Last Light (18 page)

“They never traced it to who owned it?”

“Nope. It was old, but no idea who it belonged to. Leaving me and Dicky playing a game of hot potato and getting burned.”

He was telling the truth. David was sure of it. For the first time in his life, he believed his father. His mother was right—had been right all those many years she’d had faith in Michael’s innocence. But... “Why? If your brother was under the influence of drugs, his confession would have been thrown out—it was your confession that condemned you both. Without it, you would have been free.”

Michael’s sigh circled through the empty room, carrying with it the weight of guilt. “You have to understand how it was back then. A crime like that, so terrible, incomprehensible... people needed answers. The sheriff needed a quick arrest, needed to let the people who elected him know they had the right man. More than that, people were frightened, angry, ready to take matters in their own hands. And after the way Dicky beat up those deputies, no way were we going to get any protection from the law.”

“You thought they’d kill you?”

“Either the cops would take care of things before we made it to trial or the mob outside would have if we were released.” Michael paused. “But it wasn’t just us I was worried about. Your mother as well. She kept trying to tell them she’d been with me, that I was innocent. Got death threats, shots fired at her house, her family was run out of the county. It had to stop before someone got killed.”

David considered that. It sounded like something out of another era...but it was Blackwell County. He could believe it happening. Even now, years later, remnants of that frontier mentality were alive and kicking out there where the cattle outnumbered the humans four hundred to one.

“More than that,” Michael said, his voice low as if in confession. “I thought—they had me convinced—” He twisted his body away from David, head hung.

“You thought your brother was guilty. You thought he killed that family.”

Michael nodded. Was silent for a long moment. When he spoke again, he kept his body hunched, facing the rear corner of the concrete-walled room. “He and Powell. They could have done it any time that night. Powell’s place wasn’t all that far from the Martins’ house. Wouldn’t have even remembered it after, they were so goddamn high. Might not even have known what they were doing.”

“But the gun?”

“I couldn’t be sure when or how it got into Dicky’s truck. For all I knew, he or Powell came down to the river and tossed it there sometime during the night. Not like Dicky could remember a damned thing—all he knew was what the cops fed him. And Powell, he vanished after that night. I figured the cops were at least half right: there had been two men and one of them was Dicky. And the only way I could save Dicky from the chair was to give them the other half.”

He touched his forehead, not quite making the sign of the cross, more like tapping an SOS into his skull. “I was a stupid kid, half out of his mind with worry. The sheriff kept me up two days and nights. By the end, I would have said or signed anything just to get out of there. Then I saw Dicky, saw how bad he was, knew he’d never get any better, would die in prison if he didn’t have me watching over him...and the judge banged his gavel and it was too late.”

IT WAS AFTER
one o’clock by the time TK finished scanning and photographing everything she could from the Martin case. No food or drink was allowed in the records area, so she was now starving and anxious to leave this dungeon hell, to see the light of day.

Prescott took his time searching her bag, even gave her a quick pat down for no good reason as he’d already inventoried all the boxes and returned them to their proper places. But finally, she was up the two flights of stairs and through the doors, breathing fresh air—superheated that it was—and blinking at the midday sun.

That’s when she realized she had no vehicle. And since the Sweetbriar was now off limits, her options for lunch were distinctly curtailed. Vending machines at the motel? Try the drug store down the block from the Sweetbriar, see if they had any snacks?

She pulled her phone out, ready to call Lucy, when she realized the battery had died. Of course it had; she hadn’t had a chance to charge it since they’d left Pittsburgh. Gazing into the watery heat rising off the blacktop highway she wondered how far it was to the fast-food places outside of town.

The door from the sheriff’s department swung open behind her. She glanced over her shoulder—Sheriff Blackwell himself.

He took a deep breath, puffing his chest out, and smiled at her. “Hate being cooped up inside all day, don’t you?”

“At least your office has windows,” she replied. “That records room made me feel like a mole rat.”

