Right of Redemption

by Jenna Bennett

  It didn’t look like pride. More like amusement, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything one way or the other. If he had killed Morris, he might feel amusement about the fact that Morris’s death had inconvenienced me.

  “You were Natalie Allen’s boyfriend, right?”

  He nodded. “How d’you know that?”

  “One of the neighbors told me,” I said. “Mrs. Oberlin. She lives—lived over there.” I waved a hand in the direction of her house.

  Rodney glanced at it. “Old lady with a dog?”

  I nodded. He nodded too. “What about it?”

  If he’d killed Mrs. Oberlin, there was certainly no sign of it. “I was just wondering what you thought happened. Steve Morris was arrested for Natalie’s murder, but they couldn’t convict him, and then he was acquitted. I was wondering whether you thought he did it, or if not, who did.”

  He stared at me through the window of the car. “You some kind of detective or something?”

  I shook my head. “Not at all. Just curious. There have been a lot of deaths on Fulton Street in the past three or four years.”

  Rodney eyed me. Up and down a few times, where I stood in the open door of my Volvo. “You look like somebody I should know,” he said eventually.

  “I don’t see why,” I answered lightly, even as I felt a prickle of alarm. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

  “How d’you know who I was?”

  Oh. Um… “Good guess?”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Fine,” I said, scrambling for a believable lie. “I saw a picture. I talked to the Allens the other day, and Mrs. Allen showed me a picture of you and Natalie.”

  He glanced at the house. “She didn’t mention that.”

  “No reason she would, right?” I smiled sunnily. “Who do they think killed Steve Morris?”

  But I’d lost him. He’d caught on that something wasn’t quite right, and wasn’t willing to say anything else. “If you talked to them the other day, didn’t they tell you?”

  It made sense that they would have, so when I opened my mouth, nothing came out. Rodney snorted and put his car in gear. “See you around,” he told me, and shot off in a cloud of exhaust. I stood where I was and waited for it to dissipate before I got back into the car.

  And pulled out my phone. And called Rafe. “Rodney Clark was just here. Do you want me to try to follow him?”

  If I could. If he wouldn’t notice me at the first red light.

  “Did he see you?”

  “I talked to him,” I said, as—in the rearview mirror—Rodney’s car disappeared around the corner.

  “Then no. Don’t follow him. I don’t suppose you happened to catch the license plate?”

  I had, as a matter of fact. That was why I’d stood there, breathing exhaust, instead of getting into the Volvo immediately. I rattled it off. “Some kind of muscle car. A Charger or something.”

  “Thanks, darlin’. I’ll get on the phone to the DMV.”

  “Happy to help,” I said. “Um… You haven’t heard anything about Charlotte, have you?”

  His voice got more alert. “Like what?”

  “Like, Jarvis arrested her.”

  “Ain’t she there?”

  She wasn’t. “And she isn’t answering her phone. Her parents don’t, either. I’m worried.”

  “I think Tammy woulda let me know if that was gonna happen,” Rafe said judiciously, “but I can make a couple calls and see what I can find out.”

  I told him I’d appreciate it. “I was on my way back to Sweetwater when I saw Rodney.” After a second I added, “Where are you?”

  “Sitting outside Kyle Scoggins’s place of employment,” Rafe said.

  “Where does he work?”

  “Body shop on Lewisburg Pike. Just a couple minutes from where you are.”

  “Do you want company?”

  “No,” Rafe said. And softened the blow by adding, “Run on back to Sweetwater, darlin’, and look for Charlotte. You won’t breathe easy till you figure out what’s going on.”

  That was probably correct.

  “So you’ll check with Grimaldi and let me know whether she’s been arrested?”

  “As soon as I get off the phone with you.” A second passed, and then he added, his voice different, “Or not. What kinda car did you say Rodney was driving?”

  “Some kind of beefy-looking thing with a lot of horsepower. Maybe a Dodger? Or Charger? Or whatever it’s called?”

  “Dodge Charger,” Rafe said. “Navy blue?”

  It had been navy blue. “Is he there?”

