by Nina Bruhns
He beat back the piquant memory. The last thing he wanted was a soft spot in his heart if he was about to confront his father. The man was a criminal.
Squinting into the darkness, he glanced around. There was no sign of either his father or the Chairman. No sign of life anywhere on the shadowy, rather desolate property. Other than his own, no car occupied the gravel driveway.
The front, door, however, stood ajar.
Roman drew his weapon, visually rechecking the areas close to the house. Still nothing. He sidled onto the front porch and peered around the doorjamb. He couldn't see squat. The only illumination in the modest living room was a dim ray of moonlight filtering in through crooked Venetian blinds.
He withdrew his head, leaned himself next to the door and took a deep breath. He didn't like the smell of this. It smelled rotten, like a setup. Or… God only knew.
He realized his hands were shaking. Shaking and sweating. Hell. That had never happened before. He'd always been Mr. Cool … yeah, Special Agent Imperturbable, that was him.
Definitely time to get out of this damned cop business.
Just then a small, kink-tailed calico cat jumped up onto the porch and trotted over to him, rubbing up against his legs. Roman blinked, resisting the urge to bend down and pet the scraggly thing. Maybe dig something out of his pocket for it to eat.
Too many distractions.
He shook his head to clear it, and reached around the door frame, feeling for a light switch as the cat beelined it into the house. There. He found the switch and flipped it. The cat screeched and his heart stopped for the split second it took to kick the door wide-open, crouch down and aim the Python into the murky unknown.
A single floor lamp in the comer of the living room had clicked on, the light bringing into relief a nicely upholstered sofa and easy chair, loaded bookshelves and a high-tech TV setup. The recently vacuumed carpet was beige—except for a large red stain flowing around the side of the couch. He heard a low moan.
With a harsh oath, Roman sprinted through the room then dropped into a roll, coming up on one knee, weapon pointed two-handed at the open space behind the sofa. An old man lay there in a pool of blood.
His father.
* * *
Too stunned to move, Roman just stood staring for a full five seconds before another moan from the body snapped him out of it.
"My God," he swore, springing into action.
His training took over. He checked the old man's pulse and breathing—weak but there—ran his hands gingerly over the thin frame—and came away with two palmfuls of blood. Afraid to disturb the wounds which seemed to have slowed to a thick ooze, he vaulted into the kitchen seeking a phone.
Three minutes later an ambulance had been summoned and he'd put in a phone call to his boss. Help was on the way from all possible fronts.
So, he'd been right. Hector Santangelo was alive and, up until a few minutes ago, apparently doing well. It was like a slap in the face—no, a slap to his whole being, an electric shock, and a shower of ice water all at the same time.
Roman paced back and forth like a caged tiger. A groan from the floor brought him to his knees beside the man whom he had once called dad.
"Son?" the old man said without opening his eyes.
"I'm here," Roman forced past the melon in his throat. The admission almost strangled him, but he couldn't stop it from being true no matter how much he wanted to. "Who did this to you?"
A deep sigh wheezed from the injured man's chest. "Campanelli … finally made good … on his promise."
"Campanelli?" Why did that name have a familiar ring to it? Roman racked his memory for a possible reference. "Who's—"
"He's coming for you. Be careful." His father opened his eyes and pain filled them as he searched Roman's face. "Promise me."
His vocal cords temporarily paralyzed, Roman just nodded. He could have sworn he'd seen concern in the old man's expression. But that was impossible. A man who deserted his own son for thirty years didn't care what happened to him.
"I thought … you were a dream," his father rasped.
"Don't try to talk," Roman urged, fighting the wellspring of emotion threatening to surface. "Save your breath."
"Gotta tell you—"
"There'll be plenty of time for true confessions later." He didn't think he could handle both blood and betrayal at the same time.
But his father wasn't going to give up. "FBI," he said, then started coughing.
