The Price of Redemption

The Price of Redemption Pamela Tracy It wasn't his first dead body. And it might not be his last.Barely twenty-four hours after arriving in Broken Bones, Arizona, Eric Santellis discovered a body in his shed. Luckily, he had an alibi: he'd been in prison when the lady had taken her last breath. Then a second corpse turned up and, surprise, surprise, it was a cop.Instead of being blamed for a murder–or two–Eric began helping the lovely Ruth Atkins investigate her husband's death. But the killer could be closer than they realized. And finding him might be their biggest test of faith yet. The Price of Redemption Pamela Tracy They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case a village helped me realize my dreams of publication, and there are many, many villagers who need special thanks. First, to the members of the Loaded Pencils critique group (established 1993 and still going) who taught me most of what I know: Betty Hufford, Stacy Cornell, Karen Lenzen, Dana McNeely, Bill Haynes and Mark Henley. Next, to the members of the CCLP critique group (established 2002 and still going) who keep me on task and tell me when I’m meandering: Cathy McDavid, Libby Banks and Connie Flynn. Also, to my last-minute readers, who catch my silly mistakes: Stacy Cornell, Elizabeth Weed, and Stacey Rannik. Last, to the editors who make it all come together: Jessica Alvarez, Krista Stroever and Becky Germany. The word thanks doesn’t seem to say enough. CONTENTS CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX ONE It wasn’t his first dead body. Or even his second. In truth, if Eric Santellis needed to, he could, off the top of his head, remember standing over roughly four, no five, corpses. All died violently. One had been his best friend. Two had been relatives. Two had been strangers who’d had the bad luck and bad judgment to mess with one of his brothers. But this dead body scared him more than all the others—even though there was no way he could be fingered for her death. Nope, Eric figured this woman had been dead awhile and he had an airtight alibi courtesy of Florence Prison. And her discovery guaranteed him a spot on the front page of every major newspaper—again. Unable to stand the stench any longer, Eric stumbled across the shed’s uneven flooring. In places, the boards had given in to age, neglect, and some spots were little more than earth. He tripped up the two narrow steps leading outside and to fresh air, sunlight and wide-open spaces. A moment later, he thought there might not be enough fresh air in the world to rid his nostrils of the stench of his discovery. Once he could breathe again, he flipped open his cell phone and started searching for a location that might allow a signal. Reception, here in the middle of nowhere, was hit-and-miss. He found a spot and soon connected with the local authorities and a dispatcher. “Sheriff’s Office. How can I help you?” She sounded all of twelve years old. “Yes, I’m at 723 Prospector’s Way. I’ve just discovered a body in my shed.” “Are you sure the person is deceased?” “Very sure.” “Your name please?” “Eric Santellis.” His family had helped establish this small town more than a hundred years ago. His last name often rendered the good people of Broken Bones speechless. Otherwise, he’d have mistaken the silence for a lost connection. The dispatcher finally cleared her throat. “Did you say Santellis?” “Yes, I’m at my cabin. There’s a body in my shed. It’s been there awhile. It’s in pretty bad shape and—” “I’ll get a deputy out there immediately.” The silence returned, but this time he could legitimately blame a lost connection. He returned the phone to his pocket, and with nothing else to do but wait, stared at the cabin that had been in his family forever. Family. That word should conjure up good memories and a lifetime of nurturing. It didn’t. But, then, good memories and nurturing were not the stuff the Santellis clan was known for. His grandfather, who’d left him the land and falling-down buildings, had been a bitter old man. Eric had been more than surprised twenty years ago when he’d inherited this place. It was Eric’s last piece of the Santellis fortune. When he’d entered Florence Prison, his net worth probably figured in the millions if you considered his family’s fortune. When he’d left prison just three months ago, he no longer had family; they no longer had a fortune. His two older brothers were dead, his father had advanced Alzheimer’s and his sister and younger brother had disappeared. Without anyone standing guard, the misbegotten gains of the Santellis crime family fell victim to his sisters-in-law’s lawyers and to the government. Eric would have turned it all over without an argument. The empire was a legacy paid for with blood—starting with that of his ancestor who’d built this cabin more than a hundred years ago. This land, this cabin, was one of the few Santellis holdings the government hadn’t claimed. Of course, that all might change now that a deceased female had taken up residence in his shed. Sirens echoed in the distance and a cloud of dust appeared. Eric headed for his porch and sat to await chaos and suspicion. Three vehicles arrived. First came the sheriff’s SUV. It quickly bumped over the dirt driveway that led to Eric’s porch and skidded to a stop. A few minutes later, and taking the bumps at a precarious speed, a sedan bearing the same logo pulled in behind the sheriff. The deputies parked near the cabin and jumped out—the dispatcher probably hadn’t understood what Eric meant when he said the body had been in his shed ‘awhile.’ Hurrying was unnecessary. Then, surprise, surprise, came a third vehicle, a Cadillac not from the sheriff’s department. It carefully moved up the driveway, parked close to the porch, and a tall, white-haired man climbed out. The deputies stayed huddled by the sheriff, but the older man came on the porch and said, “James Winters. Call me ‘Doc’, everyone does. I’m the local doctor, retired, but in a pinch, I’m all they have. I hear you’ve found a dead body.” So the twelve-year-old had gotten something right. “Very dead.” “I believe you, son.” The sheriff slammed the door of his SUV. The noise echoed in the silence of the forsaken land Eric now called home. The deputies followed as the sheriff ambled toward Eric. The sheriff, older, chubby, dark-haired and balding didn’t bother to introduce himself or show a badge. He snarled, “Did you touch anything?” “Yes,” Eric admitted. “I thought I had a dead animal in there. While I was looking for it, I moved some boxes and stacks of junk. I was tossing old clothes into a laundry basket when I accidentally took hold of the arm. Of course, I didn’t know it was an arm at first. That’s when whatever was covering her dislodged, and I saw a skull and realized what I was holding.” “You might want to call a lawyer,” the doctor advised. “Before you say anything else.” “No need,” he said wryly. “There’s no way they can pin this on me. I’m guessing she took her last breath at least six months ago, and back then I was a guest of the Arizona penal system.” “No kidding,” said the doctor, clearly surprised. “Your second day here and you’ve already got trouble.” The sheriff stared at Eric before slowly taking a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and writing down a few things. Then, he added, “Well, let’s take a look.” “I smelled decay yesterday.” Eric headed for the shed. “At first, I figured a cat or something.” He’d been wrong. Dead wrong. “This morning, I couldn’t take the smell anymore.” That the shed was in one piece was nothing short of astounding. It had actually been built before the main cabin, and Eric’s ancestors had lived in it while they finished building their permanent residence. The sheriff opened the door and started to take a tentative step. The putrid odor caused him to pause, and then he took a rubber glove from his pocket, held it to his nose and entered. Boards creaked in protest. They creaked even louder after the two deputies, sans the rubber gloves, joined their boss. Eric and the doctor waited a moment. “I thought I read you got out of jail almost six months ago?” Doc said. “No, that’s when the paperwork started. It took about three months to get it through the system.” “System’s a joke,” Doc said, and headed for the shed. Eric’s lantern still hung from a nail. Its glow, inadequate for the task, simply made the room look spooky. Eric lit a second lantern, and both deputies pulled out flashlights. One immediately started gagging and headed for the door. The doctor applied vapor rub under his nose and handed the jar to Eric. Then, he took out his flashlight and moved toward the far wall and the body. Bending down, he made a careful perusal of the area. Taking out a minirecorder, he said, “First assessment. Remains appear to be of a woman between the age of thirty and fifty. She’s been discovered in a shed and exposed to carnivores.” The sheriff moved closer and started taking pictures. He glanced at Eric. “What made you think she’d been dead about six months?” “I have a degree in criminal justice. Finished it while in prison. Plus, I’ve seen dead bodies.” “Not a bad guess, but you forgot to allow for the heat.” Winters returned to his recorder. “Based on the level of deterioration, the female has already started…” Eric left the room. He didn’t need to hear any more. While the body was badly decomposed, it didn’t take a scientist to judge it female, since it was wearing a faded pink polyester pantsuit. Still, Eric would have blown his assessment of the corpse’s age, putting her in her seventies or thereabouts based on the style of clothes. He headed back to his front porch and sat, waiting. Doc Winters was soon replaced by the coroner. Soon, another law