Always Look Twice

by Elizabeth Goddard

  “You can’t know that,” she said.

  “I’m thinking exigent circumstances,” Liam said. “If he is the murderer, he could be out there killing someone else at this very moment—the public could be in danger. So there. Exigent circumstances.”

  Heath eyed his brother. “Done this often, have you?”

  Liam shrugged. “You can call someone to get us a warrant. As for me? I don’t like to think a murderer is running around loose, believing that he framed some other guy and we bought it. I mean, the sheriff bought it.”

  “Look,” said Harper, “I can’t believe Uncle Jerry is the shooter. Just like you’re not going to believe it when you hear that Pete Langford could be the bomber.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  FRIDAY, 11:45 A.M.

  UNCLE JERRY’S HOUSE

  Sitting on the porch of the home where she grew up, Harper could feel the national forest seemingly close in on her. Locusts buzzed, oblivious to her presence. Heath hadn’t appreciated that her mind had immediately gone to Pete when she’d seen those initials in the pipe. But she knew he would talk to the sheriff about that too. What would happen? Was the law coming down on his ranch right now in search of Pete? She couldn’t be the only one to think of him, what with that bomb at the ranch. At least they weren’t there at the moment.

  No. They were at her old house. She wished she hadn’t come back today, after all.

  She shouldn’t be sitting there if Uncle Jerry was a murderer because she could potentially destroy evidence. But this wasn’t an official crime scene. So she was going to sit on the porch if she wanted to, because . . . no.

  Just, no. He wasn’t.

  How many times had she lounged on this porch growing up? Listening to the sounds of the woods? Unaware that her familiar home and the life she’d known would be ripped out from under her in one fateful moment.

  All the energy had long ago drained from Harper. What were they even doing here, looking at her old house like it could be a crime scene?

  They couldn’t wait here forever for a warrant to come through, or for Jerry Johnson to show up. Where are you, Uncle Jerry?

  She leaned back on her elbows on the edge of the porch, her feet on the steps, and heard a creak behind her. Harper peered over her shoulder.

  Hmm. The door had cracked open—a shift in the wind? Pressure on the porch enough to ease it open? Before Heath had driven up and drawn her attention away from the house, she’d rung the doorbell but hadn’t actually knocked. Maybe it hadn’t been closed all the way to begin with? Harper stood and approached. She glanced at the others. Heath was on the phone trying to get someone onboard for a warrant to search the house. Liam was casing the forest, looking for those bullets shot from the rifle.

  Everyone was preoccupied. Too much was happening all at once, and now she wished she’d gone with Lori.

  What if Uncle Jerry was hurt? His truck could be in the shop, for all she knew. Gently, she stood up, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  “Uncle Jerry?”

  She was his niece, after all. She was worried about him, truly she was.

  Once she was inside the home, there was no turning back. Memories flooded her. The good ones and the bad ones. Momma and Emily. Daddy sitting in his recliner after work, watching the news.

  Mom and Dad fighting. They loved each other—Harper knew that—but they argued more often than not. An old musty smell accosted her, that and too many dirty clothes and dishes. She crept forward across the creaking, scratched wood floor.

  She shouldn’t be in the house. Harper knew that she shouldn’t be intruding, but an invisible force was compelling her forward in search of Uncle Jerry. Or . . . truth.

  “Uncle Jerry?” Now that she was inside, the house had an empty feeling. She sensed that she was alone. That he wasn’t lying on the floor unconscious or injured.

  What if he came home and found her here? Would her presence in his home affect any evidence against him if he was the killer?

  Why was he living here? Why did Mom tell them she had sold the place without any mention of him? Or had he bought it from someone else? She crept forward, a force driving her as if she were Emily the mystery writer in search of answers about what had happened that night. In search of answers about who had killed her father. But she wouldn’t find them here and now.

  If only she had looked to see who had shot her father before she’d hidden away. But maybe it was like Heath said, and she would have been killed too if she had seen the person who killed her father.

