Silencing Sam (32 page)

“Can you remember anything more specific?”

“I might have called him a bully.”

“Anything else?”

“I might have called him a bad husband.”

I could only imagine Sam's glee at having hit the gossip jackpot
with Sally Oaks. “You knew you were talking to a newspaper guy, right?”

“Yes, but I saw him as my only way to get her a message. He seemed so willing to help.”

And she might have sensed a chance to retaliate against Clay.

“When did you talk to Sam?”

Their discussion had happened the day before Sam's murder. I reminded myself I had every incentive to try to pin that homicide on someone else. I'd gone through heaps of suspect names that ended up nowhere. This could have been more of the same. But I didn't think so.

I thought Sam had been getting too close to Clay's secret.

I couldn't much blame the cops for having the motive wrong in Sam's homicide.

I had the motive wrong, too.

From the very beginning, the police investigation moved in the direction that the gossip columnist's murder was for revenge.

Now an entirely different purpose emerged: perhaps the killer needed to keep Sam quiet. Maybe the fatal bullet was a preemptive strike to keep word of Clay Burrel's missing wife out of the newspaper.

I should have realized that Sam's death, as a payback crime, would have been unusual because journalists are more at risk
before
a sensitive story airs, not
after.
I should have remembered the best time for a scoundrel to stop the presses is before they roll, not after. Afterward the culprit is generally too busy worrying about going to jail, or losing a business, or holding a marriage together, to focus on the luxury of revenge.

For the last sixty miles of the drive, I played the game of Clue in my mind. Clay in the garage with the gun. Clay in the bedroom with the chainsaw. And every time I glanced in the rearview mirror, I had a smile on my face.

Besides his exclusives in the headless homicide, Clay had been first to report that the newspaper columnist had died from a bullet wound.

And when it came to framing me for murder, well, anyone who worked at Channel 3 had access to my hairbrush to steal a little sample. The minute I got back to the city limits of Minneapolis, I vowed to go straight to the police.

When I saw the tips of wind turbines, I shook Malik awake, and even he could tell I was in an awesome mood.

“I'm just having a really good day,” I said. “I'll explain later.”

Curious locals had already assembled in a newly harvested cornfield to watch the action from a distance. Some, including my parents, considered it a chance to glimpse an exotic corner of the world without going there. Nearly two dozen Saudi men and women wearing long robes and various head coverings gazed at the rows of turbines and took turns stepping inside.

The only picturesque thing missing was camels. And instead
of sand dunes, amber waves of grain made for an all-American background.

Malik shot from a tripod. Even without interviews, the video was certain to make the network news feed. We were the only media, thanks to the buzz direct from my local roots.

“Isn't that your buddy?” Malik asked.

I looked through the camera lens to see the players up close, recognizing one of the Wide Open Spaces owners. Another man, probably an interpreter, stayed close. Then I spotted Nick Garnett and realized that the longer we spent apart, the better he looked. He wasn't dressed like the Secret Service team. I wasn't sure what his role was for the event, but he moved comfortably through the crowd. I wished he had called to tell me he'd be there, but apparently he was still sticking to business.

I tried to phone the station, but the feds must have been blocking cell service again, because my call didn't go through.

The royal entourage spent the next fifteen minutes staring and pointing at the twenty-story metal warriors. I would have liked to have seen the expressions on their faces. I wondered if the woman I'd met shopping the other day was part of the elite group.

Then they filed into an impressive line of limousines, which slowly drove north on a dusty road.

Malik and I grabbed some sound with the wind farm officials, bragging about how well the visit had gone. Then he headed toward the van with the gear while I mingled.

“That sure was interesting,” my dad said. “Wish I could have shaken hands with some of those folks.” My dad collected handshakes, pressing palms with various presidential candidates whenever they visited the Minnesota State Fair.

“Time for us to run home,” Mom answered. “I don't want to miss
Oprah.
”

I waved as they drove down a back road, between the fields. I was actually glad to see them off because the person I really
wanted to find was Garnett. I was hoping to casually stumble into him and reach an understanding. I could also share what I'd learned about Clay Burrel. There really wasn't anyone else I could trust.

A few bats lay scattered on the ground, and I kicked at one with my foot. Glancing around, I saw that nobody seemed to be paying any attention to me. To appease Noreen on the rabies matter, I wrapped one in some tissue and stuffed it in my jacket pocket for more barotrauma testing later.

I pulled at the door to one of the turbines and was pleased to find it still unlocked. Feeling the interior wall by the door, I found a light switch. Handy because there were no windows. I moved inside for an up-close inspection of the circular structure.

An aluminum ladder stretched far upward, but after my research on workplace dangers, I knew better than to climb those rungs without a safety harness.

I was gazing down into the base of the tower when the door opened behind me. A woman dressed in a Muslim garment and head covering came inside. Surprised to see her alone, I saw an opportunity for information and introduced myself.

Silently, she moved toward me. I thought perhaps she didn't speak English. Her steps made a strange tap-tap sound on the metal floor. I glanced down at her feet and saw cowboy boots.

Through a slit in the black veil, I saw Clay Burrel's eyes.

“Isn't it just a little early for Halloween, Clay?”

I recognized the burka from the green room closet but pretended to be more curious than alarmed by his attire. I had to admire his planning. If any witness noticed him entering or leaving the turbine, the cops would blame the Saudis for my murder.

“You'd make a dashing Lawrence of Arabia,” I continued. “But you and I both know you're not hero material.”

“I just had one bad weekend,” he said.

“I can believe it,” I answered, trying to keep him talking until someone came looking for me. “Sometimes our entire life hinges on one bad weekend.”

I was pretty sure the weekend he was referring to was the forty-eight hours before he started working for Channel 3. On that first day on the job, he gave me lots of reasons to dislike him, but the best one—that he was a wife killer—had eluded me and everyone else.