  “Looks like he could be. There’s a blue Challenger coming into the lot.”

  “It might have been a Challenger.” I would have no idea of the difference, to be honest. I can tell a Dodge from a Ford most of the time, and that’s pretty much all I can do.

  “Yep,” Rafe said, with satisfaction in his voice, “that’s him.”

  “Is he there to talk to Kyle?”

  “Must be. I gotta go, darlin’. Go look for Charlotte. I’ll contact Tammy and call you back when I can.”

  He hung up before I had time to say anything, even goodbye. “Fine,” I told the phone. “Be that way.”

  Carrie made an inquiring gurgle from the back seat, and I turned the key in the ignition. “No worries, baby. Here we go.”

  We went, down the street and around the corner and back through Columbia toward Sweetwater.

  It’s roughly a thirty-minute drive from Fulton Street past Beulah’s and the mansion, all the way into downtown Sweetwater where the Albertsons live. We pulled up across the street from the house and I sat for a second looking at it.

  It’s a big, white, Queen Anne style Victorian with a white picket fence enclosing the yard. Charlotte’s minivan was parked at the curb, and Mrs. Albertson’s little Subaru was in the driveway. Charlotte’s dad drove an old truck, and I couldn’t see it anywhere, so maybe he was out. He still worked part-time, as far as I knew.

  There was a spiffy BMW parked in front of me, though, one I hadn’t seen around here before. It had Davidson County plates—Nashville plates, like my car—and a small sticker on the back window. The kind of thing they put on rental cars to scan them in and out.

  No sooner had the thought gone through my mind, than the front door of the Victorian opened, and Charlotte came out. She had little JR on her arm, and held her daughter by the hand, and even from across the street, I could see the tension in her body. She was holding herself stiffly, her face was pale, and as they stopped on the edge of the porch, a pale ray of sun snuck under the porch roof and reflected on something wet on her cheeks.

  My heart skipped for a second. Something was very wrong here.

  And then I noticed that behind her, someone else had come out, and was closing the door to the house.

  I sharpened my eyes.

  I’d only met Richard once, and it was a long time ago. He and Charlotte had been dating, so six years, at least. And he’d been standoffish. Coldly polite, but making it very clear that he wanted me to go away and leave them alone. And since I’d had Bradley to occupy me at that time, I’d obliged.

  He was older now. Had a touch of gray at the temples. Maybe a little middle-aged spread around the middle. But this was Richard. He must have flown in to the Nashville airport, rented a car—a BMW—and driven down here.

  And he had brought his gun. I saw the sunlight glint on that, too, for a second, as he followed Charlotte and the kids down the stairs.

  I watched from across the street, biting my knuckles, afraid to blink, as Charlotte instructed the little girl to open the gate. She did it with her free hand, while still clutching Charlotte tightly with the other. She looked just as pale and shell-shocked as her mother. Maybe she was old enough to realize what the gun was and what it could do, or maybe she was just picking up on Charlotte’s tension. Even from here, I could tell that Charlotte looked brittle enough to snap in two at the least provocation. Even the little boy on h
er hip looked tense and worried. His eyes were huge, and he was sucking his thumb.

  Richard passed through the gate after them, and looked up and down the street. His eyes lit on the Volvo for a second, and I saw his eyes narrow.

  The windows are tinted, so I didn’t think he could see me sitting here. But if he was feeling desperate enough, he might put a bullet through the window anyway, just to be safe. If he was kidnapping his family at gunpoint, he’d clearly passed the point of no return.

  Charlotte must have realized the same thing, because a hot wave of color flooded her cheeks, and she turned and said something to him. It took a second, but then he dragged his attention off the Volvo—off me—and onto her. His lips tightened, and he made a move with the gun hand as if he was going to hit her.

  The little girl squealed in fear and threw her arms around Charlotte’s hips. Richard subsided.

  I fumbled my phone out of my purse with shaking hands, and took my eyes off the action across the street just long enough to make sure I called the right person.

  “Yeah?” my husband’s voice said in my ear, and I opened my mouth. And had to try a couple of time before I could force the words out.

