by TJ O'Connor
“Yes, some. The killer must have inadvertently buried the girls near their grave—Tyler’s construction equipment dug them all up together.”
“Then, it wasn’t about the highway project,” Bear said with a slow, unsure nod. “It was about concealing the girls’ murders.” He looked from Tuscani’s body to Angel. “André realized all the bones you found weren’t old enough to be from the Civil War—that’s what he meant about the medical examiner making a mistake.”
Angel was nodding, too. “And the Diggin’ Man tried to kill him to cover that up, too.”
“I believe that is so.” Poor Nic stood up and walked to her, touching her cheek. “And despite Detective Braddock’s skepticism, I killed no one.” He smiled. “Including your husband.”
“Then Tuscani killed McCorkle,” Bear said. “Trying to find out who had the coins and the jewelry.”
“No.” Poor Nic was defiant. “My men have been following him for days. Lucca was here, digging for any of Amy and Caroline’s remains still here. And he didn’t kill Dr. Cartier, either, but he did go to the hospital later. I understand he attempted to finish him there.”
“You’re telling me what didn’t happen.” Bear’s voice was dry and he watched Poor Nic with narrow, distrustful eyes. “But you’re not telling me what did. Like, how’s Tuck connected to all this?”
Poor Nic shrugged. “Ah, and you’ve been blaming me for his murder, too, Detective.”
“Yes, and I haven’t heard anything to change my mind,” Bear said. He caught Poor Nic’s eyes and the two men locked like rams in the spring. “Are you telling me you weren’t involved with Tuck’s murder?”
“Yes, Detective,” Poor Nic said, folding his arms and staring back at him. “The question is, were you?”
sixty-six
“What does that mean, Nic?”
“I think you know, Detective.”
Bear’s lips tightened and his face turned red—he was mad as hell. He reached out and took Poor Nic’s gun from Angel, tossing it down on the ground. “Okay, Nic, you know so much. Who’s behind all these killings?”
Poor Nic turned and went over to Tommy’s body. His face saddened again. He repeated the sign of the cross as he had over Tuscani, closed his eyes, and said a prayer. When he looked up, he wiped away his emotions without apology.
“Detective, if I were sure who killed my Amy back then,” Poor Nic said, giving Angel his grandfather smile, “Tuck and the others would not have died.”
Angel asked, “How do we find the killer?”
“Only Amy’s lover and I knew what the discovery of the coins and jewelry meant. He must have told Amy’s family they were on the farm at Kelly’s Dig. After all, the entire county knew I was involved in this development. It would be easy to convince them I sent Salazar and Suarez to move the remains and cover up their murders. So, Amy’s family sent Lucca.”
“To kill you,” Bear said. “The vendetta over Amy and Caroline.”
Poor Nic nodded.
“Nicholas, there’s something else.” Angel explained about receiving the bracelet from the local medical examiner the morning before I was killed. “I think whoever killed Salazar knew the M.E. sent it to me. They came to get it back that night.”
“That’s quite possible.” Poor Nic looked down again. “Tommy was looking into it for me. He spoke with the medical examiner and learned that several people inquired about that package sent to you—the day before your husband was killed.”
“Who?” Bear threw his chin toward Tommy. “Besides me, that is.”
“Yes, you were on the list.” His eyes flashed. “And Tommy learned more about you, too—much more.”
“What are you saying?” Bear demanded.
A shiver came over me. I said, “Angel, step away from Bear. Ask him about …”
She was way ahead of me. “Bear?”
He looked first at her, then at Poor Nic. His fingers turned white around the butt of his gun. “You, too, Angela?”
She didn’t answer, but her move away from him did.
Poor Nic reached over and took Angel’s arm, guiding her a step behind him. “In fact, Tommy was suspicious of you—emails, house keys. Detective Spence seems to share that suspicion. After all, how did the killer get into your house that night, Angela?”
“Quiet.” Bear whirled around and threw a hand up demanding silence. His eyes darted across the farmhouse windows, searching for something no one else heard or saw. “Stay here. Someone’s inside.”
