by L C Hayden
Bronson smiled as he recalled his sister’s nickname for him. Some bullies had been picking on her while other school children watched. Bronson stepped forward and said, “Tough guys like you, picking on a girl. What does that tell me? You’re a bunch of sissies.” They turned on him, giving him a black eye and several bruises before the teachers broke up the fight.
Lorraine hugged Bronson before the coach had a chance to drag him to the office for fighting. “Thank you,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re my big brother, my protector, my Big Bro.”
Big Bro.
So long ago. So much had happened since then. Bronson turned off the engine and for a second, hesitated before he opened the door and stepped out.
Lorraine. His complete opposite. He, a barrel of a man, even as a boy. She, small and delicate like a porcelain doll. Her pert nose and inquisitive blue eyes set off by girlishly long lashes. Yeah, it would be good to see her.
Thank you, Carol. Somehow you always know what I want, even if I don’t. He hastened his step, his gaze alert for her presence. He could feel his silly grin plastered on his face.
“Over here.”
He looked down the covered bridge. She stood at its opposite end. He saw her smile accompanied by a trembling lip.
“Lorraine.”
Each stood at opposite ends of the bridge, staring at one another.
Lorraine took a baby step forward. Bronson did likewise. Then she galloped toward him, her arms spread apart in anticipation of the hug. Bronson opened his arms, welcoming her.
A shot rang out.
Lorraine’s eyes widened, but she continued to run.
“Get down!” Bronson broke into a trot, heading toward his sister. She collapsed into his arms and all energy seemed to drain away from her.
Bronson felt something familiar in his hands, something warm and sticky. Her blood screamed out at him. “Lorraine, no!” He looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the shooter.
“Don’t leave me!” Her extended arm reached out to him.
He dropped to the ground and cradled her. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He dialed 911 and gave the location.
“Why didn’t you come sooner? Why did you ignore my calls? I needed you, Big Bro.” She began to shake. “I’m . . . so cold.”
In the far distance, Bronson heard the wailing of an approaching siren, probably the park ranger. Bronson’s head jerked up.
“The note . . . side of the bridge . . . remember . . .” She struggled to breathe.
Bronson remembered. As kids they noticed that the right hand side of the bridge had two signs. The left had none. Although they knew better, they pretended that the unmarked side of the bridge felt left out. To make it up to the bridge, they scribbled notes and placed them on the ledge at the foot of the bridge on the left-hand side. They held contests—Mom and Dad usually served as the judges—to see who posted the most original note. Strange she would bring that up now. “Shh. Don’t talk. The ambulance is on its way. I can hear it.” Just hold on.
“Too late . . . I’m afraid . . . what I did . . . back then. Will I . . . be punished now?”
Bronson cradled and rocked her. “No, of course not. You were a kid. Now hush, conserve your energy. They’re almost here.”
“Too late.”
“Don’t say that.” Tears welled in Bronson’s eyes. “You’re going to be okay. You hear me? We’re going to make up for all the lost time. You’re going to be okay.” God, please don’t let her die. Not like this, not now.
She raised a trembling hand toward Bronson’s face. “Don’t leave me.” She took a deep breath. “Don’t leave me.” She closed her eyes.
Bronson let out a heart-wrenching groan.
Chapter 3
Head Park Ranger Eric McLaughlin turned off the siren and slowed down as he approached the scene. He spotted a parked Chevy Cruze, a silver sedan just like the one he desired. He stared at the vehicle, then all around it. He detected no movements.
Still, he pulled his gun, stepped out of the ranger truck, and walked around the Cruze, looking inside. Nothing unusual. He looked up and got a clear view of the inside of the bridge.
A lone figure, kneeling on the floor, rocked back and forth cradling a woman’s body. McLaughlin’s first thought told him to make the man stand up. Put his hands up. He could be the killer. Instinct told him the man was as much a victim as the woman he cradled.
