Redemption Lake

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  The telephone rang.

  Matt leaped up to answer.

  Travis called to remind Matt they’d meet at UMC around one o’clock to take Crystal’s ashes to Gates Pass. They were about to hang up when Travis said, “I feel bad about something, man.”

  “Let me guess. Your conscience is bothering you for kicking me out of my own mother’s house.”

  “It’s not that,” Travis said, no trace of amusement in his voice. “I’ve kept something important from you. And it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Then spill it.”

  “My mother was murdered.”

  Matt dropped his gaze to the floor.

  “It’s not just what I think,” Travis said. “The Medical Examiner confirmed it. I told you, man. Crystal would never kill herself.” He explained what the pathologist had discovered about the depth and width of Crystal’s wound, and the impossibility of it being made with a razor blade. The high probability it had been made by a pair of scissors, possibly the ones used to cut her hair.

  Matt stared at his right hand, felt his fingers sink again into the gaping hole in Crystal’s neck. Felt the warmth and stickiness of her blood. “Are you okay?” Matt’s voice sounded hollow.

  “I’m not okay,” Travis said. “But at least I don’t have to blame myself anymore. Radhauser said he believed me from the beginning. He had a hunch. And something didn’t feel right.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

  “Radhauser has a suspect. He’s getting a search warrant. That’s why he didn’t want me to say anything. Keep it between us, okay? Don’t even tell your parents.”

  * * *

  Matt emptied the remainder of his cereal into the garbage disposal and loaded the bowl into the dishwasher. The word murdered remained inside his mouth, and each time he tried to force it down, it rose again. Someone saw his dad pick Crystal up at the Spur. Radhauser had told Travis they planned to get a search warrant. Of course, they’d want to search the Lincoln. Maybe his dad really did have something to hide.

  Matt hurried into the garage. He knew something awful was about to happen. He felt it in the air around him, as if time itself had somehow become electrified, each individual second standing straight up on its end.

  The entire garage seemed to be holding its breath. He kept telling himself it couldn’t be true. They couldn’t believe his father killed Crystal. His dad wasn’t a violent man. Even when he’d been livid with Sedona for shoplifting a tube of lipstick, he hadn’t laid a hand on her.

  Matt maneuvered his way through the garage, opened the driver’s side door and popped the hatch for the trunk. It was spotless. The four-year-old carpet looked new.

  He opened the passenger side door, checked under the seat and in the glove compartment. He flipped the visor down and looked into the small, lighted mirror at a face he barely recognized. He was not himself anymore. He was a different person altogether.

  After hurrying around to the driver’s side, he opened the door, ran his hand under the seat, and that’s when he felt it—something nubby like an old beach towel. Maybe his dad left a towel under the seat from when he’d last washed the car. Matt pulled it out. It was a pale green washcloth wrapped around something solid and hard.

  He carefully unwrapped the washcloth and found a pair of scissors with orange handles like the ones he and Travis used to wrap Christmas presents every year. The blades were stained with something that looked a lot like dried blood.

  His hands shook so hard he could barely hold the scissors. How did Crystal’s scissors get into his father’s car? Holy shit. Could he have been wrong about his dad? Matt had been wrong about the affair and even more stunned to learn it was with Crystal. Loren Garrison, the renowned expert on ethics, had lied to him for three years. Maybe he was capable of murder.

  No. It had to be a mistake. His father couldn’t kill anyone. He rarely raised his voice and had never so much as spanked Matt or Sedona.

  Matt went back and forth. He didn’t know what to think, but he couldn’t let Radhauser find the scissors. He had to get rid of them before his dad and the detective returned. It wasn’t smart to hide them on their property, but he didn’t have another choice. He couldn’t drive the Mustang with a flat tire. And at least getting them out of the Lincoln would buy him some time. He could retrieve the scissors later and dispose of them where no one would ever find them.

  He hurried into the back yard, out the redwood gate and into the desert behind their house. It was way too quiet. The air broke around him like twigs.

