Ripples (17 page)

He follows my instruction. I tell him to take off his belt and hand it over. I point to the chair. “Now sit and tie your laces together.”

As the cowboy loops the boot straps into a single knot, I lean my weapon against the wall and step behind him.

“Been camped out here for long?” he asks.

I don’t answer—pull his arms behind the back of the chair and loop the belt around one of his wrists.

“If you’re afraid of me blowing your secret, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m helping a friend search for a teenage girl. Have you seen anything of her?”

I wrap the belt around his other wrist and start to tie it off.

Roy lifts his legs a few inches and stamps his feet on the floor, launching himself out of the chair. He yells, “Tess!”

Someone swings the door open and barges in.

While I’m struggling to regain control, the cowboy nods at the rifle on the floor. “My gun!”

I lunge for my shotgun, but before I reach it, a woman grabs the cowboy’s rifle and yells, “Stop. Right there.”

I shrink back against the wall.

“
You
?” she shouts.

“Teresa?”

The cowboy unstraps himself. “Is this him?”

I stammer. “She used to—she—.”

She glares at me. “Shut up, you.”

Roy repeats, “Is it?”

“Yeah. And he killed my old man, too—just like the newspaper said—burned us out of our home.”

“I wish I knew if it
was
me who killed him.”

She stiffens. “What kind of scam are you cooking up?”

“All I remember is standing on my deck, some guy pointing a shotgun at me and misfiring. Next thing, I’m standing outside the shack across the lake, watching it go up in flames. The sheriff’s deputy picks up a shovel that’s laying at my feet and starts asking questions. I don’t remember a thing that happened in between.”

Roy runs his hands through his hair. “Tess, you didn’t say one of the murder victims was your old man. What’s this about?”

“Teresa, what are you doing around here, anyway? I thought you ….”

She keeps her eyes fixed on me. “He’s been bullying us—trying to take our home away from us. Made up some cock-and-bull story that we were abusing the girls. Killed my old man over it.”

Roy steps back from Tess. “What are you talking about? I thought….”

“Shut up, I said.”

“I thought this was about your daughter’s inheritance.”

Tess swings the rifle around and points it at him—her face taut. “I’m not gonna say it again. Shut up.”

I make a move for the door, but stumble.

Roy grabs for the barrel of the rifle.

The rifle’s boom sends shock waves through the hut.

He drops to his knees.

I bolt out the door, glancing over my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of Teresa taking aim. My back tightens, anticipating the bullet’s impact.

There’s a click, but nothing else. She forgot to reload.

The snap from Teresa pumping a round into the chamber tells me I’m out of time.

I sprint as fast as my aging legs will go. I’m just a few feet from the tree line when I hear the crack of the rifle. A searing pain pierces my arm. I stumble several steps, dive behind some Manzanita bushes, and crawl over to a large live oak. As I lean against the tree trunk, I press the heel of my hand into the wound and take slow, deep breaths. I probe the wound; blood’s flowing at a steady rate. It’s an exit wound. At least the bullet isn’t lodged inside. My face warms and my breathing accelerates. Beads of sweat collect along my lips and brow. I breathe deep, try to relax to slow my heart rate.

Soon a chill settles over me, a sure sign I’m going into shock. I grow weaker, struggling to remove my belt. By the time I have it off I’m exhausted, shivering. Again, I try to regulate my breathing as I loop the belt around my arm above the wound. I grit my teeth and cinch it tight. Losing more blood could kill me.

I fight to stay awake, but my eyelids grow heavy. Everything around me dims until I’m free falling down a dark, endless shaft.

Tess

Damn, I missed the bastard altogether. Wanted to wound him, stop him from getting away. I need him alive. Now, what am I going to do? Oh, hell … Roy. Didn’t mean to shoot him. It was an accident. Can’t lose him, too—who’s going to help me find the girl … and track down Chandler? I turn back to the hut.

When I push the door open, I gasp. A shotgun’s pointed straight at my forehead. Behind it, coal black eyes. I gasp. “Jeezus! You’re supposed to be dead.”

Bryce laughs. “Yeah, surprised ya, huh?”

“But how …?”

He nods at Roy, lying on the floor moaning, pressing his hand into his stomach to keep blood from gushing out. “First, who’s this?”

“A guy I picked up.”