  “I need help.”

  “Savannah?” I imagined him straightening in the seat of the unmarked police Chevy. “What’s wrong?”

  “Richard’s here,” I said, my teeth knocking together. “He’s taking Charlotte and the kids away at gunpoint.”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him I was outside the Albertsons’ house in Sweetwater. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you. You’re in Columbia, and on a stake-out. There’s nothing you can do. I should have called the sheriff.” Rafe has no jurisdiction in Sweetwater. I needed Bob Satterfield or Cletus Johnson.

  “Hang on, darlin’.”

  A moment passed, and then I heard his voice in the background. “32 to dispatch.”

  “32, this is dispatch,” an even fainter voice said. I thought it belonged to Officer Robinson, and my eyes narrowed. When it continued, “Go ahead, Rafe,” I was sure of it.

  “Got a report of a 10-68 in progress on Green Street in Sweetwater,” my husband said, and there was nothing but business in his voice. “Contact the sheriff down there and get a car out ASAP. 32 out.”

  He came back on the line. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I was on my way to talk to Charlotte,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice even when it wanted to jitter and shake. “I pulled up across the street, behind a rental car with Nashville plates.”

  I knew I didn’t have to explain the connection to Rafe. He’d figure it out quicker than I had.

  “Her minivan was parked across the street, and her mother’s car is in the driveway. Before I could get out—” Thank you, God, “the door to the house opened and Charlotte came out on the porch with both the kids, and then Richard followed. He had a gun in his hand.”

  “Has he seen you?” Rafe asked, his voice tight.

  “He saw the car. Charlotte distracted him. Or maybe he’s afraid to cause any kind of disturbance. So far, it looks like I’m the only one seeing what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I heard the squeal of tires, faintly, through the phone. He had clearly left his post outside Kyle Scoggins’s place of employment to come to my rescue.

  I gave myself a sharp mental kick. Stupid, Savannah! I should have thought for a second longer before I called him. This wasn’t his fight. He had another job to do. But now that he knew what was going on, it was clearly too late to stop him from coming, so I answered the question.

  “They’re getting into the minivan. Or Charlotte’s strapping the kids into the car seats in the back. Richard’s behind her with the gun. Looks like he’s putting her in the passenger seat. No, wait… he’s making her slide across and into the driver’s seat. He’s getting in beside her.”

  “It’s hard to juggle a gun and the steering wheel at the same time,” Rafe said, like he’d know. And he probably did. “Making Charlotte drive is safer. He can keep the gun on her, and she ain’t gonna do nothing dangerous. Not with both the kids in the car.”

  No, she wouldn’t.

  “They’re driving away,” I said, reaching for the key.

  “Wait.” It was almost like he knew what I was doing. I waited for him to tell me to stay where I was, but he added, “Give it a couple seconds. See which way they’re going at the corner.”

  I watched in the rearview mirror as the minivan rolled slowly up the street, drawing no attention to itself. “They’re stopping at the first stop sign. No signal.” Charlotte wasn’t taking any chances, but coming to a complete and utter stop. “They’re going straight for another block. Can I start the car?”

  “Are you sure you don’t wanna stay there and see if Mrs. Albertson’s OK?”

  I hesitated. Now that he mentioned it, I guess I was worried about Charlotte’s mother, too. Richard might have shot her dead. Or she might be bound and gagged and stuck to a chair inside, so she couldn’t call for help for her daughter and grandchildren. Or she might be bleeding out on the floor right now. I probably should check on her.

  On the other hand, Charlotte was driving away at gunpoint. And if I didn’t see where they were going, nobody would know where they were.

  “Tell the sheriff to send somebody to check on Mrs. Albertson.” If she was alive, two minutes to or from weren’t likely to make much of a difference. And if she was dead… well, two minutes wouldn’t matter then either. “I’m going after Charlotte.”

  I cranked the key over in the ignition.

  “Be careful,” Rafe said as I executed a tight U-turn between sidewalks and zoomed off down the street after the minivan. I came to a rolling stop at the first stop sign in time to see the Town & Country take a right at the next stop up at Oak Street.

