No Way to Die

by Warren C Easley

  The shorter deputy hurried back to the car and extracted a first aid kit. The taller one said, “Where’s the shooter?”

  “There were two.” I pointed at the house. “I’m pretty sure they took the stairs off the back deck down to the beach. They probably went north. There’s a narrow gully you can take back up to the road at the Yoakam Point trailhead. They might be driving a dark, late model Ford Explorer. We surprised them when we came home.”

  Tall one called the information into the next car on its way to the scene. By this time, the shorter deputy had relieved Claire, whose blouse was stained with Nando’s blood. She was crouched next to our friend and continued to talk to him. Tall one pointed at our guns, which I’d laid out on the driveway in plain view. “Whose weapons are those?”

  “Mine and Mendoza’s,” I said.

  “You were both armed?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. If that raised a question in his mind, he didn’t ask it.

  The ambulance arrived a few agonizing minutes later, and when Nando was finally on his way to the Bay Area Hospital, I breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like the first breath I’d allowed myself since he’d been shot. Was he going to make it? He had to.

  * * *

  “Forced into the Umpqua River, and now your house is invaded?” Sheriff Hershel Stoddard said. “I’m afraid you’re getting the wrong impression of the South Coast, Mr. Claxton.” Claire had just been interviewed, and now it was my turn. Stoddard had come from home and was sitting in on the talks, which were being held at the hospital while we waited for Nando to get out of surgery. Apparently, the sheriff thought the late-night events warranted his direct involvement.

  “You can remedy that by catching the bastards who did it, Sheriff.”

  He lost the grin. “How’s Mendoza?”

  “He’s in surgery. That’s all we know at this point.”

  Detective Rice, lead investigator on the Coleman murder, also caught this case and was conducting the interviews. When I finished answering his questions, Stoddard said, “Help me with the big picture here, Mr. Claxton. You think the two men who were breaking into your house are also involved in Coleman murder and the attempt on your life on the Umpqua Highway?”

  “I do,” I answered. “I believe Coleman was killed to keep him quiet about the Kenny Sanders case. I—”

  “There’s no evidence of that,” Stoddard shot back. “You—”

  “Let me finish, Sheriff,” I said, feeling the heat rising in my neck. “You wanted the big picture.” The sheriff nodded curtly. “I have evidence that Coleman was getting ready to talk before I arrived in Coos Bay.” I met the sheriff’s eyes. “After all, what he did to that sixteen-year-old boy was reprehensible. Apparently, the man discovered he had a conscience.”

  Stoddard’s eyes flashed. “What? Telling the truth’s reprehensible?” His tone rang with righteous indignation.

  I laughed bitterly. “Coleman would’ve sold out his own mother for a reduced sentence, and you know it.” By this time, my neck felt hot as a stove. “I’m not sure which was a worse injustice, Sheriff—arranging Coleman’s deal or coercing a confession out of a scared, naive sixteen-year-old. How can you look yourself in the mirror?”

  Stoddard stood abruptly. “We’re done here,” he said, and stomped out of the room.

  I got up to leave, but Rice shot me an embarrassed look and stayed seated. “The old man’s sensitive as hell about the Kenny Sanders case.”

  I laughed again with even more bitterness. “He won the last election by sending an innocent kid to prison for life. The truth should come out.”

  Rice frowned and ran a hand through curly, dark hair. “Yeah, well, just between me, you, and the fence post, I think he’s conflicted about the case.”

  “Conflicted? He told me it was a righteous conviction, that I shouldn’t waste my time defending Kenny Sanders.”

  Rice’s eyes did a roll. “That was candidate Stoddard talking. I never said the man lacked ambition, but I know for a fact he’s had second thoughts about the case.”

  I sat back down and regarded Rice more carefully. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He shrugged and looked back with intelligent, unblinking eyes. “I’ve got the Coleman murder and now this home invasion case. I’d like to clear them both. Could you, ah, finish connecting the dots?”