Still running scared. Well, that was too damn bad. His running days were about to come to an end. The old man lifted his hand, reaching for him. A familiar silver bracelet graced his thin wrist. After a long hesitation Roman grasped the hand between his, holding it as his father caught his labored breath.
"You should know, I work for the FBI," Roman said, needing to set the record straight, even under such dire circumstances.
Hell, especially under such dire circumstances. He didn't want to hear anything his father would regret telling him tomorrow. Or that would prevent him from putting the old bastard away for good.
He steeled his heart. "Anything you say could be used against you."
To his surprise, his father grinned weakly. "Arresting me, son?" Pride shone in the pain-clouded eyes.
Roman's mouth dropped open from total confusion. He had no idea how to respond to a reaction like that. Luckily he was spared.
"Jordan," his father wheezed out.
"Special Agent Jordan?" Roman asked. Jordan was the suit in Washington who'd blocked him from seeing his father's files and had shut him down without explanation when he'd started asking questions. "What about Jordan?"
"Call him," the old man said haltingly.
Roman didn't have time to ponder the significance of that bizarre request, for just then the ambulance screamed up to the house, followed by two cars of uniformed cops.
"You Santangelo?" the cop in charge asked, looking him over skeptically.
He was used to it. He automatically went to toss his long hair as he nodded, then remembered RaeAnne had cut it all off.
Suddenly a pain knifed through his chest.
RaeAnne.
For a few terrible minutes of turmoil, seeing his father for the first time since he was six, he'd forgotten about her and the arrests at Tecopa.
Could his father's shooting somehow be connected with Pritchett and—
The Chairman.
He swore vividly, pieces falling into place like cherries on a slot machine.
"You coming?" a medic shouted.
The ambulance was about to hustle his father off to the hospital. Roman reluctantly jumped onboard—to make sure the old man didn't disappear for another thirty years.
"Got a phone? I need to make an urgent call," he demanded, buckling into the side bench.
"Sorry," the EMT taking his father's vitals answered calmly. "Just the radio. You'll have to wait till the hospital."
Roman thrummed with anxiety. If anything happened to RaeAnne he'd never forgive himself. He had to find out—
"Roman," the old man mumbled.
"Right here." He brushed aside the EMT's protests and this time didn't pause before grabbing the trembling hand that was stretched out to him between the IV bags.
"Dad—" He swallowed twice as the word inexplicably swelled up and broke apart in his throat.
He tried again. "Dad, you've got to help me. The Chairman—the Paiute Tribal Chairman up at Bishop—is he involved in all of this?"
His dad swallowed, too. "Campanelli," he whispered threadily.
"Not Campanelli, the Chairman. Try to focus."
The old man's breath sounded like a door creaking in the wind. "Campanelli is the Chairman," he managed to whisper before passing out.
Roman's stomach wrenched so hard he had to grab the side of the ambulance to keep from doubling over.
Campanelli was the Chairman. And he'd just attempted cold-blooded murder.
Oh, God.
RaeAnne was out the
re all alone.
* * *
The man was sure acting strange.
RaeAnne's visitor hadn't said a whole lot, other than to insist on sitting so he had a clear view of the front door. He just sipped his tea and smiled as she'd rambled on and on about Crawford Edisto, extemporizing about how he must have met a beautiful Indian maiden, married her and lived happily ever after right here in the Sierras, instead of going on to San Francisco with his brother.
Of course, it was all conjecture. But a proper analysis of the gold ring and skeletal remains should settle a lot of her theories one way or the other. She hoped in favor.
"Don't you think it's exciting? I think it's just so incredible."
He nodded. She could tell he was just humoring her.
So why was he sticking around if he found her conversation so uninspiring? Unfortunately she had a feeling she knew.
"I'll be fine, you know. You don't have to stay with me. This morning wasn't that traumatic."
Philip leaned back in his chair and regarded her. "I promised Santangelo."