“It wasn't all my fault,” he said.

He went on to rationalize what happened to Jolene by attributing it to stress over the move and job change. He claimed she
went farther than she should have verbally. He conceded he went farther than he should have physically.

“You're right,” I agreed, “it wasn't all your fault.”

I played along with the image he'd created of his spouse as a self-centered shrew, not letting on that I knew about the bruises.

“I'm glad you didn't kill her just for ratings.” I hoped that sounded like praise. “That would have been shallow.”

“Well, little lady, I figured something good should come of her death. And if my career got a boost, so be it.”

Like most psychopaths, he showed little remorse. I tried not to think about the ghastly disfiguration of her body and couldn't bring myself to ask how anyone could do that to someone they had once wooed and wed.

Killing me would certainly be easier for him.

“By covering the case, you always knew what the police were up to,” I said. “That was very shrewd.”

“I also kept an eye on you,” he said, “always knowing what you were up to.” That explained my growing feeling that someone was watching my house.

“You should have just kept your paws off my story,” he continued. “Then none of this would have happened.”

Actually, Clay had killed Sam
before
I started trying to steal his story, but blame-shifting is a common tendency of narcissistic killers. It helps them justify their motives. Hidden under a flowing robe and veil, Clay's body language was unreadable. His eyes were the only focus of my attention, so I didn't see the gun emerge from a fold in his clothing until he raised it to fire.

The bullet ricocheted off the steel walls and nearly hit both of us. Garnett was right. Texan or not, Clay was a terrible shot.

While he was comprehending the disadvantages of gunfire in such a confined space, I scrambled up the metal ladder—a harness being the least of my worries now. Instantly he was on my heels, literally, grabbing my ankle and trying to pull me down.

One good kick and I heard the gun fall with a clang.

Clay paused to look down, presumably weighing whether to continue to chase after me or go back for the weapon. By the time he decided to move upward and onward, I'd put a few rungs between us. I raced to the top like my life depended on it. And I suspected it might. Somewhere on that twenty-story climb I lost a shoe. That slowed me down. But the Islamic garb slowed Clay down more.

When I reached the ledge at the top, I was panting hard. Burrel was still about fifteen feet below me, lacking my incentive for speed: survival.

I figured I might have time for one phone call.

Even though cell service was blocked, I knew 911 should still work, but my call would be answered nearly twenty miles away in the county sheriff's office. And the dispatcher wouldn't have any idea who I was, what I was talking about, or where to send help.

Then I remembered that law enforcement numbers on the scene were cleared for cell service. So I hit send for Garnett's number. I couldn't tell if I was hearing his voice or his voicemail. I had to scream to be heard over the whirl of the turbine blades.

“Help! I'm in the top of the turbine and Clay Burrel is trying to kill me!”

By then Clay was very close. I tried jabbing my remaining heel in his eye. But I was off balance and he pushed past, and suddenly I was on my butt and he was hovering over me. A swirl of black fabric, laughing.

I threw my phone at him. While he ducked, I scrambled to my feet. The phone lay on the floor; Clay seemed surprised that instead of lunging for it, I kicked it down the ladder shaft. I hoped if Garnett came looking for me, he'd see my phone at the bottom and realize he'd found the right turbine.

There wasn't much room to skirmish but I was surprised Clay and I could both stand. The upper chamber was larger than it looked from the ground. Inside, it felt like a spaceship, but
with hardly any view of the outside world. The spinning blades made a loud hum, almost like jet engines.

No room to run. The only way out was the way I had just come. Down the ladder. And I'd have to get past him.

“Give it up, Clay. Help is on the way.” I said it with more confidence than I felt. But sometimes, outcome is all in the delivery.

“You're bluffing. I know cell calls can't go through.”

For now, I tried keeping the ladder hole between us. Without a gun, he'd have to get his hands on me to kill me. Thinking of the same strategy, Clay grabbed my sleeve and tried dragging me across the floor into the hole. But he didn't quite have the reach to pull it off.

“No thanks,” I told him. “Long way down.”

“You have as much chance of avoiding that long way down as scratching your ear with your elbow.”

As tempted as I was to test his metaphor, I figured it was just a scheme to distract me.

“I'm no threat to you, Clay.” Arguing with a psychopath doesn't usually yield results, but I didn't have other options just then. “No one will believe anything I say. Your secret is safe.”

“Can't take that chance.”

We were both yelling because of the noise from the turbine.

“Killing Jolene was an accident.”

Again, I assured him I didn't think he meant to do it. “But if you kill me now, Clay, that's premeditated murder. A whole different sport from simply losing your temper. I don't think you've got that in you.”

He laughed at those words. “Killing you will be lots easier. Don't have all that emotional investment complicating matters.”

He was probably right. There would be no wasted regret over my death. For Clay, killing me would be as easy as sneezing.

“This ain't my first rodeo, little lady,” he said.

He talked like a braggart. And suddenly I realized he wasn't just talking about Jolene, he was also talking about the murder
of Sam Pierce. Out of habit, and out of curiosity, I tried getting him to put it on the record.

“Who else have you killed, Clay? Tell me.”

“You of all folks should be able to guess.”

“But Sam never printed anything bad about you.”

“And I wasn't about to let him. He was getting too close. If that damn Yankee had kept his piercing eyes out of my life, he'd be alive today.”

“So why frame me? Why not just kill him and move on?”

Clay was the one who'd made it personal. It seemed only fair I get an answer.

“I needed somebody to pin it on, and you had a believable motive,” he said. “Besides, it's a better story this way. Isn't that obvious?”

“You framed me to get higher ratings?”

“And job advancement. With you out of the way, I'll rule Channel 3 as their senior investigative reporter.”