From the looks of it, the man wasn’t going anywhere. McLaughlin decided to leave him alone and let the troopers take care of him. Instead, McLaughlin would focus on securing the crime scene. He hoped he’d do it right. He never thought he’d actually have to use the skills he’d learned in police training workshops.
To his left, a group of loud tourists headed his way. McLaughlin stopped them. “The bridge and mill are temporarily closed. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The tourists grumbled but turned back. McLaughlin let out a sigh of relief when he heard a siren approaching.
Minutes later, uniformed troopers arrived. McLaughlin filled them in on the little he knew. They called in the plain clothes and less than half-an-hour later, a tall woman in her indeterminate forties with an athletic body stepped out of the Ford Bronco she drove. She paused by the car, her gaze scanning the area.
McLaughlin headed down the hill toward the parking lot. “I’m Head Ranger Eric McLaughlin.” He offered the trooper his hand.
She accepted it. “Ivy Cannady. What do we have?”
McLaughlin indicated the covered bridge with a nod. “A single male figure halfway through the bridge cradling a woman’s body.”
“She’s dead?”
McLaughlin gasped. He had only assumed. “I didn’t ask.”
Cannady’s eyes widened.
“But I briefly checked the area.” McLaughlin quickly spat out the words. “Apparently, we’re alone.”
Behind them the squealing of tires announced another car’s arrival. Two more troopers stepped out.
Cannady signaled for them to hurry up. “Hunsicker, cover me from the other side of the bridge.” She pulled her gun. “Swanson, scan the area for anything you can find. Seems the shooter came from that direction.” She pointed to the opposite end of the bridge. “McLaughlin, you follow me.”
As silently as possible so as not to startle the man, Cannady and McLaughlin entered the bridge and worked their way toward the man and the woman. She watched as Hunsicker made his way in from the opposite end of the bridge.
Holding her .40 caliber semi-automatic Glock at the ready, Cannady used her authoritative voice. “My name is Cannady. We’re here to help you. Don’t make any sudden moves.”
Bronson turned to face her, but held onto Lorraine’s body. “She said, ‘Don’t leave me,’ but she’s the one who left me. She’s gone.”
“Can you tell us who she is?”
Bronson leaned down and kissed Lorraine’s forehead. “My sister. Lorraine. Lorraine Bronson.” He gently set her down. “I’m a retired Dallas police detective. I’m going to reach for my I.D. in my back pocket.” He placed one hand up and using slow movements, he retrieved his wallet and opened it.
Cannady looked at the I. D. “Detective Bronson.” She bent down and felt for a pulse in Lorraine’s neck. Failing to find one, she stood. “Tell me what happened.”
Bronson told her and then stepped back. An ambulance arrived followed by the medical examiner. Troopers swarmed the area, each focusing on their own task. Cannady found Lorraine’s I.D.—probably her driver’s license—in her pants pocket.
Bronson thought about asking Cannady if he could see it, but his legs refused to obey. Part of him told him he should be involved, but the other part—the one that was the most dominant—forced him to remain aloof as though he was detached, wasn’t part of the scene. His eyes recorded the activities but his mind wouldn’t register them. Still he stood, watching the coroner and the photographer, and all the other people hustle around his sister’s body.
Cannady
noticed him and approached. “You don’t have to hang around. We’re almost through anyway.”
Bronson nodded.
“Before you leave, I have to know where you’ll be staying.”
“My ex-partner’s ex-wife lives in Pittsburgh. I’ll crash there for a couple of days.”
“Pittsburgh is a mighty big city.”
Bronson retrieved his pocket notebook, tore off a sheet, scribbled down Ellen Biebersheimer’s address and phone number and then on second thought, added his cell number. He handed Cannady the paper.
Cannady looked at it, folded it, and put it in her pants pocket. “Thanks for adding your contact information, but I hope I won’t have to use it to remind you to come to headquarters. I’ll be expecting your visit, tomorrow at the latest. I may have some additional questions that need to be answered.”
Bronson nodded.
