by Sharon Sala
Harold held up his hand. Besides the fact that he’d just been sideswiped by the news of the discovery, he wasn’t about to talk to her about his case.
“Whoa now! You wait just a damn minute. Why didn’t I get a man…I mean, a lawyer who’s a man?”
“Luck of the draw. Who knows?” She pulled a folder out of her briefcase and opened it on the table between them. “How do you want to proceed?”
“Proceed? I’m not proceeding anywhere with you.”
Myra frowned, which caused her eyebrows to run together in a rather impressive uni-brow. Harold couldn’t quit staring.
“As I was about to say, you can plead innocent, although with your daughter’s testimony and the thirteen scalps, it will be a tough sell. You can plead insanity, but no one’s going to buy it, since you’ve been living a calm, quiet life and holding down a regular job for the past twenty years without another murder to add to your name. Or—and this is my personal favorite—you could plead guilty, save me some time and nightmares, the State of Missouri a butt-load of money, and go straight to jail while awaiting your trip to hell.”
Harold stood up with a jerk and yanked at his handcuffs, which were fastened to his chair, while yelling and stomping his feet.
“I want another lawyer! Somebody get her out of here and get me another lawyer!”
Myra slapped the file back into her briefcase and then snapped it shut.
“Totally your call,” she said. “I’ll let the court know.”
She strode to the door and knocked twice, then called out, “I’m through in here!”
The door opened. She walked out without looking back.
Harold’s heart began to hammer as he finally processed what she’d said. They’d found them! The trophies were his, and now they were going to become public viewing. Things were spiraling from bad to worse. They would never understand. They would not appreciate his purpose.
A cop entered the room and marched Harold back to his cell.
Bud woke up again. They’d moved him out of ICU. He didn’t remember that happening, but he guessed it didn’t matter. Holly was standing at the foot of his bed, talking to a doctor, which did matter. He could hear the muffled murmur of their voices as they spoke. “Holly.”
She spun. “You’re awake! Hi, honey…this is Dr. Larson. He’s been taking care of you.”
Bud’s gaze shifted to the man beside her. The only thing he noticed about the doctor was his eyes. They were kind.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Larson smiled. “You’re welcome. You’re doing fine. The knife blade glanced off your shoulder blade, missing any major arteries, which is good. The downside is, it did cut deeply into the muscles, which are going to take time and therapy to heal. I understand you’re both from Montana and will be returning soon. You can easily do your therapy there.”
Then he left, moving on to his next patient and leaving them alone.
Holly grabbed Bud’s hand. “Isn’t that great, honey? We’ll be home before you know it.”
“Home sounds like heaven.”
“Anywhere with you is heaven.”
“Kiss, please,” he said with a smile.
Holly obliged, taking great care not to touch anything but his lips.
“I talked to your uncle Delbert,” she said a few minutes later.
Bud frowned. “Everything okay?”
“Everything but you,” Holly said. “He’s fine, and said to tell you to get well.”
“By the time I get home, he’ll have my job,” Bud muttered.
Holly laughed.
It felt good to be happy, if only for a little while.
Bud patted the side of his bed. “Sit,” he said. “Talk to me.”
She pulled up a chair, then slid her fingers through his.
“Mackey is in custody, and they—we—found his trophy room. Wherever my mother is, whatever he did to her, he didn’t take her scalp. That was such a relief.”
Bud frowned. “Have they talked to him?”
“Not yet. Detective Carver said he refused his first court-appointed lawyer. They’re sending another one.”
“What was wrong with the first one?” Bud asked.
Holly grinned. “She was a woman.”
Bud chuckled, then winced. “Oh, shit. Laughing hurts.”
Her mood shifted. “I asked to talk to him.”
Bud’s eyes narrowed. He thought of all the reasons why she shouldn’t, but he knew they wouldn’t trump the one she held.
“Do you think he’ll tell you where he hid her body?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She paused, looking down. “No, probably not. But I won’t leave without trying.”
“I wish I could be with you.”
“I need to do this alone. Can you understand that?”
“Some.”
She traced the lines on the palm of his hand. “You have a very long life line.”
“The better to keep up with you, darlin’,” he said softly, then lifted her fingers to his lips and kissed them one by one.
“You’re my touchstone, Bud. You couldn’t lose me if you tried.”
Sixteen
Every media outlet in the state of Missouri was running coverage on the arrest of Harold Mackey, aka the Hunter. Old neighbors, acquaintances—everyone who’d ever had access to him—were all being interviewed, and the ones with pictures of him were selling them right and left.
Photos of his victims were also running with the coverage, as one by one living relatives came forward, willing to talk about their personal family stories and the family members he had killed.
The missing persons department was being flooded with calls from people desperate to know if the four unknown victims had been positively identified. Although Mackey had names under the scalps, until DNA confirmation on the four new ones came through, those names could not be released.
Carver’s task force was getting calls by the dozen, requesting interviews, and after the discovery of the infamous scalps, even Hollywood had called.