  Along the edge of the sandy wash, he walked faster and faster, dodging cholla cactus and boulders. He feared turning around to see someone behind him. He didn’t have much time.

  He spotted the five-armed Saguaro with a woodpecker hole the size of an orange in its trunk. Matt knew from summer camp at the Desert Museum the Gilded Flicker nested higher up in the more mature Saguaros, but left a much larger hole than the Gila Woodpecker.

  The Saguaro would have bled its resinous sap into the cavity between its spines to heal the wound. The resin hardened into callus tissue and formed a Saguaro boot inside. Woodpeckers nested in them—a safe place hard for a predator to find. He stood on his toes. But the hole was too high for Matt to reach.

  Out in the cul-de-sac, he heard the sound of a car idling. He hoped it wasn’t Detective Radhauser and his father. The sound lingered in the still air for an instant, before it accelerated, then slowly disappeared.

  Matt left the washcloth-covered scissors on the ground and raced back to the garage for his dad’s tallest stepladder. Blood buzzed in his head as he climbed up to the third from the top rung. His legs were shaking so hard the ladder shook with them.

  Sweat dripped into his eyes as he pushed both the washcloth and the scissors through the hole and into the boot. It landed with a dry rustling sound like paper being crushed.

  * * *

  Matt had just rehung the ladder in the garage and poured himself a glass of water when the doorbell rang.

  Two uniformed police officers stood behind the screen, their patrol car parked in the driveway behind his Mustang.

  “Good morning,” the taller one said, his voice deep and resonant.

  The shorter one took off his hat, his dark hair styled in a fifties-type flat top. He had a small scar in the shape of a fishhook on the left side of his mouth. “We’re here to see Loren Garrison.”

  “I’m his son. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “No,” the flat top said. “We need to see Mr. Garrison.”

  “He and Detective Radhauser are at CoCo’s.”

  “May we come in?”

  “I’d rather you wait until my father is home.”

  “We have a search warrant for a 1985 Lincoln Continental Mark V,” the tall one said. “Is it here?”

  “It’s in the garage.”

  “The law doesn’t require your father, or anyone else, be home.”

  Matt’s hands trembled as he fumbled with the handle on the screen door for an instant before he managed to open it.

  The officers wiped their feet on the welcome mat, then stepped inside. Their rubber-soled shoes made squeaking sounds against the entryway tile as they followed Matt into the family room.

  Within seconds, Matt heard the sound of a car door closing. “That must be my dad. He’s home now. I’ll get him.”

  He rushed through the front door and onto the porch, his legs shaking.

  His father stepped out of Radhauser’s Bronco.

  “It’s the police, Dad. They have a search warrant for the Lincoln.”

  Loren studied Matt quickly, then looked at Radhauser. “Thanks for the heads-up. But they won’t find anything in my car.”

  As his dad turned toward the house, Matt hurried over to the Bronco. “You’re right. I’ve been hiding something. And I need to talk to you. Now.”

  Radhauser glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, Matt. But I have a suspect to interview in Flor
ence. I’ll miss him if I don’t leave now. Stop by my office when you finish up with the ashes. I’ll be there until 8 o’clock tonight.” He drove away.

  Matt watched him for a second, then hurried inside.

  His father stood in the family room, one hand braced on the game table. “What exactly do you think you’ll find?” Loren asked the officers. “A stash of drugs hidden in a shoe box?”

  “We have our orders,” the tall one said, then told Matt’s dad to stay out of the way.

  Matt wanted to follow them into the garage, but knew he’d be sent back inside. His father had always been so above reproach. It was hard to see him humiliated. Yet at the same time, Matt thought about the rage he’d seen in his father’s eyes last night when they’d argued about colleges.

