Racing the Devil (20 page)

“There was something else, too,” Frank said. “Someone laid a pillow across her face.”

So the killer had a moment of remorse. Or at least some sense of guilt. Usually, a killer covers his victim’s face because he knows her, or at least thinks of her as human, and doesn’t want her corpse to look at him. With her eyes covered, she can’t accuse him anymore. No accusation, no more sense of guilt.

I’d read somewhere that people were murdered because they got too close to evil. But evil doesn’t always have horns and a tail. It’s not always easy to recognize.

“Anything on Heather? Anybody hear of her?”

“Not so far.”

“Figures.”

“It’s okay, kid. We’ll get ‘em.”

I heard him shift his weight, and his breathing changed.

“What is it?” I said.

“Just . . .” He stopped, cleared his throat.

“Go on.”

“You’re concentrating awful hard on Amy. Ever thought this might be more about you?”

“What? Somebody killed a girl at random so I could be framed for her murder?”

“I’m just saying. Somebody knows a lot about you. Your schedule. The combination to your glove compartment . . . What were you wearing when you met this Heather?”

“I don’t know. Jeans. T-shirt. Boots.”

“Cowboy boots?”

I looked down at my feet. Dusty black boots that could have been riding boots or work boots or motorcycle boots. “Not so you could tell.”

“Cowboy hat?”

“No.”

He gave me a minute to think about it before he asked, “Then how’d she know to call you ‘Cowboy’?”

W
HEN I
’
D HUNG UP, I
looked up to see Jay leaning against the doorframe, watching.

“How’s it going?” he asked. “The investigation?”

My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know. We’re getting closer. I’ve got motive for the husband and the lover. But I think we’re looking for at least two people. Heather and some guy who seems to be about my height and build. Calvin Hartwell’s about the right size, but there’s no reason he’d want to ruin my life. I’ve never met the guy. Besides, Amy would know if she was having an affair with her own husband.”

“Maybe he hired someone to sleep with her. And maybe he picked you because of the scandal over Ashleigh. Couldn’t he have thought you’d be believable as a suspect? Because of how you lost your job?”

“Maybe.” It was no less plausible than Frank’s theory that I was the intended victim and Amy was an afterthought. It made my head hurt to think about it, and I changed the subject. “Did he ever call? The blond bombshell?”

He sighed. “No. Let’s face it. It was just a one-night stand. And who can blame him? How many guys want a relationship with someone who’s already got the disease? It would be like volunteering for perpetual nurse duty.”

“You’re not that sick.”

“Not yet.”

“Eric is an asshole,” I said. “That’s all it means. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Darling,” he sighed, “it has everything to do with me.”

“Look, Jay,” I said. “Maria left me, Ashleigh screwed me over six ways come Sunday, and Heather set me up to take the fall for a murder. Some kind of loser, huh?”

He fixed his gaze on me. “Maria loves you. And the only thing you did wrong with Ashleigh and Heather was choose the wrong woman.”

“Which is exactly my point.” I asked the next question, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. “You didn’t say what I did wrong with Maria.”

I’ll give Jay this: he doesn’t rush the important stuff. He thought it over for a moment, then said, “You almost died.”

“The guy with the arrow.”

“The guy with the arrow, the guy with the knife, the guy with the broken bottle. She said it was always something. You’d come home late and she’d be worried sick that this would be the time you didn’t come home at all. She said you had some pathological need to be a hero and you wouldn’t stop until it killed you. She couldn’t take it.”

“She thinks I have a death wish.”

“Not exactly.”

“It’s not like I’m not careful. I gave up undercover work because she thought it was too dangerous.”

“And started hunting murderers. Not exactly the safest field of work.”

“I don’t need to be a hero,” I said. When Maria first talked about leaving, I started spending less time in the field and more behind the desk, away from the messy stuff. It worked for awhile. Then Caleb Wilford cut his wife’s throat and fled to his weekend hunting lodge. He took his ten-year-old daughter, Melody, with him.