  “Well, the rest is simple. When I arrived on the scene and took on Kenny’s case, I became a threat to whoever really killed Sonny Jenson. This person dispatched the same two thugs who killed Coleman to take care of me. They failed on the Umpqua Highway and they failed last night. Find the two thugs, and you’ll solve your cases.”

  He kept his eyes on me. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  I paused. Rice was sharper than I thought. Could I trust him, which, by inference, meant I had to trust Stoddard as well? I thought of Nando, in surgery at that moment, and the vulnerability of Claire and me. God knows we needed help. I decided to risk it.

  “One of the killers drove a truck for Max Sloat. He’s a contractor with his own rig. He was delivering drugs as well as timber. The other killer’s his younger brother, and their last name starts with B. The younger brother’s named Robert. We don’t know the older brother’s first name, but it starts with D.” I paused again. “One other thing—I’d strongly advise your forensic team to scour the scene for any tobacco-stained spittle around the point of the shooting and back on the deck and down the stairs. We know one of the brothers chews. You’ll want his DNA.”

  Rice’s jaw dropped a little, but he didn’t ask me to explain. Instead, he scribbled down some notes, and after asking several more questions said, “Thanks, Mr. Claxton. This could really help.”

  I stood to leave. “If you catch the Brothers B, you’ll help Kenny Sanders, too, Detective.”

  He stood and offered his hand. “For what it’s worth, I admire what you’re doing for that kid. I never bought the conviction and was glad it was Drake who caught the case, not me.” He met my eyes, and his lips edged up at the corners. “I’m on a knife-edge here, but I’ll do what I can to help.”

  I shook his hand, holding his steady gaze for a moment. “Thanks, uh…”

  He smiled. “Call me Chet.”

  I smiled back. “Call me Cal. Thanks, Chet. Kenny Sanders needs all the help he can get.”

  * * *

  An ally, I said to myself as I left the hospital conference room. Didn’t see that coming.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Nando was still in surgery, and Claire and I were wired, so after taking Archie for a walk along a grassy stretch adjacent to the hospital, we went back in and got some bad coffee from a machine. An understanding nurse had given Claire a blue pullover to wear and a plastic bag to stash her blood-stained blouse. I had just finished telling Claire about my interview with Rice.

  Claire furrowed her forehead. “How can you be sure Rice’s on our side, Dad?”

  I shrugged and sipped some coffee. “Gut feel, to be honest. We’ve got to trust somebody. Rice can crack two big cases if he finds the Brothers B, so we share the same goal. And I think what he told me about Sheriff Stoddard—that he acted more out of ambition—aligned with my read of the guy.”

  Claire scowled. “That doesn’t make what Stoddard did to Kenny Sanders right.”

  “Of course not, but it suggests he’s not part of a murder conspiracy.”

  “But he might try to delay or obfuscate until after the election,” Claire pointed out.

  “Good point,” I said, impressed as always with my daughter’s insight. “That’s a valid concern.”

  Two and a half hours later we got the word that Nando was out of surgery and out of danger. “Any gunshot wound is serious, and this was no exception,” the ER doc told us, “but it was a small caliber bullet—a twenty-two—and it missed the subclavi
an artery. We got the bullet out in one piece, so no fragments were left behind. The less fortunate news is the bullet lodged in the brachial plexus, a bundle of nerves serving the shoulder. That’s what incapacitated him. The pain was so intense he went into shock almost immediately.”

  “Will his arm and shoulder be okay?” Claire asked, her eyes puffy and etched in worry.

  “That remains to be seen. At the very least, your friend is in for a lengthy bout of physical therapy to regain full motor function.”

  * * *

  Around six a.m., we were finally allowed into the recovery room for a short visit. “I am sorry, Calvin,” he said as we entered his room. “I screwed this up.”

  Claire sucked a sharp breath at the sight of him. I said, “Nonsense,” while trying to hide my shock at seeing his pallid skin, chalky lips, and drug-dulled eyes. “How are you feeling?”

  “How is it said?” He asked, ignoring my question. “Timing is everything? I got to the edge of the drive just in time to see the shadow of one brother going in a side window.”

  “A side window?” Claire asked. “It was locked.”