“Shit.” He spits on the floor. “You fuckin’ whore.”

“He was just helping me out. Seriously. Okay, I turned on the charm to get what I needed out of him, but nothing else happened. I promise.”

“What was he doin’ for you that I couldn’t?”

I reach under my bra and pull out a folded sheet of paper. “The key to Chandler’s fortune.”

He squints. “Whaddaya mean?”

I toy with a button on my shirt. “Before we go there, how is it you’re still alive?”

He grins. “Wasn’t me you pulled the trigger on that night.”

“Who …?”

He shrugs. “Some homeless guy from Folsom. Picked him up after I got rid of those bloodied clothes. Told him I’d pay him a grand if he rode up with me to the shack and offed you.”

“Why didn’t you just do it yourself?”

“I’d planned to kill him after he’d done you in—then burn down the place. When the law figured out the dead guy wasn’t me, I’d be long gone. Besides, after the way the sheriff talked when he came to check us out, they’d probably’ve gone after that squatter across the lake.” His grin fades. “But that girl screwed things up.”

“Girl?”

“Yeah. Can’t be sure. Could’ve been your Mercedes. Too dark to say for sure. I stayed in the pickup while the bum went up to the door. Then she comes out of the woods, creeping toward him, shotgun leveled at his head. The door opens—kapow. He crumbles in a heap. She kneels and starts puking. I can barely make out your silhouette lying inside the shack, and flames spreading from the broken lantern on the floor. About the time I decide I just can’t let her walk, you come running out, screaming. I slip out of the truck—hide in the woods. You take off in the pickup like a bat outta hell. Figured you were going to the cops. When I look around for the girl, she’s gone. No idea which way she headed.

“It dawns on me that I can still go through with part of my plan—burn the place down with the bum inside. So I drag his carcass all the way in the shack and fix it so nobody can recognize him—bash in his face with the shovel he’d carried to the door to use on you. To be sure the fire takes hold and burns the place down, I grab the can of kerosene we use to fill the lantern and empty in on the floor.”

“Why are you still hanging around? You could be in Mexico by now.”

His eyes lock onto mine. “Been hunting those two girls. Before I can split, I’ve got to eliminate anybody who can tie me to this place.”

“Including me?”

He points the shotgun at Roy’s face. “For starters … the cowboy.”

A shotgun blast rocks the hut.

Cool and calm, Bryce takes a rag and wipes the shotgun clean of prints. “Guessin’ this is our neighbor’s fancy piece,” he says. “Saw him tearin’ out of here … you takin’ a bead on him.”

I shiver. “Yeah. He was camped out here when we came on this place. Our neighbor for the past two years is none other than that little shit Amy’s grandfather, Jacob Chandler.”

“No shit? What’s he doin’ around here?”

“Don’t have a clue.”

“When were you plannin’ on tellin’ me?”

“Just found out the other night. Saw the headline in a newspaper—
Tycoon Charged with Murder
.”

“Shit. Let’s get outta here. Bet the law’s hot on his tail.”

He lays the shotgun on the floor and grabs my arm, yanks me outside. We’ve only gone a few yards when a bright light flashes around us, and what sounds like a cannon goes off. A tree explodes up ahead.

Bryce yells, “Move it, before this whole place goes up in flames.” We run up the ridge.

Amy

Gunfire. I sit up straight. Eyes wide open. Wait and listen. Another shot sends me scrambling to my feet. It came from down below. I stare up the trail. Too steep. I spin around … downhill … a small trail to the right … leads into some bushy pines, but that’s where the shots came from. I head the other way … Manzanita almost as far as you can see. I keep the ridgeline in site as I wade through the scrub. Don’t wanna drift too low. Maybe there’ll be a spot where it’s not too steep to climb to the top.

Another blast. That’s three shots. Could it be Bryce on a rampage? Are Mercedes and RJ okay? Is he coming after me? A clap of thunder. Rain pours down.

Mercedes

As we ride into a small clearing, RJ pulls the stallion to a halt and turns in his saddle. “Did you hear those gunshots?”

The mare plods up next to him and stops. “Yeah—sounds like they came from near the hut.”

“Could be poachers.”

“Doubt it. Most poaching around here is done at night. Too easy to get caught in broad daylight.”

“Somebody getting target practice?”

