Last Light (28 page)

The answer hit her as she sprinted back to grab a vest for herself: whatever he wants. Fastest way to get the job done. Alan proved her theory by now smiling and following after her at an easy lope.

Together they ran down the well-worn path to the dock. The canyon was a good seventy feet wide but the river was so low from the drought that its channel had dwindled to half of that. There were steps leading down from the dock to where a metal canoe was beached in the mud.

The water was a green-brown and barely any current seemed to move it. TK wondered if it was even worth trying to use the canoe, but as soon as she stepped into the silty mud, she realized even a slow-moving canoe would be better than trying to slog along the riverbank. Fewer tracks, too.

Without her saying a word, Alan flipped the canoe right side up, grabbed both paddles, and stood waiting. TK took her cue and pushed the canoe into the water—at least it was still deep enough for the boat, although it was clear from the flood lines etched into the sides of the canyon that it usually ran four to five times as high.

She held the canoe steady and Alan climbed in, settling himself in the front and holding his paddle at the ready. She jumped in after and pushed off, the current guiding them into the center of the water and pulling them downstream faster than she’d thought it would.

One thing gone right, she thought. Then the sound of semi-automatic fire pulled her attention back to the house. Three shots. No return fire. Hell.

Guess Lucy was right about Caleb. As much as she wanted to return and help, TK had to focus on her mission: Alan’s safety.

<><><>

DAVID JERKED BACK
from the bloodstained knife. “You’ve had this? All along? And you didn’t tell anyone?” he demanded. “You let my father rot in prison to protect your husband?”

Carole’s smile was unnerving. “Why are you so certain it was Roscoe who killed them? Surely, you aren’t underestimating me, Mr. Ruiz?”

He frowned, unable to parse the meaning behind her words. She was totally relaxed, no trace of anxiety…Yet, was she confessing to murder?

Then she laughed, a soft sound, almost musical. “If your FBI friend takes this knife to be tested, she’ll find my husband’s fingerprints all over it along with Lily Martin’s blood. And the children’s. That should put everyone’s fears to rest and allow your father to regain his freedom.”

She was so...blasé. As if twenty-nine years of a man’s life were meaningless—not to mention his uncle, who’d died in prison. David staggered to his feet, his fury palpable, hammering through him like mortar rounds.

“How long? Why didn’t you—” he stammered.

“I had to protect my son,” she said, resuming her seat, her posture regal. “If people knew the truth, it would have destroyed him.” She nodded to the couch. “Please, sit down. My son will be here soon, but in the meantime, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

His vision swimming, David sank back onto the soft cushions. “Would you have ever come forward? Would you have let my father die in prison?”

Her lips tightened and she shrugged. “Is that what you really want to know? Surely an investigative reporter such as yourself has other questions? After all, this story is bigger than us all.”

“Right. Of course.” He swallowed, pulled out his notebook, his hands shaking. All those years, wasted on doubt and anger. But now he was finally going to learn the truth. “Walk me through it. Everything you know.”

She smiled at him once more, considering her options. Had she killed the Martins? Or had her husband? Maybe both, together, some warped test of their love? His mind spun with possibilities.

Finally, Carole nodded. Then she smoothed her palms against her thighs, straightening her posture as she pulled a small but lethal looking nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol from her pocket and aimed it at him.

“You deserve the truth,” she said amicably. “But I’m afraid all I know is what my son told me.”

HE COULDN’T BELIEVE
how easy it had all been. Caleb bent over the handlebars of his bike, pedaling furiously in the November moonlight. It’d taken more time than he’d thought, but it didn’t really matter—no one at home would be missing him; he’d told his mom he was going to the football game with friends.

Hah. As if. Carole had smiled and given him a hug, proud that her son was no longer a loser. If she only knew.

But who needed friends when you knew how to get away with murder?

It was the perfect plan. He’d gotten the idea last month from the news—some kid up north, Chicago, Detroit, one of those cities with a lot of blacks, he’d shot up a party, killed a few people, but was only going to juvie for a few years instead of prison because he was twelve. The grownups had gone on and on, arguing about how old was old enough to be tried as an adult and a bunch of other legal shit.

