”
“You didn’t stay evicted for long.”
“Because Tarian was stalking... showing up at Rosie’s house at any time of day or night. Which she did quite often, by the way. And she kept threatening suicide. Kept telling me how I had abandoned her, how all these people had gotten between us. She said she wanted it back the way it was. Just her and me. And then she said, ‘I lost you. Now you’re going to lose everything.’ What the heck was I supposed to do?”
“You could have found somewhere else to live. An apartment?”
“Yes. I could have.” He kept his eyes on Malin a beat too long and then shuddered as if pushing aside a thought. Sometimes he looked like he was a million miles away. Sometimes four years in the past. “I thought if I stayed with Rosie at least she’d have protection. Maybe I was selfish, wanting to be with someone who knew me. Didn’t ask questions. Let me be myself. Maybe I was just too down on my luck to notice.”
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