I closed my eyes and remembered how it had been, Bonnie Wilford’s body crumpled on the tiled hall floor, the puddle of blood around her already growing tacky.

Frank steps around the puddle and, hands sheathed in latex gloves, picks up a letter from the hall table. He holds it out between us so we can both read Caleb’s crabbed scrawl. A dozen rambling pages
.

“. . . Bitch left me no choice, she meant to take my little girl away from me. My beautiful princess is mine we will be together for all eternity, a father should be with his daughter . . .”

Frank looks up and says, “My God. He’s going to kill her.”

“I wasn’t trying to be a hero when I went after Caleb Wilford,” I said. “I was trying to save a child.”

“I know that,” Jay said. “Maria knows that. She’s proud of you for that.”

“Then—”

“You asked me why she left you,” he said. “I’m telling you why. She couldn’t stand to watch you die.”

She’d told me the same thing. She needed someone safe, she said. D.W. was safe. It bothered me that he could give her that.

“Everybody dies,” I said.

He gave a humorless laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT
to do today?” I asked Paulie after a breakfast of Rice Krispies, milk, and orange juice.

“Doddywood.” He grinned, the tip of his tongue protruding from between his teeth.

“Sorry, sport. No Dollywood this weekend. It’s too far.”

His eyes filled. “Want Doddywood. Boofwog Cweek. Bwazing Fooey. Wibber Battle.”

“Maybe in a few weeks,” I said. “We’ll go ride Bullfrog Creek and Blazing Fury then. River Battle, too.”

His lower lip quivered. “I be good,” he said.

Knife in the heart. “I know you are, buddy. But I can’t take you to Dollywood. It’s too far. How about we go for a ride on Crockett, then go swimming? Then we can go over to Opry Mills and play video games.”

“Pizza Hut?”

“Why not?”

I locked Queenie in the house because, with her arthritis, she couldn’t make that kind of trek anymore. Some dogs will trot after you a little ways and go back home when they get tired, but Queenie was stoic—or stubborn. She’d make it to the end of the trail, even if she had to crawl there.

Jay says she takes after me.

Since Tex was out of commission, I strapped Paulie’s Li’l Buddy saddle behind mine on the Tennessee Walker. The black gelding was as gentle as a cotton ball, and had a gait so smooth you could drink a glass of bourbon at a running walk and not spill a drop. We took a slow jaunt through the woods behind the house, then turned Crockett out into the pasture and went for a dip in Jay’s pool while Queenie lounged in the shade of the porch.

Jay joined us for dinner at Pizza Hut, then sprang for the video games, after which we drove down to Riverfront Park to watch the fireworks. Paul’s face was awed and bright as he watched the dazzling bursts, hands clamped over his ears to shut out the sound of the explosions.

“Pretty, Daddy,” he squealed, as one burst into the shape of a heart. “Yook, Jay! A hawt!”

When he was born, all I could think of were the things he’d never do. He’d never ride a skateboard, never make the honor roll, never play in Little League. I’d never teach him how to drive, or share my favorite books with him, or see him married and with children of his own. He’d never go to college or follow me onto the force.

But he is not the placid doughboy Dr. Beach predicted he would be. There is no Little League, but there are Special Olympics. There will be no college, but he can read a dozen words, and he is learning more. There will be no job on the police force, but there are sheltered workshops. As my mother used to say, for everything taken, there is something given.

After years of Early Intervention, Special Education, Speech Therapy, Occupational Therapy, and all the other exercises and interventions we’ve gone through with him, he can more or less dress himself, feed himself (except for the cutting), ride a gentle horse, swim. I sometimes wish things were different, but I can’t imagine now how I could love him any more.

He fell asleep on the way home, and I carried him in, his body a warm weight over my heart.

THE CALL CAME SHORTLY AFTER BREAKFAST
. I recognized the voice—sultry, with a hint of annoyance—the minute she said my alter-ego’s name.