Bottom line: Kid got away with murder because he was twelve. Caleb was twelve—until November 15
th
. That had given him five weeks to plan.

He already knew exactly who he’d kill: that stupid baby that was causing all the trouble between his parents, making his mom worry that Dad was going to run off with Mrs. Martin, leaving her and Caleb behind. She’d cried and yelled and even threw a vase at Roscoe during one of their many fights.

Roscoe had shouted back, raised a fist, and Caleb had run, wrapped his arms around Mom, protecting her. She’d hugged him back. Roscoe just laughed and slept in the guest room that night.

The next day it was as if nothing had happened. But Caleb began listening carefully when his dad took him over to the Martins’ every Saturday morning. He heard Mrs. Martin beg Roscoe to take her away from Blackwell County, to give them a fresh start.

No way. It would kill his mom if Roscoe left. Caleb was not going to let that happen.

Only one answer to save his family: kill Lily Martin and her brat of a baby.

He’d hid in the house, waiting for Lily and the kids to come home that Friday afternoon. He wore a pair of his dad’s old work gloves—all the TV shows said to wear gloves if you didn’t want to get caught—and his Halloween mask. Richard Nixon. He didn’t care about the man being a president; he just thought Nixon’s face was twisted and ugly. When he had the mask and gloves on, he felt like he wasn’t himself anymore, he was someone else, someone powerful and awful and capable of anything.

Once Lily arrived, everything had fallen into place, like someone else was scripting the events. She’d sent Alan to his room—right where Caleb hid. It’d been so easy to surprise the kid, tie him up, and then sneak back out the bedroom window. While Lily had been in the laundry room and put the groceries away in the kitchen, he’d taken the sleeping baby—only thing the kid seemed to do was sleep and shit—and hid in the baby’s room until Lily went back out to the car.

He’d chosen the knife because it was one of his dad’s favorites—been passed down for a hundred years. The handle had been carved from an antler and the blade was narrow with a slight curve that ended in a sharp notch. It looked wicked and deadly.

Lily must have agreed because she did exactly as he told her after she saw the knife.

The hardest part was waiting to start the fun until the father came home. He was the most dangerous, but Caleb had a plan to handle him as well. It was so simple. Peter Martin never even saw it coming. Caleb hid behind the front door, holding his father’s revolver, and as soon as Peter stepped inside and closed the door, Caleb shot him in the face and twice in the chest.

The sound made his ears ring and he didn’t like the smell, but it got the baby crying and Lily screaming, and his real fun could begin.

Alan surprised him, actually tried to get away, but Caleb was twice his size. He sort of liked Alan, so he didn’t spend as much time with him—and he let him keep his face. Figured it was the least he could do since the rest of the family would have to have closed caskets. Caleb imagined the scene: two large wooden caskets, one tiny one, and Alan’s in the middle, the only one mourners could actually go up and say good-bye to. He’d cry, maybe put one of his old toys inside, turn to his mom for comfort and she’d treat him extra special nice.

He had it all planned out. Now, as he left the scene of his crime, all he needed was to take care of a few last details. First, he stopped at the pullover beside the river where all the older kids parked and made out. An assortment of vehicles waiting for him to frame someone for murder...ah, that was the one, the Manning brothers’ truck. He’d hoped it would be here.

He had nothing against Dicky Manning except he was a druggie and drunk, and half the time he talked to people no one else saw. But his younger brother, Mike? Caleb hated him.

Mike Manning had everything Caleb wanted. He was a star football player, was getting out of this place thanks to a college scholarship, everyone at school adored him—even old Mrs. Garrety in the principal’s office, and she hated everyone—and, worst of all, he’d stolen Caleb’s girl. True, Caleb was only a seventh grader and Maria Ruiz was a junior, but she was nice and beautiful and she always smiled at Caleb when she saw him and he just knew they were meant to be together.

As soon as he got rid of Mike Manning.

