In Harm's Way (44 page)

Walt had witnessed other confessions where the guilty party proved himself eager to purge, but honestly hadn’t expected it of this one. He’d initially appraised the man’s wild looks, deciding he had an ignorant lunatic on his hands. When Nancy had brought what little they could find on him, Walt had ordered it double-checked. But now the man was confirming what they’d learned about him. Somewhere down the line he’d be deemed a victim of the economy by a sympathetic press or a politician seeking additional funding. A poster boy for all that can go wrong.

“You cooked meth,” Walt said, seeing it as a conversation starter.

Crawford leaned forward but not for long, his participation shortened by a woeful look from Dowling.

“And damn near every penny went into an envelope I slipped under the door of my wife’s mother’s place. I can take care of my family. We sure as hell aren’t food stamp people.”

“The tree house.”

“I got tired of running around, you know? Your people—people like you, like that other one—scouring the woods looking for me. You know how that feels? You get treated like an animal, you start acting like one. You drove me to that place. You, and people like you. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. You know how many people are out in these woods, Sheriff? More than you think. And come to find out these other people have tree houses nicer than a lot of people’s homes. Including mine. What’s with that? You think I
liked
it out there? Shitting in a hole? Getting sick from the water? What kind of country is this when you can’t even drink the creek water? How’d we let something like that happen?”

“So you killed him?”

“Mostly I slept days and moved around the woods at night. Safer that way. Fewer of your kind. Except for that one. A drinker, that one. I’d had my eye on him before. No real threat to me. Not until he pokes his head up in that tree house like it’s
Groundhog’s Day
. Scared the shit out of me! Wanted to take my tree house away, I’m thinking. So I kicked him—kicked him in the throat, turns out. Grabbed him by the hair. Hauled him up. Musta broken a bone or something in his throat. Voice box, maybe. Guy went purple on me. Didn’t mean for it to happen that way. I’m not a killer.”

“There are two men dead.”

“Yeah, but that just kind of . . . happened.”

“What happened to those men?” Walt asked.

“I just told you.”

“You killed them. Martel Gale and Guillermo Menquez.”

“If you say so.”

“It’s you saying so, Mr. Dowling, not me. Are you saying you killed them?”

“I killed them. I dragged Gale up the hill and dumped him. I’m not proud of it, you understand. I’m not like some sicko or something, you know. I’m not one of them. I didn’t
like
it. It wasn’t like that. It just . . . happened. You think about it: it was bound to happen. A person like me. You and everyone like you did this. You’re the ones made it happen.”

Dowling was still ranting about the economic inequalities of the valley as Walt let the door shut behind his chair.

Fiona had her back pressed against the wall across from him, her expression severe.

“So?”

Walt shook his head. “The lunatics are easier.”

“He didn’t confess?”

“Oh, no, he confessed. No resistance at all. Gilly messed us up by taking the ATM card. This guy, he took Gale’s cash out of the wallet. Left the cards. Gilly came along and hijacked the ATM card. We thought we were looking for one guy, when it was two.”

She said nothing. Uninterested.

“Lunatics?” he said. “I meant they’re easier to live with. To sleep. A guy like this? He’s going to haunt me.”

“Because?”

“Because he was avoidable. You don’t need to be haunted too. The least I can do is shelter you from that.”

She squatted so she could face him eye to eye. He found the pose vaguely sexual and reminded himself once again that he was on dangerous ground with this woman.

“I’d like that,” she said.

He’d forgotten what it was he’d said.

“For the past I don’t know how many years, I’ve wanted nothing but independence. To take care of myself. To protect myself—defend myself—whatever. To be reliant upon no one. To trust no one.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“About as lonely as a divorced man with two young daughters, I imagine,” she said.

“No arguing that.”

A female deputy entered the long hallway and Walt looked at her, and she stood and put her back against the wall to allow the woman to pass. To her credit, the deputy passed without a glance. Walt thought Fiona looked sexy against the wall like that, too.