Chief Hollis had issued a gag order and told everyone to refer all calls to his office. Whit didn’t have to be told twice. He was still having nightmares about what they’d found. He hadn’t been to church in years, but after walking into that bomb shelter, it was the only place he could think to go to absolve him of the feeling that they’d desecrated a tomb.
And he took it as a personal insult that they were four bodies short.
Mackey had never dumped two bodies in the same place, so they didn’t have a dump site to go back and check. Whit had stared at that map until his eyes burned, trying to see a pattern, to understand why Mackey had picked the sites he’d chosen, but nothing popped out at him.
And there was a Fed from Quantico wanting permission to interview Mackey. He wanted to know why Mackey had gone dormant so abruptly. But the only request Whit felt obligated to honor was Holly Slade’s. All he was waiting for now was a phone call from Mackey’s lawyer, but the man had insisted on a new one, which meant there would be a delay in everything, starting with the arraignment. They had the go-ahead from the chief to take Holly to see the man, but that, too, had to wait until he’d conferred with his lawyer. And if Mackey wanted his attorney present when he talked to Holly, they couldn’t deny him. All Whit needed was for that phone to ring.
Holly moved from room to room in her suite, pacing, planning, trying to figure out what she would say to Mackey. Exactly how did one ask a murderer to reveal his innermost secrets and make him give up the location of a body?
Carver had said he would call once he’d set up a time, but the phone had yet to ring. What if Mackey said no? What if he wouldn’t talk to any of them? How could she live the rest of her life with the question of her mother’s fate unanswered?
She moved to the window and looked out at the Arch. It represented an impossible feat of engineering, and yet they’d done it. If only the St. Louis police were as successful with tying up this case.
&nb
sp; Suddenly there was a knock at her door.
She frowned.
The last time she’d answered a door in this hotel, her own father had tried to kill her. She moved quietly to the door, peered through the security peephole, then gasped and began fumbling with the dead bolt.
“Just a minute!” she yelled, and finally got it to turn, then yanked the door open. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
Bud walked in, grim-lipped and white as a sheet as he headed for the sofa.
“Oh, my God! You shouldn’t be here! Are you crazy?”
Bud was already down and stretching out on the cushions. He pointed at her.
“You. Me. Partners for life.”
Holly dropped to her knees and ran a hand across his forehead. Except for the sweat of exhaustion, he was cool.
“No fever. I hurt like hell, but I have pain pills.”
“Who the hell let you out of the hospital under your own steam?” Holly asked. “What if you start bleeding? What if you get an infection? I’m scared.”
“Well so am I. It scares me to see the shock in your eyes and the fear in your face. It scares me that he’ll say something to you that you can’t face. I need to know as much as you know, baby. We can’t get through this unless we do it together.”
“Oh, Bud…Bud…how have I lived this long without you?” Holly whispered, then wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his stomach.
He threaded his fingers through her hair as a fresh wave of pain rocked through him.
“About those pain pills…they’re in my righthand pocket. If you’ll get the water, I could down a couple right now.”
Holly headed for the sideboard, grabbed a bottle of water and a clean glass, and ran back.
Bud popped the pills, then downed them with the water straight out of the bottle.
“Many thanks.”
“Come lie down on the bed. It’s so much softer.” She helped him up and walked him into the bedroom, steadying him with a hand around his waist.
“The pills are likely to make me sleepy.”
“I’ll be quiet,” she said.
He eased himself down on the bed and then very carefully stretched out.
“Ah, God…this so sucks.”
Holly blinked guilty tears. “This happened because of me.”
“No. It was for you, not because of you. Now quit fussing and lie down beside me.”
“Want me to pull off your boots?”
“No, leave ’em on in case they call today. It was too hard getting them on.”
“But—”
He gripped her hand, harder than she’d expected. “No buts. I’m here because you’re not facing Harold Mackey alone. I won’t interfere, but I’ll be there, and I’ll hear everything he says. It’s that or we’re on the next plane to Montana and forget we ever heard the bastard’s name.”
Holly crawled up onto the bed beside him. “I can’t cry. I don’t want my eyes all red and swollen, so Mackey will think I’m crying because of him, but I want you to know how special you are. I love you, Robert Tate.”
Bud fingered her ring. “I love you, too. I think I’m going to rest now. Promise you won’t go anywhere without me.”
“I promise.”
He closed his eyes.
Holly lay facing him, burning every nuance of his misery into her brain. She was determined to remember, when she was in labor giving birth to their first child, that, for the love of his woman, he’d been the first to bear pain.
Edwin Walsh, Esquire, was just coming out of court when his cell phone rang. He saw it was his secretary and answered the call as he headed up the stairs.
“Yes, Bobbie?” he said without fanfare, then realized he was puffing and made a mental note to hit the gym more regularly.
“Mr. Walsh, you got a message about a new court-appointed client. He’s in the city jail.”
“Give me a name.”
“Harold Mackey.”
Edwin stopped. Pretty much everyone in the state knew that name now. “No, that’s not right. Myra Finch got him. We were talking about it at lunch.”