  Nando nodded and mumbled something inaudible in Spanish. “I know. The idiots missed the open window right in front of them and had to break in. Anyway, I waited, and nothing moved, so I figured the other brother was already inside. He wasn’t, and he saw me before I saw him.” Nando exhaled a slow breath. “I was stupid and careless. I am sorry.”

  “No,” Claire said. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. We all signed off on the plan, Nando.”

  He shook his head and grimaced. “The plan was good. Just a few more minutes, and they would have both been in our trap. Al mejor cazador se le va le liebre.”

  I exhaled a breath. “You’re okay. That’s all that counts. And now every cop on the coast is looking for the Brothers B.”

  He gripped my arm with his right hand. “I’m sure the sheriff has taken your gun and mine for ballistic tests. Listen, there is a Smith and Wesson and an extra clip in the glove compartment of my Lexus. I brought it along, just in case. Get my keys from the nurse, get the gun, and use it to protect yourself and Claire. And move my car off the highway. I am worried it will be stolen.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll take care of your car.”

  For the first time, Nando glanced down at his left arm, covered in bandages and bound tightly to his body, leaving only his fingers exposed. “The fingers don’t work so well,” he said, showing a weak smile. “They are not saying much about the arm yet, except that the bullet struck some nerves.” He looked up at me, and I saw something in his eyes I’d never seen before—fear. “This better not harm my salsa dancing, Calvin.”

  Claire laughed despite herself. I said, “It would take more than a gunshot wound to do that, Nando.”

  We’d just left Nando’s room when Chet Rice called to say the beach house was cleared and that the BOLO he’d issued on the Brothers B hadn’t turned up anything yet. “I, ah, also talked to the old man. We’re going to station one of our units on Sunset Lane at night for your security.”

  “Maybe your gut-check was right, Dad,” Claire remarked after I told her what Rice said, “but I don’t think the Brothers B would dare show up at the beach house again. Look at the reception they got last night, and now they’re on the run.” Claire’s reaction was a relief, since I worried my daughter wouldn’t be comfortable staying there going forward.

  How silly of me.

  I had another concern—how would the owners of the beach house react when I told them what happened? I wasn’t looking forward to that discussion. Would they tell us to clear out? That would sure as hell complicate things.

  * * *

  “What?” Claire said, her eyes suddenly round as saucers. “We’ll be right over.” We’d just finished breakfast at a little diner near the hospital when the call came in. “That was Sissy,” she said after she clicked off. “More multitasking by the Brothers B—they killed her dog last night.”

  Sissy Anderson lived in a small mobile home community on Ocean Boulevard, a collection of double-wide trailers, most of which sported additions, carports, and foundation plantings that implied permanence, not mobility. Sissy’s weather-beaten mobile home was set off by a picket fence needing paint and a sign adjacent to the front door that warned off solicitors. A Harley-Davidson motorcycle sat in the carport next to a road-worn Camry. She answered the door, her eyes red and swollen, and invited us in.

  “You want some coffee?” she said. “I just made a pot.” We said we did and followed her into a small kitchen. She filled three mugs with steaming coffee, set out cream and sugar, then turned to us and sobbed once before catching herself. “Howard wasn’t enough. They had to kill Murphy. What the hell did he do to anyone?”

  “What happened, Sissy?” Claire said.

  She chewed her lower lip for a moment. “Murph, um, pretty much roams the neighborhood, you know. People around here love him. Didn’t show up for his supper last night, which didn’t worry me too much. Anyway, it just gets dark, and I hear a car pull up in front, then take off, leaving a patch of rubber. I went outside…” Tears welled up and streamed down Sissy’s cheeks… “He was in a garbage bag on the front lawn, shot through the head.”

  “That’s horrible. We’re so sorry this happened,” Claire said. She looked at me. “They drove to the beach house next.”

  Sissy swept her tearstained eyes from Claire to me. “What happened there?” When I finished describing the events of the night before, her face was stone hard, her lips pressed into a thin, straight line. She looked at me. “So, they shot my dog then drove to your place. Those lowlife bastards. Nando’s arm, how bad is it?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’re hoping he’ll regain the full use of it.”