  Since the incident that night long ago, Harper had so many unanswered questions. Too many fuzzy memories. At the end of the hallway, a door was closed.

  Her old room where she’d hidden and cowered under the bed as she stifled her sobs for fear the shooter would come for her too.

  If she opened it and went inside, would the memories drive her to her knees in anguish? Would being in her room serve as a traumatic stressor and send her back to the place she’d fought to escape? Or maybe she would remember something she’d forgotten that night—a memory she’d shoved deep inside.

  Despite the dread creeping up her spine, Harper continued forward down the narrow hallway. No family photos remained on the walls, though now that she thought about it, she distinctly remembered that her mother had left pictures on the walls the day they’d moved.

  Harper had never once wondered what had happened to the things they had left behind. She had assumed that, somehow, her mother had taken care of it all.

  At the door, she pressed her hand against the old, splintered wood. She gasped as a memory flooded her mind. Daddy’s words that night. “I know what you did.”

  A lump filled her throat. All she had ever remembered was the shot fired and her father dropping to the ground. Never the words—until this moment.

  And if she entered the room, would she remember more?

  Harper pushed the door open and stepped into a room that looked nothing like her old bedroom. Workbenches and machines took up the space. Rifles and gun barrels. Black powder. Supplies for making bullets.

  Harper covered her mouth. So he’s a hunter. He makes his own rifles. So what?

  Heath stepped up behind her. “We have a warrant. Taggart told us to go in. I think you found what we came for.” He turned her to face him and gently gripped her shoulders. “This doesn’t mean he’s the killer, Harper.”

  “But”—she pointed to a hiker’s pink backpack—“it’s not looking good.”

  “I don’t think the sheriff wants you in here. The truth is, I don’t want you here either. You’re too close to this. Detective Moffett is on her way.”

  She nodded in full agreement. “This used to be my room.”

  “You shouldn’t have come inside. I’ll escort you back to the truck. I could sit with you until Moffett arrives and then I’ll take you back.”

  “No, it’s okay.” She handed the camera over. “You take a few for me.”

  Nausea erupted, and Harper fled the room. She wished now that she’d gone back with Emily. This was too much. Before exiting the house, she hesitated. She had to see Mom and Dad’s old room. A quick peek. Had to be Uncle Jerry’s room now.

  She made her way down another short hallway and stepped through the open door.

  Liam stood in the middle of the room. Arms crossed, he stared at the walls, which were covered in diagrams and newspaper clippings. In addition, supplies were scattered on a table at the far end. Pipes. Gunpowder. Fuses.

  Liam looked at the walls. “What is this?”

  “I know exactly what it is. My mother has some of the same clippings in a shoebox. This bombing happened right before Daddy was killed. I never understood why they argued about it, but it tore them apart, I think.”

  Harper took a closer look. Bomb-making instructions were spread out on another table. “What—is he trying to become some kind of copycat of the Firebomber in targeting the train depot and Heath’s cabin?”

  “Could he actually
be the Firebomber?” Liam asked. “As far as I know, the FBI never found him.”

  She eyed photographs of selected parts and supplies that presumably were used to make a bomb. “I think we should get out of here. He’s gone. Maybe it’s a trap. He’d wanted us to come back to see him.” What kind of sick psychopath was her uncle?

  “You’re right. We’ll let the powers that be know about what we found. The only thing missing is the man behind the bombs.” Liam followed Harper out of the room, down the hallway, out the door, and onto the porch. Harper kept going. Marching. Hiking. She had to get as far away as she could.

  Uncle Jerry had not only tried to kill her, but it looked like he was a domestic terrorist. And he’d been using her old house as his command center. On his cell, Liam stopped next to Heath’s truck. Heath jogged toward her. She stopped where the drive met the road.

  Heath’s boots crunched as he jogged, and then he slowed and stepped up behind her. “They had actually taken Pete in for questioning, but I told them what we found. They’ll be here soon, Harper. Let’s get you away from this before they get here. I know they’ll want to question you since he’s your uncle, but that can come later.”