I shrug. “Maybe … but, we better be careful just the same. The first shots sounded like a deer rifle. Those rounds can carry for over a mile.”

A clap of thunder close by startles the horses. We look up. Sky’s black, thick with clouds.

RJ leans over in his saddle and grabs the mare’s halter. “Easy, girl,” he murmurs.

I grab the saddle horn.

He prods the stallion forward. “Let’s get to some cover.” The mare follows. Moments later as we watch from back under the tree canopy, rain is coming down in sheets. We have to shout to hear each other.

“Been meaning to ask,” RJ yells. “What were you doing out wandering around in the woods the other night … after Bryce’s rampage?”

I holler back. “Who says I was?”

“How’d you come up with the shotgun I lost?”

I shrug.

He sits straight up in his saddle like a rodeo champion waiting for his trophy. “You came looking for me, didn’t you?”

“Not everything in life is about you.”

He slouches, his ego deflated like a burst balloon. Takes out his pocket knife—checks to see if it’s still sharp. As if it would get dull folded up in his pocket. “Let’s just say I had a score to settle.”

Neither of us says anything more until the storm passes.

Deputy Sheriff Baker

The sniffer dog strains against his leash. “Deputy,” the handler calls out. “I think he’s onto something.”

A loud crack echoes from down below.

I turn to Grimes. “Was that gunfire?”

“Sounded like a deer rifle.”

I point. “It came from over there.”

The dog handler calls out, “Deputy.”

I look back.

She points toward the crest. “Edgar wants to take us that way.”

I wave her off. “Keep him here. We’re going to check this out, first.”

A fat raindrop splats onto my forehead. A clap of thunder follows. We head in the direction of the gunfire, traversing the ridge we’ve been climbing.

A short time later another loud bang stops us in our tracks. Grimes points straight ahead. “That’s close.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Was that a shotgun?”

We continue toward the sounds, pausing for a moment when a flash of lightning is followed by an explosion that rocks the hillside. I look at Grimes. “That’s no gunfire.”

The rain pours down in sheets, soaking us to the core. In time, we spot a tiny hut at the base of the ridge. We kneel beside a boulder and scope it out. Smoke near the ridgeline confirms what I feared from the explosion we just heard—lightning strike. I signal for Grimes to circle behind the hut. We spring from our crouched positions and scurry down the ridge. With weapons drawn, we converge at the door from opposite directions. As I push the door open, Grimes yells, “Police! Get down!”

I motion him in and follow. We pan the room with our sidearms.

Grimes stops short and mutters, “Not another one.”

We stare down at a body lying on its back in a pool of blood, a crater where his face should be. A few feet away is a very expensive shotgun, which only one person in this part of the county can afford. I point to it. “Looks like Chandler’s missing Beretta.”

Grimes slips on latex gloves and picks up the shotgun.

“How the hell did we miss that?” I ask.

He shrugs. “He must’ve hidden it pretty good.”

“Meaning he was planning to use it,
again
.” I palm the back of my neck.

It doesn’t escape me that all three victims have been about the same build as Chandler’s neighbor. And all three got their faces destroyed by a point-blank shotgun blast.

This Chandler guy is more twisted than your average revenge killer.

Just as the rain stops, a second pine bursts into flames near the ridgeline. My eyes lock onto a cluster of parched live oak a few yards away. “If those go, this place is toast.” I shake my head. “Grimes, radio command. Have them call in the lightning strike. Put all reservists on standby—prepare for an evacuation. And call for volunteers to help spread the word. The way the wind’s blowing, any fire’s going to take off and follow that ridge toward Chandler’s place. If we’re lucky, it won’t jump the highway.”

“What about Chandler?”

“If we’re real lucky, the fire’ll do us a favor and save the county the expense of a trial. But just in case he tries to use the evacuation as cover to slip away, order up a few dozen handbills to pass around. Give strict orders—do not approach—consider him armed and dangerous. If anyone spots him, they’re to call it in.”

“And the dog lady?”

“Radio her for their location and tell her to stay put. I’ll call for an evacuation helicopter. Until the chopper gets here, you photograph the place with our cell phone and bag all the evidence you can—especially Chandler’s shotgun. I’ll get the body ready for transport.”

Jacob

H
ow long was I out? I’m woozy. Soaked. Must have missed a downpour.