  If his father had driven back to Crystal’s house on Saturday night, if he’d seen his son asleep in her bed, he might have been enraged enough to murder. Oh my God, Matt thought. He shouldn’t have hidden the scissors. What was wrong with him? He’d made one bad decision after another in an attempt to protect Crystal, Travis, and now his father. Matt cradled his head in his hands, tried to think. But he could no longer choose between right and wrong. Maybe his dad had killed Crystal. Maybe Matt had made a huge mistake. But it was too late to go back and undo what he’d already done.

  He was still standing in the family room when his dad and the two police officers returned.

  The flat top wore a pair of latex gloves.

  Matt gave his father a questioning look.

  “They found absolutely nothing,” he said.

  The officer wearing the gloves shrugged.

  Matt’s father shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe this had happened to him.

  “Stay close to home, Mr. Garrison. A tow truck is on its way. We’re impounding your car.” He nodded toward his partner. “This is Officer Harrington. He’ll wait in the garage until the truck has left with the Lincoln.”

  “When will I get it back? I need it for work on Monday. This isn’t right. I’m calling an attorney.” But instead of moving toward the telephone, his father stood very still, his eyes cast down at the floor, his hands clenched together.

  The flat top shrugged, then walked through the family room, into the entry and out the front door without another word.

  Matt stood behind the screen door and watched as the police car backed up, circled the center island, and drove out of the driveway and onto the street, moving slowly, as if it were in a parade. Through the small gap in the driver side window, the radio crackled with snippets of conversation—other police personnel talking in coded sentences.

  A vein throbbed in Matt’s neck. He didn’t know what to do. If he told his dad about the scissors, he’d probably insist Matt remove them from the Saguaro and take them to Detective Radhauser. And then both Matt and his dad would be in deeper trouble. He took a breath, tried to keep the heat from rushing to his cheeks, and let the air out slowly. Matt doubted anyone, except maybe a Gilded Flicker woodpecker, would ever find those scissors.

  The police car rounded the corner and the radio sounds disappeared.

  When Matt spotted the tow truck headed up their cul-de-sac, he turned to his father.

  He was observing Matt—such a simple, fatherly, thing to do. “It’s all a misunderstanding. Let’s change that tire before you’re late for work. Don’t look so worried, son. Aside from the affair, I didn’t do anything wrong. Everything will be all right.”

  And Matt watched him, too, searching for one misplaced movement—something that would give his father away.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Loren Garrison sat in his study, reviewing lecture notes. Something registered in his peripheral vision. His gaze followed two heads moving along behind his five-foot high patio wall. As he focused, he realized they were police officers. What the hell did they want now?

  He stood and hurried to the front door, opened it and stepped outside onto his porch. A white van was parked in the cul-de-sac with the words Pima County Sheriff’s Canine Unit painted in black on the side.

  Loren rushed into the desert behind his house. Two huge and straining dogs pulled at their leashes. “What are you doing? This is private property.”

  A barrel-chested uniformed cop gave the dogs a signal with his right hand. They immediately calmed and sat back on their haunches.

  “And who are you?” one of the officers asked.

  “My name is Loren Garrison. I own this land.”

  “I’m Officer Walters. And we have a warrant to search these grounds, Mr. Garrison.”

  “It’s Doctor Garrison, and I was already humiliated with one of your warrants earlier today. One that yielded absolutely nothing, I might add.”

  Walters nodded to the dogs. “Columbo and Friday,” he said, as if he expected Loren to kneel down and shake their paws.

  The other officer, younger and much taller than Walters, held a white cloth that looked like a handkerchief soaked in blood.

  “Ready.”

  Walters nodded.

  The tall officer held the handkerchief under the noses of the bloodhounds until they picked up the scent and Walters released them.

  Loren watched the dogs for a moment as they raced around the desert, stopping to sniff rocks and barrel cactus, the remains of lizards and other small animals. Then he shook his head and returned to his work.

  Five minutes later, Walters walked back to the van and returned with a ladder. Loren nearly laughed as he opened his sliding glass door and walked behind the pool for a better view. The dogs stood at the base of a huge Saguaro cactus, looking as if they were starved and the Saguaro dangled a steak from each of its five arms.