“I didn’t hear anything, Detective. Unless you …”
“Stay put.” Bear sprinted to the side of the house, slipped around the corner, and disappeared.
“Tuck?” Angel looked at Poor Nicholas’s gun on the ground, bent down, and retrieved it. “I didn’t hear anything. Did you?”
“No. Nothing.”
“Tuck?” Nic asked with a curious tip of his head. Then, he gestured to the gun in her hand. “You don’t need that, my dear. I won’t hurt you. But keep it if you must.”
Angel ignored him. “Nicholas, you know who is doing all this, don’t you?”
“Yes.” His face softened. “It is …”
The first shot struck Poor Nic’s right shoulder and staggered him backward. His eyes exploded in surprise as his body shuddered, dropping the bracelet and necklace. The second shot struck him before the jewelry hit the ground. He crumbled—life gasping from him.
“Angel, get down,” I yelled. “Down!”
She dove sideways and rolled behind the courtyard wall. She raised the gun and jerked two shots off toward the farmhouse windows. No one was there to receive them.
The killer—my killer—was already gone.
sixty-seven
“Nicholas.” Angel looked over at him lying on the ground. “Nic?”
Nothing.
I was torn. Go after the shooter—learn who killed me—or stay with Angel. No, there was no choice. I stayed. Kneeling beside Poor Nic, I touched his shoulder and felt his life still inside.
“Get something to put pressure on his shoulder. Stop the bleeding and he’ll make it for a while.”
Poor Nic lay on his back. Blood oozed through the hole in his shirt. His lips hissed and his chest barely rose with each labored breath. The first shot passed through his shoulder, perhaps breaking bones, but it shouldn’t take his life. The second shot grazed his other arm, just above the elbow—a flesh wound.
His life was saved by the killer firing in haste.
Angel worked fast, grabbing a handkerchief from her pocket, and stuffing it against the shoulder wound. She ripped Nic’s shirt and used it around his other arm, tightening the makeshift bandage to stop the escaping blood. She checked his pulse, then his breathing.
“I think he’s stable.”
“Raise his head. The bleeding has stopped.” I looked up at the sound of police sirens in the distance. I was about to run around the house when Amy’s voice exploded into my head—It’s him, stop him, stop him … hurry.
The shots came in rapid succession. One, two, three.
Screams—unrecognizable rants. A pause. Another shot. Another pause—more shots. The mayhem was not directed at us. The shots were distant, from somewhere out in the orchard closer to the highway.
“Angel, it’s him. Come on. Leave Nic—he’ll make it.”
Angel stood and sprinted to the veranda, holding the gun out in front of her. She hesitated at the door, peeked in, and cleared the opening with the gun. There was no target. She slipped inside. I followed her down the long hall, emerging in the front of the house and out into the driveway. She stopped and listened; there was no more violence in the air. “Which way, Tuck? Where are they?”
“Listen.” The sirens were silent now. No gunshots erupted. A voice called me from inside my head. “Kelly’s Dig—they’re all there. Come on.
”
“All there?” Angel ran down the gravel road toward the sirens. We weaved down the orchard path and emerged a dozen yards from the debris pile aside Kelly’s Dig. At its edge, Calvin Clemens stood alongside the remains of the old foundation staring down into the pit. Angel lowered her gun and stood watching Clemens. “Tuck?”
“Be strong, Angel—promise me.” We walked to the pit and stopped beside Clemens. I knew what we would find there—she did not. “I never saw this coming. I’m so very sorry. After all these years.”
Clemens gently took her arm, looked down at her gun, and slipped it from her grasp. “You okay, Angela? It’s all over now. It’s all over.”
“Is it?” She shrugged. “Nicholas Bartalotta needs an ambulance—at the farmhouse. He’s been shot.”
“Already on the way.” He turned to go, but stopped, and looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Angela. Really, really sorry.” He took off at a dead run back the way we came.