“Ian? It’s Valerie. I was just calling to see if you’re still interested in the colt. I haven’t heard from you or your vet.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve been pretty tied up. But yeah, I’m interested.”

“Why don’t you come on out and see him again? Bond a little? And . . . I thought I might fix you lunch.”

There was a breathless silence on the other end while I weighed the advantages and disadvantages. On the positive side, I might learn more about the Hartwells’ marriage and the rumors that Valerie and Calvin had been lovers. On the negative side, what if she gave me that second chance she’d mentioned?

“Don’t make any rash decisions,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I understand if you need to consult your calendar.” She didn’t sound as if she understood.

“I’d love to.”

“Oh.” After a moment of surprise, her tone turned warm and buttery. “All right. I’ll see you about eleven-thirty.”

Thirty minutes later, I came downstairs as Ian Callahan.

Jay and Paul lay on the living room carpet, crayons strewn across the floor, a Disney coloring book open between them. Jay was using the edge of his crayon to give elaborate shading to Snow White’s dress, while Paul clothed three of the seven dwarfs in clashing neon. Jay was humming to himself. Paulie looked intent, the tip of his tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth.

I watched them for a few minutes before I said, “Can you watch Paul for awhile? Valerie just called.”

Jay looked up. “Sure. We’ll keep each other entertained.”

Paulie giggled when I kissed him goodbye. He tugged at my fake mustache and mumbled, “Funny, Daddy.”

“Be careful,” Jay said. “And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

SHE CAME OUT TO GREET
me wearing tight jeans, no shoes, and a red bikini top that tied at the neck and back. Her breasts were full and firm, the nipples hard little points beneath the cloth.

My breath caught in my throat.

“It’s so hot,” she said, gesturing toward her chest. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

She led me into the mud room, where a wave of cool air hit me. “Shoes off,” she said, pointing to my boots.

I bent to pull them off, and when I straightened up, she sidled in close, hooked two fingers into my waistband, and tugged me toward her. Her hips gave a little push that bumped my backside against the washing machine and positioned my hard-on between her legs.

Her mouth was hot and fresh with mint.

After a moment, my brain started functioning again, and I laid my palms against the side of her face and tilted her head back. “Hey,” I said. “What’s all this?”

Her breath was warm in my ear. “I always get what I want.”

“You don’t want me.”

“How do you know what I want?”

“I wouldn’t be good for you.”

She gave a high-pitched, bitter laugh and pulled away. “Neither was my ex-husband. Neither was the guy who just broke up with me. Why should you be any different?”

“I’m sorry.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, sniffled, blinked. “I know who you are,” she said.

Ashleigh and her damn cameras. I blinked back and said, “What?”

“I thought it was you, and then I saw how you were with Dakota, and I thought, no, it couldn’t be, he couldn’t have killed anybody.”

“I didn’t.”

She held back a sob, hiccupped instead. “Then why did the police say you did?”

“It’s a long story.” I gave her the short version.

She nodded and rolled her lower lip under her teeth. “Were you sleeping with her? With Amy?”

“No.”

“She said you were.”

“Somebody’s been planning this for a long time.”

“You think some guy started an affair with her and said he was you? That sounds farfetched.”

“Maybe, but I can’t think of a better explanation.”

She thought about it for awhile, then drew in a trembling breath. “I believe you,” she said. “I think.”

I waited, and after a long silence, I said, “As long as we’re clearing the air, you ought to know . . . I talked to Asa.”

“Why? What did he say?”

“He said you were the one who blinded Dakota.”

Her nostrils flared. “Asa’s a liar. I’d never hurt Dakota.”

“He says you have a temper.”

She laughed, but there was anger in it. “So what if I do? I went through a bad time a few months ago. It was just after my mother died, and I wasn’t very nice to him after the thing with Dakota. But I wouldn’t beat a horse.”