Trouble.

“This is extremely complicated,” he said.

“Yet incredibly simple,” she countered, allowing a smile onto her face.

“But complicated.” He had to have the last word.

“My point being, I wouldn’t mind someone sheltering me from some of the stuff. Just as long as that someone allowed me to shelter him in return. I won’t be a kept woman, but I’m not an open relationship type.”

“You’re racking up the points,” he said.

“In the good column, I hope.”

“In the very good column,” he said.

“We take it slow,” she said.

“Look at me,” he said, indicating the wheelchair. “What’s it look like to you?”

“H
ome again, home again, jiggity-jig!” shouted Emily. More enthusiasm than she’d showed in a very long time. Their father confined to a wheelchair, the two girls had taken it upon themselves to make dinner—microwaved, prepackaged meat loaf and stovetop mashed potatoes—and were incredibly proud of their effort.

“You know Fiona,” Walt said.

“Of course!” the girls said almost in unison.

“She’s going to hang out tonight. Help me out. Maybe help get you guys in bed and then take off.”

“No problem,” said Nikki. “You want to help him or us?”

Fiona considered her options. She placed Walt’s briefcase into his lap and entered the kitchen with the girls.

He feigned complaint and wheeled himself into the dining room, following up on an e-mail to Skype Boldt.

“You heard?” Boldt asked when his visage appeared on screen.

“Heard what?” Walt said. “I thought you were calling about Dowling.”

“I am. Indirectly, I am,” Boldt said gruffly. “But since it came from your office, I thought you’d probably already heard.”

“It’s been a busy afternoon.”

“Lab results came back on the blood from Wynn’s shoes: Caroline Vetta’s blood type. DNA comparison’s next. A couple days out. But if I was a drinking man, I’d be popping the bubbly.”

“Vince Wynn?”

“Lover’s quarrel. He couldn’t stand that she’d moved on. Pulled a Steve McNair in reverse.”

“Did he reclaim the shoes? I thought you needed my help with that?”

“Blood shadow,” Boldt said. “We had a blood shadow at the Vetta scene, an empty shape of a shoe print in an otherwise sea of blood. That shoe shape is distinctive. Exclusive. It was Wynn’s brand. That gave us the warrant we needed. His sweat will carry the DNA we need in the shoes. He’s toast.”

“Vince Wynn,” Walt said, still in shock.

“Now I can justify my expense coming over there,” Boldt joked. “And just for the record, I wanted to pass this along.”

“Go ahead.”

“Your father called.”

Here it comes
, Walt thought.

“Was crowing proud as a peacock about how his son—
his son
—solved a multiple homicide. And no, Walt,” Boldt interrupted before Walt had a chance to speak, “it was not to compliment me on whatever role I had in it. It was to tell me about you. It was to brag
on you
.”

Walt let the words swim around inside him. Found it no use to fight the curl at his lips.

“No kidding,” Walt said, allowing astonishment in his voice.

“None. And I knew you should hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I thought you would. Proud as a peacock, I’m telling you.”

“Means a lot.”

“Yes, it does.”
More than you know
. “Well,” Walt said, “Vince Wynn.”

“I know.”

“You were looking at him all along.”

“Don’t do that,” Boldt said. “Don’t take away from your moment.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“We’ve all had fathers. Fathers and sons. It ain’t easy.”

“No.”

“But . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Yeah, I’m with you.”

“I’m outta here,” Boldt said.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“Back at you. You need me on the witness stand, I’m there.”

“You’re just looking for another excuse to use the expense account.”

“You know me too well.”

The screen went blank.

Walt stared at the royal blue.

“What was that about?” Fiona called out from the kitchen. “Anything important?”

Walt considered how to answer that. Caught his own reflection in the blue and the glass of the monitor. His reflection was still smiling.

He reached up and turned off the monitor.