“One more thing,” Cannady said.
Bronson waited for her to finish.
“I want you to follow me to the barracks and give me a formal statement.”
“Can do.” Bronson took one last look at the bridge and at his sister’s body, now covered with a sheet. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed for the Cruze.
*****
From the far distance, a solitary figure made sure he didn’t miss any of the goings on. He rubbed his chin as he saw the ranger’s arrival and then the trooper’s, followed by various other troopers driving in their official Ford Crown Victorias or other unmarked vehicles. Within seconds, the area swarmed with police activity. He always enjoyed watching them move like busy little ants doing their best to piece together the puzzle.
A puzzle they would never put together, for he alone held the key pieces.
He rubbed his chin harder and faster as he focused on the lone trooper. Soon, the trooper would find the area where he had hidden, and why not? Only a moron wouldn’t be able to follow the trail he left behind. He had broken enough twigs and as if that wasn’t enough, he had also cleared a path that would lead them to the right place.
The trooper must have noticed some of the broken twigs as he bent down and studied the ground. He immediately followed it to the hiding area about one-hundred yards from the bridge. The trooper stood for a few seconds analyzing the ground. He looked down and retrieved a plastic bag from his pocket. Using the bag, he picked up something and sealed the bag.
Most likely the trooper had found the cartridge. Good. The viewer rubbed his chin and nodded with approval. Amazing how easily some people could be fooled.
His gut told him to get the hell out before the troopers decided to expand the search. Still, he stood, rubbing his chin.
Chapter 4
Ellen stared at the untouched now cold cup of coffee. Bronson sat slumped at the far edge of her couch, playing with the rim of the coffee cup.
“Don’t you like my coffee?” Ellen asked.
“Hm.”
“I’ve never known you not to drink coffee. Even while Mike was still courting me—way before he became your partner—I remember you always with a cup of coffee in your hands.”
Bronson continued to stroke the rim of the cup. If he heard her, he didn’t show it.
“Carol’s coming?” Ellen asked.
No answer.
“Bronson.”
Bronson looked up. He blinked his eyes rapidly and shook his head. “Whaat?” He frowned.
“You called Carol. Is she coming?”
He nodded. “She’s driving the camper. It’ll be days before she gets here.”
Ellen leaned forward and wrapped her hands around his. “I’ve never seen you like this before. I’m calling Mike.”
Bronson didn’t respond, and Ellen wasn’t sure if he heard. Ellen stood up, stared at Bronson, and headed for the phone.
*****
“Hey, buddy, wake up.”
Bronson opened one eye. The alarm clock read 2:59. The sun brightly shining through the window told him he’d slept most of the day away. Already the afternoon and still he wore his pajamas. No matter. Nothing mattered. He rolled over and covered his face with the blanket.
“You’re not getting off that easy.” Mike pulled away the bed sheets. “Get up.”
“I’m tired.”
“Of what? Being in bed all day? What you should be tired of is feeling sorry for yourself. Now get up.”
Bronson sat up, swung his legs down, and stared into his ex-partner’s intense watermelon green eyes. As always, his solid white hair and impeccably ironed shirt made him look more like an executive instead of a police detective. “What are you doing here?”
“Ellen called me.”
“She’s your ex. Ex’s don’t call each other.”
“You know better than that.”
“Yeah. I know.” Bronson ran his hands through his hair. “But it doesn’t make sense. Nothin’ makes sense. Why didn’t I come when she first called? She’d be alive now. It’s my fault she’s dead.”
It took Mike a few seconds to realize Bronson had switched from Ellen to Lorraine. “Stop right there.” Mike sat down beside him. “You didn’t pull the trigger. Some S.O.B. did. Tell me you know that.”
“I could have helped her, but I chose not to.” Bronson buried his head in his hands.
“Tell me you know this isn’t your fault.”
Bronson lowered his hands and pivoted his head toward Mike. “Her last words to me—”
“Bronson, don’t do this.”