enforcement officer arrived. This one had a bigger camera. The man didn’t meet Eric’s eyes and didn’t bother to introduce himself. But then, the sheriff hadn’t offered a name, either. But Eric knew who he was. Rich Mallery. His family had settled the area, alongside Eric’s family. Rich’s family stayed in the area and went into law enforcement, politics and land speculation. Eric’s family left for the city and kept law enforcement busy, paid off politicians and watched as blood soaked the land. Eric’s family demanded attention; Eric wanted none of it. He’d been at the cabin two days without a single visitor, a dream come true. Trust his family to ruin everything. He wondered which brother, or brother-in-law, was responsible for the Jane Doe in the shed. “This is the sixth cop in ten years. It’s a cruel world and the good die young.” Ruth Atkins tried not to listen to the words. She also tried not to turn around and stare at the speaker. “I mean,” the woman continued, “I wouldn’t let my boy be a cop.” Finally, Ruth recognized the speaker and understood the shrill speculation. Her boy, Ruth knew, was unemployed and lived at home, at the age of fifty. “And, I can’t believe that now they allow women to be police officers. Why, in my day…” Ruth turned around and glared. The older woman smirked. “Well, let’s just say that if I needed someone to protect me, I’d sure expect the cop who showed up to at least be taller than I am.” A swoosh of air escaped from between Ruth’s teeth as she turned back to face the minister and listen to his eulogy. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. She’d attended more than one anger-management session during the two years since she joined the police department. The department would be relieved to know the time had been well spent. Once she had her breathing under control, Ruth stood, made her way to the aisle of the church and headed for the ladies’ restroom where she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The sixth cop in ten years. The fourth in the last two years. Jose Santos, a veteran of the police force for twenty-five years, beloved father of five, had hesitated when faced with shooting the car thief who palled around with his only daughter. Two families destroyed: Jose’s and the single mother who raised the shooter—a fifteen-year-old boy. Jose’s wife was burying her husband. Ruth was still looking for hers. In Ruth’s case, there was no closure. Dustin was still listed as missing. No justice. Gracia Santos, Jose’s wife, knew the murderer, could look the boy in the face and cry for justice. But instead, Gracia, a Christian, cried for both her husband and the teenager. Ruth had no compassion for the family of those who murdered her husband. She blamed the Santellises, and they were evil. Ruth would not, could not, shed a tear for the death of the two Santellis boys she blamed for Dustin’s disappearance. They’d been shot just a year ago on the front steps of a Phoenix jail, and Ruth had been glad. Glad! Nothing would change Ruth’s mind about that, not even the sound of “Amazing Grace” reverberating from the main auditorium. She opened her eyes hearing the bathroom door open. A face peeked around the corner. “You okay?” Rosa Packard asked. “I just need a moment. Really.” Rosa nodded before retreating, the way a best friend should. Walking to the sink, Ruth grabbed a few hand towels and dabbed at her eyes. Fine time to have a pity party. The whole world, well, at least everyone at the Fifth Street Church, would know she’d been crying in the bathroom. Last time she’d cried in this bathroom had been eight years ago. At only twenty, and with only twenty minutes to go until she walked down the aisle and said “I Do” to the love of her life, she’d stood in this very place and wept. Not because she was sad, oh, no, but because she was about to enter the fairy-tale life she’d dreamed of. She was marrying a good man; she was going to have a good life. And she had, for five years. She’d married a man who was the antithesis of her father. She married a hero. This had been his church. It had also been Jose’s. Her best friends Rosa and Sam Packard attended. For the last few months, Ruth and her daughter had accompanied them. Bible Study with Sam on Wednesday nights was becoming habit. And the new minister, Steve Dawson, seemed to direct some of his sermons right at her—usually the message had to do with forgiveness. Well, she wasn’t ready for that, not when it came to Dustin, but she was learning about Jesus, learning to pray, learning about this grace thing and thinking about being baptized. The door opened again and Rosa poked her head in. “Ruthie, the service is almost over. People will be heading this way soon.” “Thanks.” One last sniff, and Ruth followed Rosa into the auditorium and sat down. Rosa patted Ruth’s knee, a motherly touch, a needed touch, a touch that said I’m here