A Murder In Passing (25 page)

“Yeah, it is. But that's not why I'm calling. I'm still looking into your uncle's death.”

“Oh, is there a new suspect?”

“No. Not yet. But we might have a fresh angle. You told me you overreacted when you thought your uncle's body had been discovered and you blamed Lucille.”

“Yes. And I'm not proud of jumping to conclusions.”

I chose my words carefully, knowing I had to balance speculation with factual evidence. “Lucille told me Jimmy was supposed to pick her up the day he disappeared. He'd talked about a new start and a real treasure. I think he might have been going to surprise her with some gift. Maybe a peace offering at a special place.”

“If what she's saying is true.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “It's not a certainty, but it's all I've got. Maybe he re-framed that Ulmann photograph of Lucille's family. Or made some arrangements for little Marsha. Maybe he was leaving, but was going to make provisions for his child.”

“Maybe.”

“You used to hunt with him. Did he have any favorite spots, a lake or a nice mountain view where he might have planned something special?”

There was a long pause. “Nothing comes to mind. How do you think finding it would be helpful?”

“Because I believe your uncle is dead and maybe he was killed on that spot. Maybe for the ten thousand dollars he'd taken from his bank account. Maybe for another reason. But it might have happened at that location. Before I press Lucille further, I wanted to check with you.”

“Wish I could help. I really do.”

“Thank you. I'll speak with her tonight and start following up tomorrow.”

“Don't hesitate to call me if you think I can help,” he offered.

“Thanks,” I said. “But we're probably chasing ghosts. Or at least a ghost.”

I ended the call. The players were primed.

And then I got the word from the Chief Warrant Officer at Fort Bragg. Donnie Nettles' role became crystal clear.

Chapter Twenty-six

The pink tinge of the western clouds faded to gray. I lay in a depression in the shadows about twenty yards to the east of the stone chimney. The trail from the pasture rose below. Anyone climbing would have trouble peering through the murky underbrush shielding me, whereas their silhouette would stand out as long as faint vestiges of daylight remained in the sky. After full darkness, I'd have to use starlight and the abrupt silence of the night creatures to know when I was no longer alone.

“Are you all right?” The tinny sound of Nakayla's voice came through the small earpiece.

“Yes,” I whispered. “At least I'm not dealing with Iraqi sand flies. I'm just anxious to get this over.”

“Patience,” she cautioned. “And no unnecessary chances.”

“Copy that, and patiently lying by.”

Within five minutes, the forest reverberated with crickets and a host of other insects that could fill a naturalist's handbook. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, preparing for a night of hunting. I wished us both success.

Dusk turned to night.

Static burst in my ear. “Car approaching,” Nakayla whispered. A few more seconds of static. “It's turning in.”

“Can you tell the make?”

“Too far away. All I see are headlights. My guess is a sedan. Should I close in behind?”

“No. Too soon. Let's see what develops. I'll lock transmission when there's contact.”

“Got it,” she said. The earpiece went quiet.

A sedan would take longer to navigate the rugged road than my CR-V. Nakayla had driven me to the pasture and then returned my vehicle to the safety of her vantage point along the main highway. The approaching car would see no sign that anyone else was on the premises.

For the next five minutes, the forest returned to its nocturnal cacophony. Then brief flashes of light winked through the narrow gaps between the trees. I never saw the car, just the reflected glow of its headlights along the final stretch.

Again, the woods were swallowed in darkness. I flattened into the dry pine needles, the ground covering I'd sought because it was less noisy than the leaves of the neighboring hardwoods.

My visitor made no attempt to mask the sounds coming up the trail. Halting footsteps mixed with the swishing of brush being knocked aside. The beam of a flashlight swung between the path underfoot and the top of the knoll as if the owner was anxious to see the destination.

Stepping into the small clearing, the figure appeared stooped. The flashlight was in the left hand and a cane in the right. The back spill of the halogen beam illuminated a face marked by grim determination.

“John Lang,” I whispered, and locked down the radio's transmit button.

The old man played the light over the chimney from base to top like an archaeologist who stumbled upon an ancient monolith. He leaned against the cane as if the very sight of the Kingdom's remains sapped the strength from his body.

I waited for him to make a move, to take some action that connected his presence to the death both of us knew happened here so many years ago. So far, trespassing was John Lang's only provable crime.

The chimney and surrounding area grew brighter as a cloud blew clear of the half moon. I could now see he wore a tan canvas hunting jacket over matching pants. His boots were brown leather and cut a few inches above his ankles. He had come prepared for the hike.