“You sure don’t look like one.” He dangled a set of car keys from his fingers. “I’m headed home for lunch, would you care to join me? I’d love to discuss the Martin case, hear any new insights or findings.”

She hesitated—was it collaborating with the enemy? No, Blackwell had been a kid at the time of the killings, and was a witness. Of course he’d be interested, no skin off his back if his predecessor had gotten things wrong. “Sure,” she answered. “I’m famished.”

“You okay riding with me? Or do you want to follow?”

“Lucy took our ride, so if you don’t mind—”

“Of course not, I’d love the company.” He escorted her to a silver Escalade with the Blackwell County Sheriff’s seal emblazoned across it, held the passenger door open for her, and even offered her a hand up into the high-riding front seat.

His old-fashioned courtesy made her smile. She didn’t tell him that she’d spent most of her adult life climbing in and out of Humvees and Stryker armored vehicles.

As they left Canterville behind and headed into the countryside, TK noted again of how remote this area really was. In a way it reminded her of Afghanistan, long stretches of emptiness peppered with a few homes huddled together. At first glance, it appeared desolate but then glimpses of cattle and green trees growing along the riverbank brought the landscape to life.

“Drought,” Blackwell said, following her thoughts. “Spring rains were a fraction of what they should have been and everyone’s suffering. We’ve already had a few wildfires despite the fact it’s only May. Hate to think what the summer might bring.”

TK assessed the grasslands and parched fields. A fire could devour acres with nothing stopping it until it hit the river. Given the sparse population of Blackwell County, the idea of humans having any control over this land seemed ludicrous. Again, the same feeling she’d had in Afghanistan. Isolation, desolation, the two weren’t that far apart.

“What was it like growing up here?” she asked.

He considered the question, steering the large SUV with one hand draped over the wheel, the other propped up against the window. “A lot different than kids have it now,” he finally answered. “We roamed free—ran amok, our folks would have said. None of this helicopter parenting from family or the state.” He nodded, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. “Carefree, that’s the word. We were masters of our universe.”

“Are many of your friends from back then still living here?”

“Unless it’s to join up or go to prison, almost no one ever leaves Blackwell County. My mother hates that I stayed. She had her way, I’d be in Austin, a state senator or running for governor or some such thing.” He sounded wistful.

“The Martin case, that was why you became a cop?”

He smiled at the horizon. “Probably a large part of it. I don’t have a family of my own, other than my mother, but I like feeling like I do. Sheriff of a place like this, it’s a lot like being a father. At least I like to think so.”

She thought about that. Made sense. Fit his manner as well—not overbearing or controlling, unlike many police officers she’d met, or fellow MPs for that matter. He seemed as if he enjoyed his job, enjoyed the people he served.

“Do you think the Mannings are guilty?” she asked.

“You’re the independent reviewer, have seen all the evidence. What do you think?”

“I think if it’d gone to trial and I was on the jury, it might have been a difficult decision to make.”

“How long you been doing this, Miss O’Connor?”

“TK, please. Almost a year working with the Beacon Group. I’ve worked half a dozen cold cases.”

“And how many of those had a neat and tidy answer with no questions leftover?”

She thought about that. She was proud of her clearance—so far it was one hundred percent—but each case had left in its wake unanswered questions. Especially for the families. Closure was far easier on paper than it was in real life.

“None,” she admitted.

“Me, too.” He turned to glance at her. “To answer your question, I think all the evidence pointed to the Manning boys. I’m not sure it could have been closed any other way, not back then, not with the people involved or the emotions running as high as they were. Those boys were lucky they made it out of this county alive—folks were talking lynching for the first time in over fifty years.”

“So you think they did it?”

“Not what I said. Not at all what I said.”

They turned away from the river and onto a blacktop drive that ran between whitewashed fences. On one side of the drive, cattle grazed in a field, on the other was tall grassland.

“Have to be careful of overgrazing with the drought,” he said, glancing at the cattle with an appraising eye. “Welcome to the family spread.”

“How large is it?”