“Yes, sir, but Mackey refused her.”
Edwin cursed aloud, then put his hand over his mouth as he remembered he was still standing in the halls of justice.
“Damn it. Hell-fucking-damn it,” he whispered. “I know every man deserves legal representation, but this is a career killer.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“So am I. Cancel my next appointment. I’ll run by the jail before I come back to the office.”
He disconnected without saying goodbye.
His stride lengthened as he headed for his car. “I just had to be a lawyer. Mother wanted me to be a doctor, but no…I had to do my own thing.”
An hour later he entered the city jail, carrying Mackey’s file. He’d been there countless times before, but this time was different. This time he was prejudiced against his client and there was no way to get past it. He believed in the judicial system and that everyone deserved the right to legal representation, but he also secretly believed there were occasional exceptions. By the time he was escorted into the interrogation room, he’d given himself a pep talk. All he had to do was get through this.
Then he took one look into Harold Mackey’s eyes and shuddered. He hadn’t needed a pep talk. He needed an exorcist.
“Harold Mackey. My name is Edwin Walsh. I am your court-appointed lawyer.” Mackey nodded.
Edwin sat down and began to read off the charges.
Mackey held up his hand. “No trial.”
Edwin felt as if someone had just handed him a winning lottery ticket.
“You intend to plead guilty?”
Mackey nodded.
“It’s my sworn duty to make sure you understand the charges.”
“I’m not stupid,” Mackey snapped. “The sooner this is over with, the sooner I settle in.”
Edwin frowned. “Settle in?”
“To prison,” Harold said.
Edwin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You want to go to prison?”
Mackey leaned forward.
Edwin unintentionally cringed.
Mackey sneered. “No. I don’t want to go to prison, but I don’t see a way out. I am practical man. Facts are facts. So I say no trial.”
“I’ll get the proper papers ready. You’re being arraigned in the morning. You’ll enter a guilty plea then.”
“Whatever,” Harold said.
Edwin shuffled through the file and pulled out a memo.
“There’s one other thing. The police want to talk to you about the location of some unaccounted-for bodies, but since you’re entering a guilty plea, again I would advise your cooperation. You have no reason not to, and it could get you a life sentence instead of death. Also, an investigator from the FBI wants to talk to you, as well as a woman named Holly Slade.”
Harold blinked. That surprised him. It showed guts. And he admired strength.
“I’ll talk,” he said. “Can’t promise what I’ll say, but I’ll at least hear what they have to say.”
“I’ll arrange it, then. I believe that’s all, so I’ll see you in court tomorrow, for the arraignment,” Edwin said, and shuffled the papers back into the file.
He walked out without looking back.
Bud had slept off the pain pills, and once it got dark and it became apparent that Carver wasn’t going to call, Holly helped him undress and get comfortable. He’d traded his boots and jeans for a pair of sweatpants, and decided to bypass a shirt, because it hurt too much to put one on.
Fifteen minutes earlier, while Bud dozed, Holly had ordered room service and found a pay-per-view movie on television that she knew Bud would like. She’d given him the remote and then gotten on her laptop to catch up on email.
There was a message from Maria. It was short but sweet. I’m out of the hospital. Stuff is happening. Can’t wait to see you.
There were no messages from Savan
nah, but a lot from friends and neighbors back home, most of which were full of sympathy regarding Andrew’s death. She was thankful no one back home knew what was going on with her, or she would never get through explaining the chaos.
She finished answering the messages with the movie playing in the background. Finally their food arrived.
“What’s for dinner?” Bud asked, as Holly followed the waiter in with their meal, and the smells were enticing.
She began lifting the lids. “I wasn’t sure what would sound good to you but I thought we should skip the heavy stuff. I ordered a Southwest frittata, hash browns and buttered toast.”
“What’s for dessert?”
Holly laughed. “You are feeling better.” She pulled the cover off the last dish. “Apple pie à la mode.”
He smiled. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
She had begun to divide the frittata when he stopped her with a touch.
“Pie first, or the ice cream will melt.”
At that point she wouldn’t have argued with anything he said. “Spoon or fork?”
He chose a spoon.
She handed him the whole dessert. “Enjoy.”
He eased back against the pillows and then took his first bite, rolling his eyes as he chewed and swallowed.
“It’s good, but not as good as yours.”
Holly smirked. He was so full of it. “You do know how to sweet-talk a woman, don’t you?” she said, then served herself some of the egg and hash browns.
They ate in silence, comfortable after years of sharing the same table, trading bites and then finally stories as the meal wound down.
“I’m so done,” Bud said, as he handed her back his plate.
“You ate really well for a man who just had a knife stuck in him.”
He winked. “Just keeping up my strength.”
Holly wheeled the food cart out into the hall, then made sure the door was locked.
“I’m going to take a shower. You want to watch some more TV?”
“Sure,” he said, and she handed him the remote.
She was still in the shower when her cell phone began to ring. Bud started to let it go to voice mail, then saw that the call was from Whit Carver. He answered it.