for you. Heads were bowed for the final prayer, and afterward Ruth joined the long line to say a final goodbye to Jose. His family stood by the casket accepting condolences. Or at least that’s what Ruth thought they were doing. “Thank you for coming.” Gracia took Ruth’s hand. Her hair was a curious mixture of black and red. She stood about a foot shorter than her children. Yet, she clearly was in charge. “My husband said you changed his mind about female cops. He so admired you for stepping up to the plate after Dustin disappeared. We pray every day for your family, for your loss.” “Thank you.” Before Ruth had time to say anything else, to do what she’d intended and offer some platitude to help the woman cope, she was gently nudged aside by the person standing behind her. Trying to shake off the gloom, Ruth stepped out into the August heat and hurried to her car. Clad in black slacks, a black shirt and black cotton jacket, she felt the full weight of the Arizona sun. Black was not the color for summer, as most of the mourners had proven by not wearing what Ruth’s mother had deemed appropriate. Ruth had first put on her dress uniform, a sign of respect all the other Gila City officers had followed. Then, she’d taken it off. She’d probably receive a reprimand from the captain. But, the captain would no doubt be pleased she’d made it to this funeral. She’d missed the last two. Now her only goal was to make it to her car without any more scenes. She didn’t want to be a cop mourning a cop. Ruth had barely touched her key to the ignition when her cell phone vibrated. Ricky Mason, onetime classmate, onetime boyfriend, full-time reporter for the Gila City Gazette, clamored from the other end. Excitement took his naturally tenor voice up to an unnatural soprano. She held the phone away from her ear and in between an annoying amount of static caught the words shed, Santellis, body. TWO “Whoa, slow down, take a breath,” Ruth advised. “What about a body?” “Are you sitting down?” Ricky’s words were rushed, a bit higher pitched than usual. “I’m sitting down.” Ruth told him. “I’m in the car, outside of Jose’s funeral.” “Boy, that’s where I should be, was supposed to be, but this is way more important—” “Tell me about the body!” Ruth’s keys fell to the floorboard. “What body?” “They won’t let me close yet, but I’m here at Eric Santellis’s place—” “The old cabin in Broken Bones? What are you doing out in Broken Bones?” “When a Santellis calls in a dead body, boy, you know there’s a story. I’m here in his kitchen—it’s a mess—and waiting for the go-ahead to take some pictures, ask some questions. Right now they’re not letting anyone close.” “You’re kidding? Eric Santellis is back? He reported a dead body? Is it Dustin?” The words tumbled from her mouth even as her brain went into overdrive. Dustin’s cruiser had been found on Prospector’s Way, the same road as the Santellis cabin. “Look, I’ve only been here about fifteen minutes. I’m dating the girl who’s working at the sheriff’s office here, and she clued me in. That’s not to be shared, by the way. They’re annoyed I showed up. Eric—boy does he look like a Santellis—is in the living room. He’s not talking, but he sure knows how to glare. Anyhow, he found a body this afternoon and called it in.” “I’m on my way. Call me if you find out anything.” “What and cause a wreck? I’ll fill you in when you get here.” Ruth hurried out of her vehicle, got down on her hands and knees and fished her keys out from under the driver’s side seat. She almost dropped them again, her hands were shaking so badly. She aimed her small SUV toward Broken Bones and hit the speed dial on her cell phone and let her mother know she’d be late and to go pick up Megan from the babysitter. I’m not ready for this. Ruth clutched the cell phone. She should make one more call to a fellow police officer. She should call Sam Packard, her husband’s best friend. Instead, her hand inched toward the car’s radio. Dare she listen to hear if the news was reporting anything about a body found on Prospector’s Way? No, it was too soon. And if Ricky wasn’t privy to information, neither were other reporters. Oh, this was hard. She’d prayed for closure, and now that it was almost here all she felt was dread. Dread! She hated to admit it, but there’d always been this tiny germ of hope that Dustin would someday be discovered leading a secret life in some small community in Mexico. Amnesia. It would be amnesia. Well, it could happen! She turned onto the two-lane highway and got stuck behind a tractor trailer. The slow-moving vehicle gave her way too much time to think. Why had Eric Santellis returned to Arizona? He’d dropped off the earth after he’d gotten out of prison. Rosa said he’d gone looking for his sister. Ruth wished he’d stayed missing. Leaving Gila City limits behind, Ruth entered a dirt road that jutted to the left and went a good