“Blackwell Ranch? The original acreage was modest, only five sections—that’s thirty-two hundred acres. But my granddad and dad bought out a lot of other family’s holdings, now we’re over twenty times that size.”

TK did the math. That was over sixty-four thousand acres. “So you own pretty much everything I can see?”

He chuckled. “Technically, now that my dad’s gone, my mother does, but yeah. It’s the Blackwell way. When times get tough, we buy from folks in need. Lease it back to them at an affordable price. They make a living wage working the land for us, keep their homes, everyone’s happy.”

Sounded like a benevolent dictatorship to TK. They rounded a graceful curve and arrived at a large white house that looked like something you’d see back around the Civil War. It was three stories high with columns running from roof to foundation. The windows were tall and narrow, making it seem even more imposing.

“Home sweet home,” Blackwell said as he parked the SUV on a circular drive at the front of the house. He left the keys in the ignition and hopped out. TK climbed from the vehicle and stood, shielding her eyes against the sun and looking up at the massive structure. “Family lore has it that Hollywood modeled Tara in
Gone with the Wind
on Blackwell Manor.”

She nodded mutely. She’d thought Valencia’s family home at Beacon Falls was impressive, but this place would have swallowed it whole three times over. At least.

As they climbed the steps to the front door, someone behind them whisked the car away—a butler or valet wearing white gloves. They’d have it detailed and keep the AC running so it wouldn’t be hot when Blackwell was ready to leave, she imagined.

“Oh, I should warn you,” he said in a low voice. “Don’t let my mother bother you any. She spends her days running a multi-million dollar corporation surrounded by men who are afraid of her, so she enjoys any chance she has to agitate. It’s her idea of fun.” He threw her a wink. “Don’t worry. I’ll throw you a lifeline if you get in too deep with her.”

TK wondered exactly what that meant. It took fourteen steps to cross the front porch, the columns even more massive up close. By the time she reached the towering front door, Blackwell already had swung it open for her, revealing a wide-open foyer with a chandelier, marble floors, and two staircases along the rear wall that met at the second floor.

“Men used one side and women the other,” he told her, tossing his duty belt onto a credenza that probably cost more than the house she’d grown up in back home in Weirton, West Virginia. “That way, there was no chance of the men accidentally glimpsing the ladies’ ankles.”

“Amazing what once passed as scandalous, isn’t it?” A dark-haired woman in her sixties approached from an archway on their left. “Caleb, you didn’t tell me you were bringing company to lunch.”

“Mother, may I present TK O’Connor?” he said in a formal tone. “TK, this is my mother, Carole Lytle Blackwell.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” TK stuttered, not at all sure what the proper etiquette was. She glanced down at her worn jeans and boots, couldn’t help but compare them to Carole’s silk designer dress and high heels. “Thank you for having me.”

“Any friend of Caleb’s is always welcome,” Carole said with a smile, although her eyes were fixed on Blackwell, not TK. Her accent was from back East, definitely not Texan. “Come on in.” She pirouetted on her heels and led them through a sitting area to a dining room. The table could have seated twenty easily and there was enough china in the cabinet to serve a dozen courses.

Thankfully, Carole kept going past the intimidating formal dining room to a more comfortable and casual room at the rear of the house. It had windows on three sides with a Spanish tile floor and a table topped with a matching tiled mosaic. A vase of fresh flowers sat in the center of the table and there were three places set with bowls of soup waiting for them along with glasses of ice water.

The Blackwell servants were efficient and fast, TK thought, eying the place settings. Pitchers of iced tea and lemonade waited on a sideboard along with platters of ham and roast beef and side dishes.

“We like to keep lunch casual,” Carole said as Blackwell pulled her chair out for her and she slid gracefully into it. “So much more intimate than having servants hovering, don’t you think?”

TK nodded, startled when Blackwell moved to also hold her chair for her, catching her off balance so she dropped into her seat. Carole pretended not to notice. “I think you’ll enjoy the gazpacho. The recipe has been in Juanita’s family for generations.”