Like the opening of a door or turning on of a front porch light, the emerging moon broke Lang from his rooted stance and bestowed permission to come closer. He tapped one of the larger base stones with the tip of his cane, and then shifted the flashlight into the same hand so that he could place his free palm flat against the rocks. He held that position for at least a minute as if summoning courage to continue his mission.

He leaned his cane against the chimney and slowly slid his fingers across the rock surface like a blind man reading a braille tablet. His hand passed under the loose stone and I thought I'd masked its location too well for the old man's eyesight. He went beyond it, but the outer edge of the beam must have caught the deeper depression around the stone's perimeter. I could see him dig his fingernail into the moss. He transferred the flashlight into his left hand and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath beneath the canvas jacket. The blade gleamed in the light as he wedged it into the crevice and repeated the maneuvers I'd made with the chisel and crowbar. Within a few minutes, he'd extracted the stone and pulled the packet from its hiding place.

Jimmy Lang's plastic had disintegrated in my hand, so I'd soiled and stressed the oilskin before re-wrapping the original articles. John Lang was too anxious to see the contents to think about the authenticity of their protective covering. He knelt down using his cane for support, spread the oilskin like a picnic blanket, and stared at the three items his brother had planned to show Lucille.

First, he picked up the ring. The scattered refractions of the small diamond danced on the pine needles like sparkling fairies. Then he examined the Ulmann photograph, the actual print Julia Peterkin had sent Lucille's grandmother eighty years ago. Finally, he opened a manila envelope and pulled out a stack of one-hundred-dollar bills and two sheets of legal paper folded to the same size as the currency. He read the handwritten words I'd seen a few hours earlier. Even from my hiding spot in the woods, I could see tears streaking his weathered face.

Now was the time to confront him. The evidence of Jimmy Lang's threat to him lay undeniably before him.

I lifted myself to all fours, preparing to stand and make a dramatic entrance as if I'd materialized out of thin air.

The dramatic entrance shocked John Lang almost as much as it shocked me because the dramatic entrance wasn't mine.

“You'd better give me those.” William Lang gave the order in a calm, firm voice.

I froze.

John flipped up his flashlight to reveal his son standing on the path at the edge of the woods. William wore a light camo jacket and black jeans. For a second, I couldn't understand why Nakayla hadn't warned me. Then I remembered I'd locked the transmit key in the on position. She couldn't get through.

William Lang moved across the clearing with ghostly speed and silence.

The old man clutched the papers to his chest. “These belong to your uncle.”

“Then destroy them.” William stood over his father, holding out his hand. He snapped his fingers impatiently, demanding the document.

John Lang recovered from the startling appearance of his son. His eyes narrowed. “How did you know to come here?”

“Sam Blackman told me he'd be checking the chimney tomorrow. I didn't know why, but I suspected it was in our best interest to learn what he expected to find.”

I rose to my feet and stepped behind the large trunk of a neighboring white pine. “That's a lie, William.” I bellowed the words toward the woods behind me, hoping to mask my exact location.

Two beams from flashlights crisscrossed the area around me.

“Mr. Lang. I told your son I thought Jimmy might have hidden the Ulmann photograph at the site where someone killed him. There's only one reason William knew to come here.”

“Are you accusing me of killing my uncle?” William shouted. “You haven't the nerve to say that to my face.”

I reached inside my jacket and unsnapped the flap of my shoulder holster. Then I stepped from the shelter of the tree, hands empty and away from my sides. I walked into the clearing and stopped about four yards in front of the two men.

John Lang had gotten to his feet. He held his cane in one hand and the papers and flashlight in the other. The diamond engagement ring and framed photograph lay on the ground between father and son.

“Willie was in Vietnam.” John Lang's words were half-question, half-plea for confirmation.

“That's right,” William Lang snarled. “I was over ten thousand miles away. I was a hell of a shot, but not that good.”

“You were more than a hell of a shot. You were lethal. A sniper known as the Ghost.”

“So? That's no secret.”

“And that was the problem,” I said. “Jason Fretwell learned you were the same Willie P. Lang he heard about in sniper school.”

“Is that the kid who was shot at your apartment?” John Lang asked. His face paled because he already knew the answer.

“Yes. The same kid who tried to reach Mick Emory because Emory first mentioned Willie P. Lang. Then Jason called Fort Benning, and finally, in a huge mistake, he called William. He wanted to impress me with his detective skills and bring me the whole package. The Ghost, the missed mission, the possibility that you killed your uncle. He had the right target, but he pulled the trigger too early. What did he say, Willie P? That he was a sniper school veteran who happened to be in Asheville? That he wanted to know about the missed mission?”