“Oh, God, Tuck?” She looked into the pit. Mike Spence was inside, near the bottom. He was kneeling beside a body whose right arm extended out, still clutching a heavy pistol in a death grip. When Spence looked up, he saw Angel watching. Their eyes met, he patted the air for her to stay away.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he said, rising to his feet. His face was ashen and tight. “The son-of-a-bitch was just standing on the edge—right where you are—shooting and screaming into the pit. Just shooting and screaming …”
“Who is it?” Angel strained to see, but the body was turned away and facedown in the dirt. “Who is it—please, tell me.”
“Angel,” I said. “Babe …”
“Damnedest thing.” Spence repeated. He leaned over and pried the .45 out of the body’s hand. “He just kept screaming, ‘you’re dead. You’re dead. I killed you.’ We drew down on him but he kept shooting into the pit—at nothing—no one was there. Just shooting at the dirt and screaming.”
Angel’s face tightened when Spence tugged on the body’s arm, leveraging it over onto its back. “You shot him?”
“Hell, no. Son-of-a-bitch was nuts—he reloaded, fired a few more rounds, and then grabbed his chest. The fool had a heart attack or something. He just dropped dead, right here. Damnedest thing I ever saw.”
I slid my arm around Angel’s shoulder and watched her as she recognized the Diggin’ Man staring up from Kelly’s Dig. “It’s over now, Angela. I’m so sorry. He fooled us all.”
sixty-eight
Professor Ernie Stuart looked at us with eyes wide open—his mouth frozen in a scream that never took voice—terror seared death across his face.
Angel saw it. Spence saw it. Only I knew why it was there.
The whispers reached my thoughts again and I looked up to the far edge of the pit. Amy and Caroline, still dressed in their pretty summer dance dresses, stood there. They waved at me and I waved back. Amy pointed at Stuart.
“I told him I was marrying Nicky. He followed Caroline and me here—to where we’d meet sometimes. He went crazy when I showed him the necklace and bracelet Nicky gave me. Caroline tried to stop him. He killed her—then me. He went crazy. He didn’t understand. I didn’t love him. I loved Nicky. Ernie hurt us—killed us. He killed everyone.”
“But we weren’t alone here,” Caroline continued, “not alone. Help our friends, Oliver. They kept us safe all this time. If not for them, you never would have found us. Please.”
Amy turned and I followed her gaze. Just beside them, two hazy images began forming. Two men—boys, really—dressed in rag-tag pieces of Confederate uniforms, stepped from nothing into view. The shorter soldier put his arm around Caroline. The other just stood there, watching me. Even now, they were on guard, protecting the girls.
A sad, sullen chill bathed me as I realized who they were. These two spirits, their bones at least, started everything in motion. Had they never died and been buried under this old barn more than a century ago, Amy and Caroline’s murders might never have been discovered. Raymundo and Iggi would have secreted away the girls’ bones undetected. Raymundo and Liam McCorkle would have been spared. If the soldiers had not been buried here, Tyler Byrd’s crew would never have found their skeletons. No medical examiner’s report would have been needed or written. Without that report, Ernie wouldn’t have killed me. In the beginning of it all, these young soldiers lost their own lives. And in the end, they helped stop Ernie Stuart’s treachery. Perhaps—just perhaps—that is some consolation for their many restless years.
The taller one’s voice stirred me. “Yassir—took so long to find us.”
“What happened to you?” I asked.
The shorter soldier shook his head. “We was down in the ole’ root cellar under this ’ere barn gittin’ supplies. There was a flash—big ’plosion. Guess Yanks dun it.”
“You were hit by Union cannon?” I felt odd talking to them—dead soldiers from so long ago. “And they just left you?”
“Um, yassir. Barn and them walls just came down. Can ya help us?”
“I can’t, but Angel can. Who are you—Angel will properly bury you.”
The taller one smiled. “I’m Tom Harper and this ’ere’s Jimmy Morgan. We was with Gen’ral Ramseur. Yassir, be nice to move on. Thank ya.”
They began fading. One gave a wave; the other tipped his hand in salute.
Amy said, “He hurt you, too, Oliver. Because of us.”
