by Gary Parker
*****
Six hours later and just over 130 miles away, Sandra Richards stepped across the narrow space of Justin Longley’s one-room trailer and kissed him on top of his gray head. A tank of oxygen sat beside the small, bunklike bed where he lay, and a green, snakelike tube ran from the tank up the side of the bed and into his nose. A stubble of white beard stuck out in uneven tufts along his chin, and a series of brownish age spots ran like broken steps up both cheeks. His breath coming in short gasps, Justin lifted his head off his pillow and panted his words out.
“You . . . go . . . to her,” he said. “Bring . . . her . . . back . . . to me.
Before she gets . . . gets herself killed.”
Sandra picked up a gym bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I’ll get her,” she said. “Are you going to be all right for a couple of days?”
Justin smiled as best he could and reached out his right hand. She took it, and he squeezed hard. Though thin and bony, the hand still felt strong. “I . . . made it . . . a long time,” he wheezed. “I guess . . . I’ll last a few more . . . days.”
“I put a big chicken casserole in the refrigerator. Just warm it up on the stove, you’ll have enough to eat.”
He dropped her hand. “Just . . . go.” He waved at her. “I can manage.”
Sandra inhaled sharply. He looked so frail. Last night’s narrow escape and all-night drive had taken too much out of him.
Their good friend at the convenience store had done exactly what Justin had asked him to do years ago—call him if and when anyone came asking for directions to Black Canyon Drive.
When the two men in the silver Lexus stopped in for gas and directions, he gave them both. Then, the second they pulled out of his parking lot, he called Justin’s house. Sandra pretty much took it from there. She grabbed the oxygen and the few belongings they kept in the closets. Loaded it all in the small trailer home Justin had bought years ago for just this purpose.
Hooked the home to her truck. Drove down Black Canyon in the opposite direction from Rudy’s store. Parked behind an outcropping of bare black rocks and waited and watched until the intruders left.
Everything followed the plan Justin had made since the day he moved to Black Canyon almost twenty years ago. The intruders, faceless men with unknown names, came as Justin told Sandra they someday would. Though managing to escape them for almost half a century, he had long anticipated the day they would hunt him down.
Well, now the day had arrived, and Justin, with Sandra’s help, had managed to stay one step ahead of them once again.
Staring at the pencil-thin man, she didn’t know how many more days he had left, but if she had anything to do with it, his days would end naturally, not when a couple of hired thugs decided to take him out.
Through a set of worn but serviceable binoculars, they had watched the two men from behind the black rocks. When the thugs finished, Sandra and Justin started back toward the house, planning to pick up a few more belongings before making their final exit. But then another car arrived, then a third. The binoculars identified the driver of the third car as Connie Brandon.
Sandra felt like crying when she saw Connie. This meant the worst possible scenario had played itself out. Not only had Jack died, but now his wife had placed herself in grave danger.
Unable to leave the tragedy alone, she had kept picking at it and picking at it until she had uncovered the sore and made it worse.
Her persistence created danger for her, but she either didn’t know or didn’t care. It didn’t slow her down any. Sandra had to do something to make her stop.
“Your cane is right here,” she said to Justin. “Right by your head.”
Justin snuggled deeper into his pillow. “I know where my . . . my cane is,” he said, his voice just a bit short. “Now . . . go. She needs . . . to face it. Bring . . . bring . . . ” He couldn’t continue.
Sandra leaned over him again and ran her hand over his cheek. She kissed him one more time. For far too long he had kept the burden to himself—the burden of knowing too much, the burden of hiding from those who wanted his secrets dead and buried. Only within the last year had Sandra learned what Justin knew. Only within the last year had he turned to anyone but himself to survive. Now, because of that, he blamed himself for Jack’s death. Worse still, he feared Connie might die too. If he didn’t reveal the truth to her, she might stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time and die like her husband. It almost happened last night. If she had come to Black Canyon a couple of hours earlier, she would have met her end in the Nevada desert.
Her bag secure over her arm, Sandra pivoted and headed to the door. Only she could prevent Connie’s death. But to prevent it, she had to bring her to Justin.
Opening the camper door, Sandra turned back for one more look at her granddaddy. “You take care now,” she said.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“If that casserole you made don’t kill me, I’ll be fine.”
Laughing, Sandra left him, unhooked the trailer from their truck and climbed into the cab. Heading down the dirt road from the grove of hickory trees where the camper sat, she considered praying for Justin. But then she shook her head. Prayer didn’t do much for her. Since high school, she had given up much praying. Turning off the dirt road onto the highway, she decided she better keep on depending on herself. So far, that had gotten her along just fine.
*****
All day long, Brit watched Connie. Refreshed from a few hours sleep on the plane and powered by the best amphetamines money could by, he had no trouble staying awake. When she disappeared into her house after seeing her kids onto their buses, Brit sat in his red Jaguar, drummed a steady beat on the steering wheel, and waited. When she came out just after nine o’clock and drove downtown, he drummed and followed. When she came back home, sat down on her back deck, and stared out over the Missouri River, he drummed faster and waited some more. When the kids traipsed in all noisy and busy after school and the sun went down and the smell of chicken frying drifted out her kitchen window, his drumming and waiting reached a fever pitch, and he didn’t know if he could wait much longer.