  Walters, wearing a pair of latex gloves, climbed the ladder. A few minutes later, he descended, holding something that appeared to be wrapped in a light green washcloth.

  Garrison stepped closer. “What have you got there, the beginnings of a woodpecker’s nest?”

  “Possible evidence in a murder case.”

  “Whatever it is,” Loren said. “It’s not mine. And I sure as hell didn’t put it there.”

  Walters shrugged. “I’m just doing my job, sir.” He handed the washcloth to the tall officer while he picked a few cactus thorns from his wrist.

  “Come on,” Loren said. “A washcloth.”

  “They’re used to clean off dirt,” Walters said. “You got any dirt you need cleaned, Dr. Garrison?”

  “What’s it wrapped around?” Loren demanded.

  Neither officer answered.

  “The Fourth Amendment gives me some rights. You are required by law to leave an inventory of what you take from a private residence.”

  “We didn’t take it from your residence.”

  “Well, from my property then.”

  The taller officer ripped a form from his clipboard and wrote. “Here you go,” he said. “One blood-covered pair of scissors and one green washcloth.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Loren asked. “Let me see them.”

  “Detective Radhauser wants them untouched.”

  “I understand the chain of forensic evidence. I won’t touch anything.”

  Walters carefully opened the washcloth.

  It took a moment for Loren to believe what he saw. His knees felt wobbly and he braced himself against the patio wall. He had a horrible vision, a fear for which he had no real evidence, and yet he couldn’t get it out of his mind. One by one the suspicions registered and added up to something Loren couldn’t face.

  The blood on the front of Matt’s tuxedo shirt.

  Karina’s certainty Matt had lied to her about it.

  His anger and disillusionment with his father.

  The fist-sized hole in his closet wall.

  The disturbing poem he’d found on Matt’s desk.

  All of it tied to Loren’s foolish affair with Crystal. Had he turned his own son into a murderer?

  Walters carefully rewrapped the washcloth around the scis
sors. “Stay close to home, Doctor Garrison. I suspect Detective Radhauser will want to talk to you after we have this analyzed and blood-typed.”

  * * *

  Radhauser believed it no coincidence Mitch Reynolds had been released from the state pen just weeks before Crystal died. He wouldn’t be the first ex-con to murder the wife who didn’t stand by him while he served his time. As he neared Florence, Radhauser checked the clock on his dashboard. 9:15am. He had 45 minutes before Reynolds left for work.

  Driving down Florence’s Main Street was a trip back in time. In the mid-eighteen hundreds, it had been a prosperous mining town. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the clippity-clop of horse-drawn wagons and piano music coming from the open windows of its many brothels and saloons.

  Lucas had loved Florence because of the Junior Parada—the oldest youth rodeo in the world. From the time their son was two, they’d brought him here in late November for the parade down Main Street and the rodeo. He competed in western pleasure events at five years old. Until Lucas died, they’d never missed the Parada.

  The silence in the car rang in Radhauser’s ears. Haunted by flashbacks of his wife and son, he lowered all the windows. The fresh air rolled through the car and puffed up the damp hair on the back of his neck. He smelled the musty brine of the Gila River as he drove on.

  The halfway house, a small adobe bungalow out on Diversion Dam Road, was probably built after the war. It nestled in the Sonoran Desert at the end of a long dirt drive in a compound of about a dozen similar dwellings—the gray-blue Mineral Mountains looming in the distance. Radhauser parked, waited in his car for the dust to settle, then got out, walked up onto the porch, and rapped on the door.

  It opened. A lean, tall man stood in the doorway, absently picking his teeth with a wooden matchstick. He wore a worn flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal a couple of dragon tattoos, rumpled gray Dockers, and a pair of black shoes that hadn’t been near polish in years. His reddish-brown hair swept back into a ponytail and he had a thin red moustache. “What ya sellin’, cowboy?”

  “I’m looking for Mitch Reynolds.”

  His brow furrowed. “He a friend of yours?”