“It’s not your fault.”
Amy whispered to Caroline, who nodded and said something I couldn’t hear. Then they turned, waved to their soldiers, and stepped into nothing. All four were gone.
Bear stumbled out of the orchard and onto the side of the pit where they had been standing. He was holding his head and blood oozed between his fingers. He walked around the pit, stumbling as he approached us. He stopped beside Angel and looked down at Stuart’s body.
“That bastard hit me as I came around the house. Damn near took my head off with a shovel.”
“Thank God you’re okay.” Angel burst into tears and clung onto him. “For a second I thought it was …”
“Me too,” I said, and repeated what Caroline and Amy told me. She told Spence and Bear. They just listened and looked at each other, unsure of what was real, and what was not.
Bear gazed at Ernie for a long time. “Stuart? Okay, yeah—Stuart. Nic said Amy had a secret lover; it was him. They were all friends back then.”
“My God, he was like a father. He fooled me for years.” Angel’s eyes were red and tearing. “He sent for Lucca Tuscani to kill Nicholas. Then he tried to kill André, and had Lucca try to finish him.”
“Angela, he fooled us all.” Bear nodded as the pieces began falling into place for him. “The break-in at his house was faked to throw us off track. I bet it was Lucca you saw at his house the morning after my murder. I bet Lucca was there all along.”
“Oh, my God. And Carmen,” Angel said. “I told him she was searching for the M.E. report. He thought she had it. It’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s not.” Bear shook his head. “I get why he killed the two girls. But why Tuck?”
I knew. I knew it all now. “He didn’t expect me to be home. You told him I was working all night.” I touched Angel’s shoulder and watched the truth surface in her eyes. “You called Bear and he sent me home early. We were fighting again. It’s not your fault, Angel—it’s not.”
“Oh …” Angel burst into tears, sobbing in heavy, deep stutters. Her body shook and Bear tried to wrap his powerful arm around her shoulders but she pulled away and turned to me. All eyes fell on her. “Tuck, he came to our house to get the medical examiner’s report and the necklace—he knew they would lead us to the girls. It was supposed to be me, not you.”
“I know.”
“Ernie was coming to kill me.”
“Yes, he was.”
“You stopped
him—oh my God, you died for me.” She came to me, but stopped an arm’s length away, looked into my eyes—she could see me again. We were both crying. “Tuck, oh no, Tuck.”
I put my arms around her and crushed her to me.
Ernie Stuart. All these years, he had been a part of our family; a friend, mentor, and surrogate father. That was a façade. Beneath it all, he was a ruthless, raging killer—the Diggin’ Man. In the past three weeks, every step he took—every violent act—was a failed attempt to hide what he’d done here—right here—at Kelly’s Dig over forty years ago.
“What now, Tuck?” Her face was damp and her eyes searching—hoping for the answer she wanted. “You came back because of me. It’s all my fault.”
“No, it’s not your fault, Angel. It never was.”
“Yes, yes it is.” She shook her head and sorrow rained down her cheeks. “It’s my fault you’re not, well, that you never moved on. I’ve been terrified of what would happen after you found your killer—that you might leave me again. Are you leaving?”
It was the guilt—her guilt—that she had been hiding. It wasn’t shame for some tryst with Bear Braddock. It was not remorse for a sinister role in my murder. Yet, it was remorse. Remorse for holding me back from the afterlife and the fear that helping solve my murder would send me away to it.
Right then, I looked around, wondering if that evasive, magical light was close and ready to guide me elsewhere.
Nope, not a damn thing. Not even a flicker.
Instead, an old gray-haired, blue-eyed doctor still wearing surgical scrubs stood across the pit. Doc Gilley shook a finger at me.
“Don’t even start with me, Oliver.”
“What?”
“You idiot, you nearly got all this wrong.”
I shrugged. “How do you figure that?”
“Bear.” Doc Gilley folded his arms and scolded me with piercing blue eyes. “Your house key? You gave it to him last year before you and Angel went on vacation.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