  “It all makes sense now,” she whispered to herself.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “That night, Dad said, ‘I know what you did.’ And someone killed him. Momma took us away, and she was devastated about Dad’s death, but her friend . . . the one who died from a bomb blast. Maybe it wasn’t a friend, but instead it was her brother, Jerry, who had died to her, though he was still very much alive. Maybe she had discovered her brother was the Firebomber and Dad had confronted him and was murdered for it.”

  “Come here.” Heath turned her to face him, then pulled her to him.

  “But this. Those walls in the bedroom. It’s like a memorial to the Firebomber.”

  “I think it’s more than a memorial, Harper. It’s a game plan.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  FRIDAY, 5:25 P.M.

  NEW BASE OF OPERATION

  The judge’s timetable had been shredded, but he was nothing if not flexible, and his plans were coming together regardless. Knowing this was the end, knowing he’d never have to feel this sick again, gave him the strength to finish. To follow through with his big plans. Some practice had been in order.

  The mailboxes. The irony—he’d gotten the idea to die on his own terms from those kids who’d blown up his mailbox.

  Then he’d needed something bigger—that cabin belonging to McKade, then the train depot.

  He would push through to the finish. This would be like old times. They hadn’t stopped him before, and they wouldn’t stop him now.

  He would go out with a bang, and they would pay with their lives this time.

  He had a long night ahead of him, if he was going to keep his schedule. Nothing like a big event to go out in glory. He’d collected everything he needed months ago. Working in the shadows with only a flashlight, he kept up the pace, ignored the pain. It wouldn’t last forever, and he’d made it this far.

  As he prepared his work of art, he thought back to that moment he opened the door to see the photographer standing on his porch.

  There she stood—she and her sister, claiming he was their uncle. He hadn’t realized the photographer was one of Leslie’s girls when he’d tried to silence her. He should have seen the resemblance sooner.

  He’d told them he wasn’t feeling well, and at the realization of who the photographer was, he’d gotten sicker than ever. He wasn’t sure what he thought about the fact that he had any feelings at all. Emotions. Remorse. Regret.

  Those could destroy his mission. His cause. He’d let his cause languish as he laid low for far too long.

  And now thanks to what he’d discovered in the camper while it was still in one piece, it was as if Providence had shined down on him and he’d found a fitting place to make his last stand.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  FRIDAY, 6:37 P.M.

  CIRCLE S RANCH

  Harper hardly cared that the man who had tried to kill her was still alive. Heath claimed she could still be in danger, but Uncle Jerry had framed someone else to take the blame as soon as he learned Harper was his niece. With the shooter identified, Uncle Jerry would have no need to take Harper out. Case closed. Harper believed that to her core. Her dad’s murder, however, happened under a different set of circumstances, and she suspected her uncle was responsible for that as well. Regardless, she was but one person in danger of losing their life at his hands.

  Dazed and wrapped in a western-styled quilt, Harper nestled on the sofa and curled her hands around a hot mug of chamomile tea, compliments of Lori.

  “I know you can’t wait to get home and feel safe. Put this nasty business behind you.” Lori offered her a concerned, genuine smile.

  When Harper didn’t reply, Lori continued. “Do you need anything else, hon?”

  “I’m good.” Harper didn’t want or need the pampering, but Lori was a nurturer and needed to give Harper attention.

  “Okay, then. I’ll give you some time and space. I’ll be close if you need me.”

  Harper held the pain at bay, enough so that she could offer Lori a soft, reassuring smile to ensure that the woman would, in fact, give her time and space. Lori walked away, leaving Harper in peace and quiet. In grief and shock.

  A contingent of law enforcement—state and federal—had taken over the home where she grew up. They had also seized her camera to be returned at a later date. Or never. The FBI had arrived in full force to evaluate the explosion in Grayback and at Heath’s ranch too. This domestic terrorist—the Firebomber—had eluded them years ago by planting fake clues, like he’d done when he left Pete’s initials behind. The feds would not be denied this unexpected chance to finally capture him. And this time was different—they had a name.