  “He’s a good man, that one,” she said, then turning to Claire added, “like your father.” She sipped some coffee and stared straight ahead. “Who’s going to stop them?” she asked the room.

  I hesitated, searching for an answer that would satisfy. Claire filled the vacuum. “We are, Sissy. Listen, the Brothers B seem to combine actions, right? Two nights ago, they came in and shot up this trailer, then drove over to our place to check out the approach. This time, the same pattern, except they came in for the kill. Why would they do it that way unless they lived a fair distance from the bay? Could it be that multitasking minimized their time on the road?”

  She turned to Sissy. “You’ve gone through Howard’s belongings and so has Rice. Maybe you both missed something. Something with an address or location on it, you know, that points to someplace a good distance from here—the Coast Range, maybe the Umpqua Valley?”

  Sissy shrugged her narrow shoulders. “To tell the truth, I still haven’t gone through all his stuff yet. Hell, I should sell his Harley, but I can’t bring myself to do it.” She sighed. “Now, Murph’s gone, too.”

  Claire reached across the table and took Sissy’s hand. “I know how hard this is, Sissy. Would you mind if I take a quick look through Howard’s belongings? I’m a fresh pair of eyes. Maybe I’ll spot something that was missed.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. People and animals are getting shot. You can be right there with me. Anything personal, you just say the word.”

  Sissy chewed her lower lip some more. “Well, I—”

  Claire’s sapphire eyes had fire in them. “Sissy, do you want to stop these guys or not?”

  Sissy agreed, and the two of them went into a back bedroom. Meanwhile, I poured myself another cup and called the owner of the beach house. “Hey, Cal,” he said, after I provided a cursory explanation and promised to fix the broken window. “No problem. The house is fully insured. I’m just glad you and your daughter are okay, and I wish your friend a speedy recovery.”

  All lawyers should have such easygoing clients.

  Claire and Si
ssy returned to the kitchen thirty minutes later. Judging from the look on my daughter’s face, the search hadn’t turned up anything significant. “Rice took photos of all Howard’s credit card transactions for the past year, but I’ve got his receipts.” She held the stack up. “Nothing else caught my eye.”

  Looking unimpressed, Sissy crossed her arms and glanced at me. “Why don’t we cut to the damn chase? We know Max Sloat’s behind this, right? I mean, those two dimwits sure as hell aren’t acting alone.”

  I shook the comment off. Sissy didn’t need to know what we knew. “We don’t have any proof of that,” I cautioned. “But I can tell you that Detective Rice is showing some interest in Sloat.”

  She shot me a wary look. “I shared that tally sheet to help you catch the two brothers, not get me in trouble with the law.”

  “We’ve kept our promise of confidentiality, Sissy, but I can’t control where Rice might take his investigation. If he comes back with more questions, you better not lie to him.”

  Sissy expelled a breath and studied the floral pattern on the plastic tablecloth in front of her for a long time. “What does it matter, anyway?” she said, finally, more to herself than Claire and me. “Howard’s gone. Now Murph’s gone.”

  Claire took her hand again. “Don’t lose faith, Sissy. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  That’s where we left it. More promises made.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  After leaving Sissy’s place, I dropped Claire at Nando’s Lexus so she could drive it back to the beach house. As soon as she pulled in the driveway, I extracted the S&W and the extra clip from the glove compartment. She went immediately to her bedroom and crashed, but I felt too agitated to sleep, so Arch and I went out on the deck. Cool and soothing on my cheek, the breeze coming off the Pacific failed to disturb its surface, a mirror-smooth expanse of turquoise shading to cerulean blue out toward the horizon. I slouched down in a canvas chair and flopped an arm onto the broad back of my dog, who’d lain down beside me. The lighthouse stood stubbornly on the cape, a reminder that some things had at least a modicum of constancy. I envied that structure, yearned to be that inanimate, uncaring tube of brick and plaster. Nando’s right, I realized, as my eyelids grew heavy. Things change too damn fast. I can’t keep…