She leaned back in her own chair and looked him in the eye, suppressing the involuntary spurt of pain and hope at the mention of her lover's name. "Promised him what?"
"To keep an eye on you till he gets back."
"Oh, really? And when will that be?" Philip shrugged. "Dunno."
"Where did he go?"
Another shrug. "No idea. Thought you might, though."
"Afraid not."
He gazed at her over the rim of his cup as he tossed down the last of his fresh mint tea. "Seems to me your new boyfriend makes quite a habit of taking off without telling you where he's going or when he'll be back."
She picked at a knothole in the crude wooden table with a fingernail, resisting the urge to agree. "I don't suppose that's any of your business."
He carefully set down the mug. "I could make it my business if you let me." His hand reached across the table, capturing hers. "RaeAnne—"
"Don't," she quietly said, withdrawing her hand. "Please."
"And if he doesn't come back?" he asked, voicing her greatest fear.
"That's just something I'll have to live with. I'm sorry I hurt you. But I've made my choice."
He looked at her for a long moment, his expression gradually going cold and hard. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said. Then he pulled a gun from the back of his waistband and leveled it at her chest.
* * *
"Sweet Jeezus, can't you make this crate go any faster?" Roman demanded of his good buddy, U.S. Customs Agent Dave Granth, who'd graciously consented to fly him up to Bishop in his Cessna. Thank God for interagency cooperation. The FBI planes had all been out on jobs.
He was going crazy thinking about what might be happening to RaeAnne while he was still a hundred miles away, unable to help. He hadn't been able to send Dawson or Bugs to the rescue, either—they'd both been called off to that other job down south, hours away. And nobody seemed to know where O'Donnaugh was. Roman hoped to God he was at Cleary checking up on RaeAnne as he'd asked.
Dave's cell phone rang, and at a nod from his friend, Roman answered it. It was Special Agent Jordan returning his call. Finally.
"I hear you found Hector Santangelo," Jordan said without preamble, "and that he's been shot. Dead?"
"No," Roman answered. "I just checked with the hospital and it looks like he'll recover."
"Thank God."
His brows rose at the obvious relief in the man's voice. "I'm surprised you care. He is wanted for shooting two FBI agents."
There was a pause.
Oh, great. Whatever was about to come down the pike at him, he didn't want to hear it.
"Uh, look, Santangelo. There's something you need to know—"
Now he was really worried. "Wrong, Jordan. The only thing I need to know is that the boss has someone waiting at the hospital to arrest Hector Santangelo when he gets out of the ICU."
"That isn't going to happen. You see—"
"I don't care what kind of a deal he's made with some scumbag prosecutor. Do I have to remind you he murdered two of your own men?"
"He didn't kill them."
There must have been static on the line. "What did you say?" he calmly asked. There was no way he'd heard correctly. No way in hell.
"He didn't shoot those men."
Roman's brain pretty much shut down. This couldn't be happening.
"In fact, he's the one who caught the real killer." Jordan's deep sigh wafted through the phone line. "We couldn't tell you this before, but … Hector Santangelo is also a special agent. He works for us."
* * *
"Philip, what the hell is going on?" RaeAnne stared wide-eyed at the gun pointing right at her.
"Get down," he ordered. "On the floor! I think I heard footsteps on the porch." He flicked the gun impatiently, indicating the door directly behind her.
"So what?" she said, and realized to her annoyance she was whispering, too. She stood and moved out of the way, just in case Philip got trigger-happy in addition to being paranoid. "They've arrested all the bad guys."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Of course I'm sure." A shiver suddenly ran through her and she rubbed her arms. "Aren't you?"
He shot her an unnervingly strange look, but remained silent as he rose and braced his feet apart, standing like some Old West gunslinger, six-shooter trained on the front door.
There was a knock.
So much for ruthless criminals with revenge on their minds.
"Come in," she called, leveling a withering glance at Philip, who reluctantly shifted his weapon behind his back, though he didn't tuck it into his waistband. The door swung open, and so did her mouth—from surprise.