  Because she was his niece, Harper had been interviewed in a way that had the earmarks of an interrogation. Would they eventually interrogate Emily too?

  But Harper had a few questions of her own about her uncle. How had he become this person? She couldn’t fathom her mother’s brother doing any of it, but now she completely understood their estrangement. Uncle Jerry was some kind of crazy, but there was much more to it, she’d been told. Psychologists, profilers, authorities—the experts hadn’t discovered the reasons why someone would turn to violence in this way. Domestic terrorists—as Uncle Jerry had been labeled—came from all kinds of backgrounds. They were college graduates, military servicemen, rich, poor. It didn’t matter.

  The FBI investigator had told her that her uncle had been an economics professor at the University of Colorado.

  Names had been given as examples. Timothy McVeigh. Ted Kaczynski, otherwise known as the Unabomber. Uncle Jerry, known to the world as the Firebomber, had historically been included in a list of notorious domestic terrorists. He’d also been a member of a terrorist group who called themselves Freedom Force, but the members were either dead or incarcerated, all except for her uncle, who liked to call himself “the judge.” Now he operated as a lone wolf, but he connected with like minds on the internet, where his radical ideology was fueled.

  Her head throbbed. The rest of her had grown numb.

  Looking out the panoramic window, Harper stared at the woods and mountains beyond, but her mind was far from the serene, picturesque view. She was glad they hadn’t moved from Lori’s to Emerald M yet, or they would be moving right back to Lori’s, since the bombed cabin at Heath’s ranch was once again in the limelight as the FBI worked to connect that bombing to the one in Grayback. Connect them both to Uncle Jerry.

  I should go home now. Go back to Missouri.

  Before the bomb in Grayback, she’d been considering staying and working for Sheriff Taggart, if he ever made an official offer, and exploring a relationship with Heath. The thought of actually letting Heath into her heart, risking love, had felt right.

  But her intended words to him had been oblit
erated. She never got to speak them, and now she wasn’t sure if she ever would.

  Everything . . . everything had changed now.

  She had answers to questions she hadn’t even asked, and those answers left her gutted. Broken again.

  Authorities were holding the news close for now, because they didn’t want their fugitive to escape them again. Harper suspected it wouldn’t be long before someone leaked the discovery to the news stations and national news would be all over it.

  The Firebomber, now identified as Gerald Henry Johnson, brother to Leslie Johnson Larrabee, a.k.a. Leslie Reynolds, had been living for two decades in Jackson Hole. Unfortunately, he had eluded capture again and was many steps ahead of them. Uncle Jerry had been making plans for another big bomb. Authorities were hoping to thwart his plans, except they didn’t know what structure he would target next. They had determined that his next bomb would definitely be his last because he was reportedly in the end stages of lung cancer.

  Uncle Jerry probably thought of it as a last big hurrah, and he might even prefer going out with the bomb instead of from cancer.

  Harper sipped the chamomile tea, now tepid instead of hot. Tears had dried on her cheeks. She hadn’t bothered wiping them away. She hoped and prayed, once the news was made public, that her and Emily’s names weren’t released as being connected to the man in any way. They didn’t share his last name, but a curious reporter could easily make the connection. Would that information harm Emily’s career as a mystery writer, even though she used a pen name? The future seemed muddied at best.

  Harper better understood her mother’s actions now—why she quickly moved them and changed their names. Mom hadn’t lost a friend in a bomb. She’d lost her brother to a crazed, domestic-terrorist mind-set. Harper didn’t get why her mother hadn’t turned Uncle Jerry in to the authorities back then. After all, he’d murdered her husband. Perhaps he’d threatened their lives too? She could have feared reprisal from the other members of Freedom Force, and that was the reason she fled. That would make the most sense.