  “They’re going north on Oak. Probably headed for the interstate.”

  They’d be passing the mansion in a minute or two, and Beulah’s a few minutes after that. And with luck, they’d run into Rafe and the Chevy before they could turn off the Columbia Highway onto the Damascus Road and I-65.

  “I’m on my way,” Rafe said calmly. I was sure he was going eighty, zigzagging between the other cars on the road, making his way through Columbia to the south side, but you’d never be able to hear it in his voice. “Be careful, darlin’. You got the baby in the backseat, right?”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. I did indeed have the baby in the backseat. She was asleep, her little rosebud mouth pursed, and had been so quiet that for a minute or two, I’d almost forgotten that she was there. And that could be dangerous. I nodded, not that he could see me. “I’ve got her. And I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “Put the phone in the cradle. Keep it on speaker. Both hands on the wheel. Talk to me about what you see.”

  I dumped the phone into the cradle. It took two tries to get it in because I was shaking. “I’m turning the corner now,” I announced. “I can see them up ahead, but there are two cars between us.”

  “Any of those belong to the sheriff?”

  Not as far as I could see. “Not unless they’re unmarked. Does the sheriff have unmarked vehicles?”

  “They all have private cars,” Rafe said. “The sheriff has a truck. Cletus drives a minivan because of the kids.”

  “These are both sedans.” So probably nobody from the sheriff’s office had caught up yet.

  We chugged past the Oak Street cemetery on the right. “They’re getting close to the mansion,” I said.

  “You wanna stop?”

  I did want to stop. My hands were shaking and I had a sour feeling in my stomach from the fear and adrenaline. But— “No. I’ll keep going. At least until someone from the sheriff’s office catches up. Somebody has to make sure we don’t lose sight of them.”

  Up ahead, the minivan rolled past the mansion. Half a minute later, so did I, at the end of the little procession of cars.

 
; It was kind of crazy. Charlotte was driving at such a sedate pace, probably afraid to do anything to draw attention to their car, that it was like a car chase in slow motion on screen. Creeping down the road in thirty-five, practically like a funeral procession, only increasing the speed to forty-five once we were past the mansion and outside the Sweetwater city limits. Hardly the pace of a desperate criminal trying to get away with three hostages, yet that was pretty much what I was looking at up ahead.

  Was he taking them back to the airport in Nashville? Or did he plan to drive at gunpoint all the way back to North Carolina?

  “Did you have any clue this was gonna happen?” Rafe wanted to know.

  I shook my head at the phone, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. “None. Maybe I should have. I knew he wasn’t giving her any money. That’s why we picked up this house to flip, so that Charlotte could make some quick cash.”

  Or relatively quick. None of us had anticipated the problems we had run into. Just as I hadn’t anticipated this.

  “She told me he was doing it to try to force them to come back to him,” I added. “I didn’t think that meant he was willing to take them back at gunpoint. Maybe I should have.”

  “Any indications he’s been violent before?”

  Charlotte hadn’t mentioned anything like that. “I know he’s been controlling. Back in the spring, during our high school reunion, I got the impression that he wasn’t treating her as well as he should. She didn’t seem happy. I thought he was making her feel bad about herself, you know? Two kids, not twenty-two anymore. But no. She never said anything about him hitting or anything like that. If I thought about abuse at all,” and I wasn’t sure I had, not in those terms, “I guess I would have suspected emotional or verbal abuse, but nothing physical.”

  “That can be bad enough,” Rafe said, and again, he would know. Old Jim, Rafe’s grandfather, hadn’t stopped at verbal and emotional, though, he’s sailed right into physical, too. But yes, verbal and emotional abuse can do just as much damage over time as physical abuse. In much more insidious ways.

  “How close are you?” I asked.

  “I’m getting to the south side of Columbia. You?”

  “They’re just coming up on Beulah’s. Still going at a funeral pace. I’m still two car lengths behind. No, wait—one of the cars between us is turning into the parking lot.”