two, three miles before introducing travelers to a type of one-horse town still alive and well in Arizona. She’d lived here for a few years back during her childhood. She remembered her mother cleaning houses to make a living, her father spending time in bars and in jail, and she remembered sleeping on a brown, smelly couch because there had only been one bedroom in the small house. Broken Bones had thrived in the late 1800s; now it catered to an iffy tourist crowd and a dedicated modern-day gold prospectors crowd, most of whom stayed year-round. By checking the dashboard clock, Ruth knew it had taken almost an hour to travel from the Fifth Street Church all the way to the Santellises’ cabin. It felt like forever. The small SUV parked in front of the cabin blocked the entryway, and took up more room than necessary. The woman, slight of build and dressed in black, strode confidently to the door. She didn’t knock. She opened the door and stepped in, zeroing in on Eric. The reporter started forward, took one look at both the woman and Eric and settled back to wait. Small-town justice was an entity in itself. No doubt Officer Ruth Atkins figured any Santellis with a body in his shed would have news about the body she most wanted to find: her husband. Eric had seen her in court all those months ago. On his behalf, in a halting voice, she outlined the investigation she’d been involved in and how she’d investigated the policeman who actually committed the murder Eric went to prison for. Of all who’d testified on his behalf, she was the only one who did it without a hint of compassion. It seemed that his last name, in her opinion, was enough to warrant a life sentence in Florence Prison. But, she was a cop through and through, as her husband had been, and she would testify truthfully, even if it broke her heart. He felt guilty just looking at her and wondering which family member was responsible for making her a widow. She stood, hands on her hips, with a Don’t-you-dare-mess-with-me look in her red-rimmed eyes, and stated, “So, you found a body?” “I did.” “Is it my husband?” This he hadn’t expected. For the last few hours his place had been an open-door invitation to both law enforcement and the medical field. The term female remains had been bantered around so often it sounded like a refrain from a rap song. “No, the remains are female.” “I just found out.” This was from the reporter who’d been banned from the shed. Now at least Eric knew who the snitch was. “It’s a middle-aged woman, probably dead about six months,” Eric said. “Whoever put her in the shed didn’t really try to hide her. She was buried under clothes.” Ruth seemed to deflate but only for a moment. Then, she raised an eyebrow. Eric knew she was thinking the Santellises would be a bit more thorough, a bit more cruel. Sheriff Mallery stomped into the room and frowned at Ruth. “What are you doing here?” “I heard you had a body.” “Well, great guns, the news has probably made it to the moon by now.” He motioned to Ricky. “You might as well head over there, don’t touch anything and make sure to get the facts right.” Ricky didn’t need a second invitation. Ruth didn’t even wait for one. Mallery headed outside, leaving Eric alone with the ghosts of his ancestors both present and past. Not the position Eric wanted, so he slowly followed them. They had the shed’s door propped open. August, in Arizona, was bad enough, hot enough. Add the stench of a dead body to the sweltering air and suddenly Siberia looked pretty inviting. Every few minutes someone would exit and someone else would return. The coroner, annoyed at the chaos, threatened dire consequences should any feet stray too close to his victim and contaminate the area. Eric leaned against the door frame and watched as Ricky displayed the unique ability of being able to write both in a cramped place and in the dark. Ruth hovered at Ricky’s elbow. “It’s a woman,” she whispered in his ear. “Duh,” he responded. Friendship, even in the worst of locales. Eric missed it, wanted it and didn’t dare pursue it out here in the real world. The people he’d befriended in the past had a way of getting hurt—sometimes fatally. Two deputies were busy moving boxes away from the corpse. Eric stayed on the stairs by the door. He could see everything and everybody. The coroner stood after a moment and said, “We can take a break now. I’ll call dispatch and get the CSI guys out here.” The cops moving stuff sighed in relief. It was crowded, hot and dark in the shed. Compared to the smell, those were the good qualities. One of the cops put down the basket he’d just picked up. It teetered on the edge and fell to the ground with a thump only made louder by the self-imposed silence of the people in the shed. At that moment, more than anything, Eric wished he’d remained on the porch, because when the coroner started packing his medical bag and the basket