It was the Chairman. What could he possibly want this late in the evening?
"Is something wrong?" she asked, at once jumping to unpleasant conclusions. His start at seeing Philip in the cabin registered minimally, but she dismissed it. No doubt he'd presumed she and Roman were an item.
"No," he said. He seemed somehow … unsettled.
She frowned. "No?" When he just stood there, she added, "Um, well then, how about some tea?" He glanced from her to the other man and back. "Sheriff O'Donnaugh was just goi—"
"Just going to make some more," Philip interjected before she could finish her sentence, then grabbed the teapot from the table and carried it to the woodstove where the kettle sat simmering. "RaeAnne picked fresh mint. Very calming."
What the heck was going on? She was practically getting electroshock therapy from the undercurrents zapping between the two men. After the day she'd had, this was not what she needed.
"I don't mean to be rude," she said, motioning the Chairman to a seat. "But was there something you wanted?"
His gaze jerked to her. "I'm looking for Roman Santangelo. I thought…"
She cleared her throat. "Sorry, he's not here."
"But he has to be! Where is he?"
She didn't much care for his tone, but decided to give him some leeway. "He's taking care of some business."
"Business he'll regret," the man muttered.
That definitely sounded like a threat. "I beg your pardon?"
She could see his jaw grind. "I assumed you knew," he said.
"Knew what?"
"He found his father. That must be where he's gone."
* * *
RaeAnne wasn't sure how to react to that bit of news. On one hand, she was jubilant, because it meant Roman could finally put that whole situation behind him. On the other hand, she knew no matter how much he denied it, turning in his father to the FBI—again—would rip him apart. Regardless of what his father had done, he was family, and Roman didn't betray family. Roman didn't betray anyone.
At least not like this—deliberately, fully aware of the consequences.
That realization hit her full force. And its significance to their own circumstances didn't escape her.
"Where?" she asked.
The Cha
irman's gaze slid to the sheriff.
"It's okay," she said. "Roman plans to turn his father in to the FBI."
That required a brief explanation. While she gave it, the two men focused on their tea mugs, almost as though avoiding her gaze.
"So you see, you can tell me where he is."
The Chairman seemed to weigh his options, then finally said, "Hector has been living on Pachenga Reservation for about ten years."
"And how do you know this?"
"Back in '73, I was the one who hid him from the authorities and helped him escape. I am the one who told the media he killed those men in self-defense. I made him into the hero he is today, a martyr to the cause."
"Hero?" Philip said, derision evident in his voice. "That depends on what side of the Red Road
you walk on."
The Chairman straightened, his eyes narrowing. "What would you know of these things?"
"I know the poor sucker went into hiding and lost his family, while you launched your own political career."
"Poor sucker?" The Chairman sneered. "He owes his good name to me. The man was a pathetic drug addict. He'd been hooked on heroine since Nam and had already lost his family. His wife started divorce proceedings weeks before the shooting."
"What?" RaeAnne asked, astounded. Roman had never mentioned any of this. Perhaps he didn't know. If this was all true, it explained why his father had decided to play dead and disappear from their lives forever. He must have thought they'd be better off without him.
Man, did that sound sickeningly familiar.
Damn Santangelo honor.
Suddenly the deep rumbling sound of a motorcycle engine seeped in through the windows and the crack under the wooden door. Roman!
The three of them froze and looked at each other. Then RaeAnne sprang to her feet. Philip drew his gun.
"Put that thing away," she said. "It's Roman!"
"You don't know that," Philip said, obviously with no intention of holstering his gun. On the contrary, he steadied his aim at the door.
"Philip! It could go off accidentally. You could kill him!"
"I do not discharge my weapon accidentally," he said with an edge to his voice.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and practically jumped out of her skin. The Chairman pulled her firmly backward when she would have run to the door. "He's right. You must wait and see."