“That's a god-damned lie,” William growled. “I never talked to him.”

“Well, then, would you like to explain why there's a record of a ten-minute call yesterday morning made by Jason Fretwell from my apartment to Lang Paper Manufacturing? I don't think he spoke with your father.”

Old man Lang shook his head slowly. “What missed mission?”

“The one that would have put your son in the record books with the most sniper kills in Vietnam. The mission he would have been on if he'd returned to his unit on time.”

“They deployed early,” William said.

I stepped closer, spreading my empty hands with exaggerated appeal. “Come on, Willie. Staff Sergeant Gilchrist's father knows better than that. He took your place.” I looked to John. “Lucille packed Willie a lunch for the bus ride to Fort Bragg after the funeral for your wife. I figure Willie got off the bus at the next stop, probably Saluda, and returned. And a man trained in concealment would have no trouble living off the land until the time was right. Until Jimmy came to bring the items to the spot he and Lucille first met.”

I looked back at William. “Your uncle told you his plan, didn't he? How he was going to ask Lucille to marry him?”

William's voice thickened with anger. “My uncle was a fool. He would have been the laughing stock of the county and our family would have been out of business. But I didn't kill him.”

I shrugged. “Okay. Then help me clear up a few things. You gave Deputy Overcash unsolicited testimony that your uncle said he was concerned Lucille Montgomery would become angry when he refused to marry her. I think your words were something to the effect that she would react violently like all black women do.”

“I told you I was upset when I read about the discovery of the skeleton. At that time, I thought it might be my uncle and I over-emphasized what was only a potential problem with Lucille.”

“But the rifle involved in the murder had been in Lucille's possession.” I made a show of scratching my head. “You see that bothers me because it's a fact. Just like the DNA proves the skeleton belonged to a man with African ancestry.”

I took another step closer. We were less than five feet apart. “And I've been by Marsha's house where an anonymous caller said he saw her burying the murder weapon. Here's what I think happened. The informant wasn't a man walking his dog. You went to the house to retrieve the rifle because you'd read about the discovery of the body in the Sunday paper. You wanted it to disappear so there would be no link to the remains. In 1967, the rifle had been used to frame Lucille, but the body was never discovered. But now, the case is so cold why risk the link? Except while you waited for Marsha to leave for church, you saw her burying the Remington and decided the original plan could still work. So, you tipped the Sheriff's Department anonymously and then later called with the concern the remains could be your uncle. A ballistics test matched gun to bullet and Deputy Overcash thought two independent leads were converging while they were actually orchestrated by you.”

William moistened his lips. He looked at his father. “This is absurd. Let's go, Daddy.”

John Lang raised his hand. “Let him say his piece.”

I nodded to the old man. “Thank you.”

William scowled, appeared to consider leaving on his own, and then glanced at the photograph and ring on the oilskin.

“You didn't know that these were here,” I said. “You picked your location at the edge of the clearing and shot him as he returned to his truck. The distance should have been a piece of cake for the Ghost, and this way you didn't have to look him in the eye. But accuracy with an open sight can't compete with a scope. You scored a fatal wound, but Jimmy had the stamina to run for cover. You either couldn't find him in the log or dared not stay in the vicinity in case others heard the shot.”

William Lang forced a laugh. “What did I do? Wait for nearly a week for my uncle to show up?”

“Maybe. I knew snipers in Iraq who could wait days at a time in order to get the shot. And there's the problem with Jimmy's pickup. It was never found, which is why your father and others thought Jimmy simply left. But you and I know better. You drove that truck to Fort Bragg. My guess is you probably got it into the target pool. The 105 howitzers need something to shoot at. The surviving scraps of metal would be about the size of your thumbnail.”

“Ridiculous,” William Lang said.

“I'll find out soon enough. One thing the army does well is keep records. I'll make the inquiries tomorrow so this cloud can be lifted from your innocent head.”

“You're damn right I'm innocent.”

I looked at John Lang. “But you, sir, might want to ask your son why he had his daughter bid for him at a silent charity auction last night at the same time young Fretwell was shot by a sniper. Why he told her he might be late, but to make sure his name was on several bid lists for pieces she deemed worthy. The daughter with whom he's not on speaking terms. The Asheville Police are looking into that matter because no one can confirm William's presence at the event before eight thirty. Enough time to change from camo to tuxedo.”