fell over, Eric spotted another hand. THREE Ricky, the reporter, got so excited he dropped his pen. The two deputies froze, probably fearful lest they move something and find yet another body. The coroner simply reopened his medical bag and waited for the deputies to snap out of their stupor and clear the way. Eric watched Ruth. She didn’t make a sound. The heat from the shed seemed to cloy as the players in this no-win game waited to see what would happen next. It reminded Eric of prison, of being in a place he couldn’t breathe, a place with no soul. The smell of death, human sorrow and just plain wrongness, intensified. Although no one acknowledged the feeling, they all recognized it. Sheriff Mallery finally snapped his fingers and barked at his deputies, “Well, you two just gonna stand there?” Suddenly Ruth and Ricky were both pushed back as the need to maneuver boxes and clear the area became frenzied. Ricky obviously knew his job. He blended into the shadows. Ruth stumbled forward, her hand stretched out, her mouth a silent “0” of what? Fear? Shock? Disbelief? The deputies got busy and the hand became an arm, a torso, legs, a complete corpse. From Eric’s vantage point, he could tell this body had been a dead body longer than the woman’s. The black slithery look was missing because there was no tissue left to rot. Only dingy brown bone remained. This corpse hadn’t preferred the pink, flowered polyester of the first corpse. No, this corpse dressed a bit more conservatively, a bit more dignified. But police uniforms, like pink polyester pantsuits, were meant to last. Doctor Winters nodded in Ruth’s direction and took on the same snappish tone the sheriff had just used. “Get her out of here.” “Nooo,” Ruth keened. The deputies didn’t move; Ricky didn’t move; the sheriff didn’t move. The coroner was already on his knees in front of body number two. The white-haired doctor frowned. Shaking his head at what he knew to be a bad decision, Eric entered the shed and grabbed Ruth by the elbow. “Let’s go back to the cabin.” “I need to see—” “They’ll work faster if you’re not here. You’re making them nervous.” Ruth glanced at the two deputies who were now both still—again. Nervous didn’t begin to describe the looks on their faces. “Go, Ruthie,” Ricky urged. “I’ll tell you everything. I won’t leave out a thing.” Her knees crumpled, and Eric held her upright. He moved her toward the open door. The top of her head came to his chest. It would have been easier to pick her up and carry her, but if he knew anything about this woman, it was that she wouldn’t want to show weakness at this time. The sheriff moved aside to let them pass. He didn’t offer to help. He didn’t offer condolences or advice, either. He followed them out into the semifresh air and made a phone call. Doctor Winters did the same. Eric had too much on his mind to even attempt to eavesdrop, though he was tempted. And each heavy step gave him time to think. Two bodies! There are two bodies in my shed. Maybe he should have waited before calling the authorities. This sheriff inspired about as much confidence as a used-car salesman. Two bodies! Helping Ruth across the front yard, up onto the porch, into the house and finally to the couch, he couldn’t help but shake his head. Two bodies and one of them belongs to her! He fetched a bottled water from the tiny kitchen, laid it at her feet and waited a moment to see what she’d do. Nothing. She slumped forward instead of back. Her hands crossed her chest as if holding something—probably pain—inside. Her hair cascaded down and almost touched the floor. This was the first time he’d seen her in civilian clothes, not that black counted as a good first impression. When the court had vacated Eric’s conviction, and later during the trial of Cliff Handley’s partners, Ruth had been in attendance, always wearing her police uniform. She’d also worn her hair in a braid that hid the fact that she had a rich, red, luxurious mane. He went outside, found the same spot for phone reception he’d discovered earlier and called Rosa’s cell. It was fifty-fifty he’d get through. Sam and Rosa would be at the other police officer’s funeral. Eric couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he remembered how the man died. He’d been shot by a fifteen-year-old trying to steal a car. The news stations kept mentioning the kid’s age, as if crime was reserved for adults. The residents of Gila City were shocked. Eric wished he could be shocked, but in his world, fifteen-year-olds knew more about guns than they did about skateboards. Which is why he wanted to change his world. He’d chosen Broken Bones because he wanted out of that life, that media circus. Yeah, right, as if he could be that lucky. That world had obviously followed him. No, not followed but preceded, giving him a proverbial Santellis welcome—You can run but you can’t hide. Rosa picked