Caleb took the gun, wrapped in one of the baby’s cloth diapers, and tucked it into the back of Mike’s brother’s beat-up truck. He kept his father’s knife, figured it might come in handy some day, plus it would be easy to hide, along with Roscoe’s gloves. The mask he burned in the garbage pit on the edge of their property.

Then he rode to his house, took a long bath, and went to bed, excited about the scene he’d scripted for the morning. After tomorrow, no one would be calling Caleb names any more. Oh no. After tomorrow, he’d be a hero.

Most importantly, he’d saved his family. Roscoe would stay, Mom would be happy, and they’d both finally be proud of Caleb.

AS TEMPTING AS
it was to surrender and save Saylor from Blackwell, Lucy knew it would be a pointless gesture—Blackwell would simply kill them both and continue his hunt.

The smell of smoke was stronger here in the trees, choking her. Forcing herself to take slow, shallow breaths, she edged farther along the tree line, searching for a line of sight that would give her a shot at Blackwell. The geometry simply wasn’t in her favor. Instead of aiming for a kill shot, she would have to settle for providing Saylor with cover fire and hoping he wasn’t too injured to escape while she pinned down Blackwell.

The SUV was between twenty and thirty yards from her vantage point. Close enough for either slugs or buckshot, depending on what Saylor had his Remington 870 loaded with—many law-enforcement officers alternated loads. She sighted with the shotgun, her new position placing her almost directly in front of the Escalade, hoping to drive Blackwell inside the vehicle, seeking cover. Anything to get him and the flare away from Saylor.

The buckshot spread out, pinging against the metal and shattering the driver’s side window. Blackwell responded by whirling to face the new threat, firing with his M4, spraying the trees in bursts. Lucy threw herself to the ground as bullets flew overhead, returning fire despite the fact that Blackwell never broke cover.

Silence fell. Blackwell was out of ammunition, reloading. As a trained professional, it should only take seconds—not long enough for Lucy to cross the exposed area between them. She raised her head to check on Saylor. He’d managed to belly-crawl halfway to the house, but it did him little good—he was now totally vulnerable. One of his legs was twisted at an unnatural angle and he left a trail of blood on the brown grass behind him.

She kept her weapon trained on the SUV, hoping Blackwell would show himself. It shouldn’t take him this long to reload. Cautiously, she raised up to one knee and saw his head bobbing below the dashboard’s center console. Was he talking to someone on the radio? Calling for reinforcements?

She fired at the windshield. The safety glass was no match to the shotgun slug, which tore through it and then out one of the rear windows. If Blackwell had raised his head, it would have blown his skull out.

No such luck. Blackwell used the demolished windshield to his advantage, propping his M4 on the dash and firing back at Lucy. Only a few bursts this time, but enough to flatten her back to the earth.

“You sent Ruiz after my mother?” Blackwell screamed in fury as he turned his aim on Saylor, emptying his magazine once again in a spray of bullets. The man had no discipline—he might have all the tools of a law-enforcement officer, but he obviously lacked experience in using them. “Hell with all of you. I don’t have time for this.”

Lucy tilted her face up just far enough to see what he was doing. The SUV reversed back over the smashed gate. Blackwell’s arm appeared briefly out of the driver’s window, throwing something toward the patch of gasoline spreading over the dead grass. The roadside flare.

It spun through the air, blazing orange against the gathering dusk, and before it even hit the ground, the gas fumes erupted in flames.

A wall of fire burst along the ground, flames dancing like a whirling dervish, devouring everything in sight. The wind gathered them and gave them direction: straight toward Saylor.

<><><>

TK AND ALAN
hadn’t gone more than a mile downstream when the current slowed and the river dwindled until it was nothing more than a shallow pool blocked by a sandbar. Alan didn’t seem to mind, he steered them to shore and hopped out, waiting for TK.

On the other side of the sandbar were a set of pilings and the remnants of a dock with a ladder along one side leading out of the gulley. Numbers were stenciled on the pilings as if they’d had some kind of official designation. The old agriculture research center. Another hundred feet past the abandoned dock she glimpsed a ribbon of brown—the river resuming its course.