“—‘Don’t leave me.’ ” He let out an empty laugh. “I did just that. I left her alone, and now she’s dead. Don’t tell me I didn’t kill her.”
Mike wrapped his arm around Bronson’s shoulder and squeezed. Bronson remained rigid. Mike looked at the bedroom entry way and saw Ellen leaning against the door frame, her arms crossed and tears running down her cheeks. Using his eyes, Mike indicated Bronson.
She nodded and stepped forward.
Mike once again squeezed Bronson’s shoulder, stood, and walked out.
Ellen reached down and wrapped her hands around Bronson’s. He squinted and the lines between his eyes pulled into a little frown. “‘Don’t leave me,’ she said.”
“I know.” She knelt down so their faces were at eye-level. “I’m not Carol, but I’m here for you.”
“I know.” He buried his face in her shoulder.
She held him tight.
*****
When Bronson finally got himself together enough to get out of the bedroom, he found Mike and Ellen sitting on the couch, their arms wrapped around each other. Ellen’s forehead looked like that of an older woman’s, but other than that, her soft features still held their beauty. Bronson smiled. “Hey, Mike, you’re a fool. You shouldn’t have let her go.”
“She walked out on me, but she knows I’ll take her back anytime. No questions asked.” He spoke to Bronson but stared into Ellen’s eyes.
Ellen’s facial features tightened. “I can’t be a policeman’s wife. You know that. I don’t know how Carol does it.”
“Being a policeman is all I know how to do,” Mike said.
Ellen nodded and looked down.
“Hey, buddies, thanks for being there for me. Sorry about being such a pain in the ass.” Bronson cleared his throat. “Excuse my French.”
“No problem.” Mike squeezed Ellen’s shoulder. She looked up at him and gave him a small smile.
“It is a problem or at least a huge inconvenience.” Bronson sat on the recliner across from them. “Detectives can’t just walk away from their cases very easily.”
“Thing is, the captain has been after me to take some vacation time. Never had reason to. Now I do.”
Bronson nodded. “How long are you here for?”
“I’ve got thirty-three days coming. As long as I don’t exceed that, I’ll be fine.”
“I’m okay now. You don’t have to babysit me anymore.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here to see Ellen. In fact, I’ve been thinking,” Mike said,
looking up at Bronson. “Why don’t you call Carol, find out where she is, and the three of us drive out to meet her? Then we’ll do the tourist bit.”
“Can’t. I’ve got a funeral to arrange and attend. Besides, there’s a loose criminal out there, and I promised Lorraine, I’d find him.”
Mike shot up to his feet. “Bronson, you can’t. You’re too close. Let the police do their work. Besides, you’re no longer a policeman.”
“But you are.”
“Yeah, in Dallas. I have no jurisdiction here.”
“Then we’ll do this as private citizens.”
“Bronson—”
“‘Don’t leave me,’ she said.” Bronson glared at Mike. “I’m never going to leave her again.”
Chapter 5
Bronson tossed Mike the rental car keys. “You drive.”
“Some things don’t ever change.” Mike half-smiled and shook his head. “You remembered the procedure. I drive and you carry the keys.”
Bronson half-smiled. Mike never liked to carry anything in his pocket. “Guess you’re right. Some things don’t ever change.”
They reached the Cruze and got in. “Which way?”
Bronson gave him instructions on how to get to Glacier Valley Covered Bridge. Mike started the engine and pulled off. They rode in silence, Bronson often squirming, unable to find a comfortable position. He rubbed his eyes, looked out the window, and shifted positions once again.
Mike gave him a sideways glance. “What’s on your mind?”
“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. You’ve got your career to think of. I screwed mine. I can’t ask you to do the same. I can handle this myself. No hurt feelings.”
“Once a partner, always a partner. You can count on me.” Mike nodded once.
Bronson nodded and less than an hour later, Mike took the 488 ramp that led them to the state park. “You sure you want to do this?”
Bronson eyed him.