Then, when darkness fell and Connie stepped out of the house in a jogging suit and started walking down the road, Brit stopped drumming and decided to wait no more. As he figured it, he had waited too long already.
Lennie had held out on him about Sandra Richards. Now she and that sickly old grandfather of hers had disappeared.
After leaving Richards’s place, he and Lennie had come back to St. Louis without doing a thing about Connie Brandon. If he waited any longer, she might do worse than disappear. She might go to the police, find his picture in a Nevada computer check, identify him for what he was, a rogue operator who hired out to the highest bidder to do odds and ends on the dark side of the law. He couldn’t wait for that to happen. Regardless of what Lennie said, the time to act had come.
Watching Connie stride down the road in her white jogging suit, her hair pinned back in a ponytail, he made a snap decision.
It would happen so quickly she would never know what hit her.
Brit’s eyes lit up at his simple plan. Connie Brandon walked almost every day—either morning or night. Everyone knew that. Her stroll took her down a steep narrow road, a road that bordered the cliffs that hung over the Missouri River several hundred feet below. From time to time, she came within a few feet of those bluffs, close enough to stop and stare over them. During his surveillance, he had seen her do it. If he knew, then surely so did others. He could knock her over the cliffs and everyone would assume she fell . . . or maybe jumped.
He switched on the car. It purred like a big cat. Brit smiled and smoothed down his ponytail. He flicked on the lights and saw Connie up ahead of him, her slender frame disappearing as she pumped her arm weights and moved around the curve of the road. Slowly, he eased away from the curb. The car seemed to leap under his hands. He pressed the gas pedal more firmly.
The car darted across the
road.
Connie disappeared around the curve. He smiled wider.
He knew the spot. A quick twist in the road, a narrowing of the shoulder on the right side, a few short feet to the bluffs that dropped down to the river.
The car took on a life of its own. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. The headlights of the car grabbed into the night, a cat’s paws seeking prey. He slid around the corner and spotted Connie Brandon no more than twenty feet ahead, her red hair bouncing in its ponytail. The front fender of the Jaguar cut to the right and reached for Connie’s left hip. In a half second, it would— Brit’s smile died on his face. Connie Brandon moved with the agility of an antelope avoiding the big cat. Without ever looking back, she made a quick leap to the right, avoided his car, and tumbled away from him toward a thicket of deep green underbrush. Something crashed on his hood, and he spotted one of Connie’s arm weights as it thumped off the car onto the road.
As fast as he had tried to run her down, Brit gunned the car away, down and around the twist in the road and across a bridge that sat a quarter of a mile away. Cursing under his breath, he turned left past the bridge and darted up the highway. Though certain she hadn’t seen him, he made a couple of calculations usually beyond his ability to make. He concluded, first, that he needed to switch cars if he wanted to continue his surveillance and, second, that he had to do her in a hurry. If she had by some chance seen him just now, she would know beyond any doubt that he wanted her dead.
CHAPTER
24
Le aping off the ground, Connie steadied herself and peered down the road at the back of the car that had almost hit her.
Seen in the glow of its taillights, the car looked foreign, a bright red European model. For several seconds, she stayed poised behind a huge hickory tree, ready to dodge again. To her back six feet of Missouri soil separated her from the bank that dropped toward the river.
A frown crossed her face. Did the driver of the car deliberately try to run her down? She didn’t know. The pavement curved sharply at the exact point the car almost hit her, and it was dark. Maybe it was an accident. But why didn’t the driver stop and check on her?
Her left elbow throbbed, and she realized she had landed on it when she fell. By the streetlight, she checked the arm, saw a scratch running from her wrist to her elbow. To her relief, nothing else hurt.
She stepped past the hickory tree and hurried onto the road. Forgetting her weights, she hustled back to the house and ran inside. Carefully, she locked the doors and checked on Daniel and Katie. Both were sound asleep.
In her bedroom, she left the light on, grabbed her Bible off her nightstand, and climbed under the covers without removing her walking clothes. Not wanting to close her eyes, she opened the Bible and began to search it, reading each and every passage she could find that told a Christian what to do with fear.
*****
At just past eleven o’clock, Sandra Richards parked her truck in the shadows at the side of a grocery store off Missouri Boulevard, smoothed down the front of her blue jeans, and climbed out. After scanning the front of the store for unfriendly faces, she held up a slip of yellow paper and studied it for several seconds. Then, mumbling the numbers to herself, she hopped out of the truck and walked briskly to the pay phone by the side of the store. At the phone, she tilted her head into the metal box that housed it and dialed Jack Brandon’s house. It took five rings before anyone answered.
“Hello?”
Sandra squeezed the phone and exhaled. Okay, now or never. “Yes, Connie Brandon?”
“Yes, who is this?”
Sandra closed her eyes briefly, then spat out her message.
“This is Sandra Richards. I knew your husband.”
Silence came onto the line. Then Sandra heard Connie choking. She decided she better speak before Connie hung up or collapsed from shock.