up after just two rings. “Packard here!” He almost mentioned how he couldn’t seem to get used to her new surname, but the timing wasn’t right. Banter between him and his last remaining friend was strained, to say the least, mostly on his side. “I think you need to come out here. I found a body earlier, called it in and wound up with quite a few guests.” “Who’d you find?” “First body was a female. Second body is wearing a police uniform. The bad news is Ruth is here.” “Second body? Police officer? Oh, don’t tell me.” “I’m telling you.” “We’ll be right there.” He went back in and sat on the floor. The couch was big enough for two, but he doubted Ruth would appreciate sharing with him—with the brother of the possible, probable, killer. She most likely figured he could tell her which sibling claimed guilt: Tony? Sardi? Kenny? Of course, the murderer might not be one of his brothers. It could also very well be his brother-in-law. Until just over a year ago, Eddie Graham ran the Santellis Used-Car Lot in Gila City, barely thirty miles away. Eric again shook his head. Currently, Eddie was doing a dime in Perryville Prison. Word had it he was happy there, that he didn’t want to leave. Mary Graham, Eric’s missing sister, had a temper. Her eight-year-old had gotten into his father’s stash, digested some and had to be hospitalized. So now Eddie was in jail and his newest tattoo probably read I’m Too Scared of My Wife and Her Brothers To Move Back Home. Of course, now that Tony and Sardi were dead and Kenny missing, Eddie might reconsider parole. Maybe that’s why Mary and her son were hiding. The first thing Eric had done, after being released from prison, was get the electricity turned on out here in no-whereland, and then he spent some time looking for his sister, looking for the one piece of his life that might still need him as much as he needed it. Mary had vanished, and in some ways, he was grateful to know she was out of the life, out of the media’s spotlight and maybe safe. He’d gone to Italy, to relatives he’d never met. So, even if the female had died within the last three months, Eric still had an alibi for much of it. Thumps came from outside. Then came the sound of a highly agitated sheriff. This investigation bordered on the archaic. The effort to keep the area clean encouraged one mishap after the other. Good thing he’d already accepted that he lived in a fixer-upper, otherwise he’d be hard-pressed to keep the Santellis temper in check. The damages were to be expected. Tender loving care would not have been in the vocabulary of the grandfather who’d left Eric the cabin. The fact that the place was in any decent shape at all could be credited to his sister. Mary and Eddie had lived in the cabin just after they’d married, and Eddie drove the sixty miles to his job at the Santellis Used-Car Lot in Gila City. Four years later, once their son, Justin, turned two, Mary insisted on moving back to Phoenix. She wanted to be close to doctors, stores, etc. For the last eight years, the cabin had been deserted. Well, deserted except for Jane Doe and what was probably Dustin Atkins. “Tell me how he died?” Ruth’s words interrupted his thoughts. He felt pathetically grateful to leave the images of the past, of his sister, his grandfather, his life, and focus on Ruth. She no longer bowed her head. Hair streamed in her face, obscuring most of her features but not hiding the fact that she’d been crying and hard. No woman he knew could cry that hard and keep silent. His sister, Mary, wailed. Rosa was a gasper. He’d never seen his mother cry. Maybe she did it in secret, or maybe by the time he’d been old enough to notice, she’d forgotten how. “I don’t know how he died. I was in prison.” “Somebody would have told you.” “Right, I had so many visitors. That came up in court, remember?” “How do you think he wound up in your shed?” “Just my bad luck,” Eric muttered. “What?” “It’s just my incredibly bad luck. If one of my brothers murdered your husband, of course, they’d leave him in my shed. It’s not like I can ever hope to break free of their doings.” “Did he make one of them angry?” “How should I know?” “Were they dealing drugs out of this house?” “I’m gonna say no.” “What makes you say that?” “The amount of dust and debris I’ve shoveled out. And if they had been dealing drugs from here, they’d have had a working stove and refrigerator. The windows would have been covered. Yes, even here in the middle of nowhere. Plus, there’d have been a chemical smell. There’d have been something tangible left behind, be it a broken propane canister, lithium batteries or rubber gloves.” “Maybe they cleaned up?” “Yeah, right. They’d leave dead bodies but carry away the drug paraphernalia. No, the dirt was two inches deep.” “It’s Dustin. I know it’s him.” “I think so, too,” Eric said. “I think so three.” Ricky the reporter stood in the cabin’s doorway. Eric