“Connie!” she shouted, forgetting her need for caution.
“You need to know this right now! I didn’t have an affair with your husband. I made that up—if you’ll let me see you, I’ll make it all plain to you. I’ve known Jack a long time . . . but not in the way you think. Connie, I’m Jack’s cousin! His father and my mother were brother and sister, you’ve got to believe me . . . I can explain it all . . . just let me see you—”
Sandra stopped, panting from her effort, hoping Connie wouldn’t slam down the phone. Above her head, a storm of insects buzzed at a light, and she glanced up at them as she waited for a response. For a second, she thought Connie had fainted, but then she heard a deep breath and knew she hadn’t lost her.
“Connie, I need to see you,” she pleaded. “I’m your only hope of knowing the truth about Jack.” She waited again, knowing she should now leave it alone. Connie would accept or reject her offer, and she would accept whatever she chose. If she said no, then so be it. She and Justin would disappear. To do more placed all their lives in danger.
She heard Connie clear her throat. Her long fingers gripped the phone tighter.
Connie said, “I knew Jack stayed faithful, I just knew it.”
“He did, Connie, he did. Never doubt that, not for a second. Can I see you? I’ll tell you everything.”
“Where are you?”
“Real close.”
“I’ll meet you.”
“That may not be best. People are looking for me.”
“Then how do we do this?”
“Let me come to you.”
Silence came on the phone again. Sandra guessed the reason for the hesitation. Connie didn’t trust her. Why should she?
“It’s okay, Connie,” she assured her. “Look, I’m not here to hurt you, or the kids either. I’m here to help, to give you some answers. You’ve got to—”
She stopped as a black car slowed down and pulled into the parking lot. The car’s driver gazed at her as he came to a stop and climbed out. Sandra exhaled softly. The man wasn’t one of the two who ransacked Justin’s place in Black Canyon. She focused again on Connie.
“I’ve got to get off the phone,” she said. “I’m . . . well . . . I’m in some danger here. Can I see you?”
Another second passed. Then Connie asked, “When do you want to meet?”
“Tonight, right now.”
Connie didn’t hesitate this time. “Okay, I’m home, it’s—”
“I know the address. I’ll get there in ten minutes.”
“Okay.” The line went dead.
Hanging up, Sandra surveyed the parking lot, then crawled back into her truck. For better or worse, she had to convince Connie to go with her to Justin.
*****
The instant Connie opened the front door and looked into Sandra Richards’s eyes, she felt certain the woman had told her the truth. Her eyes, up close like this, mirrored the eyes of Jack Brandon. Slightly narrow at the edges, deeply set under the brow, and covered by eyelashes long enough to catch a spider.
Almost as tall as Jack, her frame matched his, too, slender but not frail. Connie stepped back and motioned Sandra inside. As she eased past, Connie noticed her hands, long and tightly clenched by her sides. Seeing the tension, Connie almost smiled.
She knew the feeling.
“Let’s go to the kitchen,” said Connie, hoping she sounded calm. “I’ve got some tea brewing.” She led Sandra through the entryway.
“Have a seat,” she said, indicating the table by the back window.
Obeying, Sandra pulled out a chair and sat down, her slender hands resting on the table. Connie poured two cups of tea, carried them to the table, and took a seat beside Sandra.
Connie dropped a cube of sugar into her tea and stirred it slowly. Her heart thumped, and she squeezed the spoon to keep her hands from shaking. After several seconds, she raised her eyes and faced Sandra. “Tell me all you know,” she said.
Sandra took a sip of tea, then set the cup down. “I don’t know everything,” she said. “But I do know Jack and I didn’t have an affair. I need to say that first thing, get it
cleared up between me and you. Like I told you, Jack and I, we’re—well, we were cousins.”
“Why did you tell the police you and Jack were lovers?”
Sandra sighed. “I had to do it,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“I did it to protect you.”
“You’ll need to explain that one.”
“Well, it’s simple really. I didn’t want you hurt. The more you dug around into Jack’s death, the greater the danger became. Whoever killed him certainly wants the police to write it off as a suicide. But, if you found something that indicated murder, they couldn’t do that. I figured it better for you to think it a suicide than for you to end up a victim. I didn’t want your kids to end up orphans. So, I gave Jack a motive for suicide, a guilty conscience, you know how that works.”
“But an affair ruins his reputation.”
Sandra lowered her eyes. “I had to make a choice,” she said. “A tough one. Help you stay alive or . . . ”
For several moments, Connie let the silence linger. Then she said, “But what were you even doing here? What brought you to Jefferson City in the first place?”
“I came to get Jack.”
“You’ll have to explain that too.”
Sandra studied the beige tablecloth for a moment. Connie could see her thinking, trying to decide what to say. She lifted her tea to her lips and waited. Sandra inhaled slowly, then faced her. “Jack’s grandfather,” she whispered. “He’s dying.”
Connie almost dropped her cup. Jack’s grandfather! Still alive? According to Jack, his grandfather died the year he started college at MU!
“But he’s dead!” she insisted. “Jack wouldn’t lie about that!
Jack wouldn’t deliberately make up a story, hide the truth from me. It’s not—”