almost stood up, almost shouted that now was not the time or place for any attempt at humor, but the look on Ruth’s face stopped him. “Have they said anything?” she asked. “Boy, they’ve bantered his name around enough, but no one’s willing to commit. They just kicked me out.” He sounded indignant. Eric was pretty amazed they’d let Ricky stay for so long, but then again, Eric had watched as Ricky the ace reporter melted into the shadows of a crime scene. Walking to the doorway and nudging Ricky aside, Eric stared at his very popular shed. “Why’d they finally kick you out?” Eric turned in time to catch a look passing between his guests. Finally, Ricky came clean. “They’re saying the woman’s only been dead about two to three months. So, Eric, you are a suspect. And they’re saying Dustin didn’t die in the shed. Somebody moved him and fairly recently.” FOUR “Why would somebody move him?” Eric asked himself, a little too loudly. “And not move the female?” “I don’t know,” Ruth answered. She stood up and paced. There was plenty of room since the only pieces of furniture in his living room were a lamp balanced on a crate in the corner, a couch with the stuffing coming out of one side and a coffee table made from an old door. Eric thought the place perfect: secluded. He had everything he needed. More than the grandfather who’d left him the land. Eric even had electricity. He’d called and arranged to have it turned on before he arrived. But except for the lamp and the refrigerator, he didn’t need the voltage. Maybe he should get rid of the lamp. All it did was remind Eric of how much work there was to do. Ruth muttered, “He died somewhere else, and they moved him? Why?” Ricky managed to restore a shred of respect to his profession, at least in Eric’s opinion—and Eric despised reporters. He actually came up with a feasible supposition. “To frame you,” he said, looking at Eric. “That’s pretty stupid since I was probably in jail when he bit the dust and travelling in Italy when she did.” “Maybe whoever moved them didn’t know you’d been in prison,” Ricky said. “Right,” Eric agreed. “Maybe whoever moved them has been buried under a rock for the last three years.” “Maybe whoever moved them didn’t care which Santellis got blamed,” Ruth guessed. “What do you mean by that?” Eric asked. “You think my sister, Mary, might have—” “I’m thinking more of your younger brother Kenny.” Ruth stopped pacing and stared out the front door. The action by the shed reminded Eric of ants scurrying in and out of the nest. Eric shook his head. “Kenny won’t set foot near this place. He has a bounty on his head.” “I agree,” Ricky said. “Besides, why move them for Kenny to find. He’d never have called them in. He’d have torched the shed to get rid of the smell and the evidence.” Ruth looked a little ill. “You have the right to be sick at all this,” Ricky said gently, “but all we’re doing right now is supposing. We’re even supposing the body is Dustin’s.” “It’s Dustin,” Ruth said. “Who else could it be?” Eric agreed. “No other cop is missing.” She started pacing again, this time with the quick, jerky motions of someone who was highly agitated. “But why was he in Broken Bones? It’s not our jurisdiction—” “Why are you in Broken Bones?” Eric asked. “It’s not your jurisdiction.” She glared. “I got a call. You know that.” “Right, you got a call. Probably the same thing happened to Dustin. For some reason, be it a call, a hunch, whatever, he wound up here on Prospector’s Way.” “Maybe he was looking into your brothers’ involvement in the drug trade.” “That I believe, but they weren’t working out of this cabin. It’s mine. I told them to stay away.” “And they’d listen to you?” “Yes.” Something flickered in her eyes—briefly replacing the sorrow—and clear enough to let Eric know she neither believed or trusted him. He’d feel the same way if their roles were reversed. This time she stopped by a window so dirty there were only a few streaks of cleanliness. She pointed outside, to where the road would be, and demanded, “Why would he be on this road?” “Because this isn’t the only cabin,” Eric guessed. She bent and stared out the smudge. “I hate this road, always did.” She turned and glared at him. “What else were your brothers involved in?” “You’re a cop. You probably know more of their activities than I do. The only other person who might know is my father.” “Yano? I thought he died.” “He’s has Alzheimer’s. Right now he’s in assisted living. Half the time, he doesn’t even know when I’m there.” “He should be in prison,” she said snidely. Eric thought the same thing. And the part of him that still craved his father’s acceptance, his father’s love, thought that at least in prison the old man wouldn’t be alone. Kenny was missing, Mary and her boy, Justin, were missing. Mom had died years ago. Tony and Sardi were dead, and if Yano’s daughter-in-laws were smart, they’d remarry, have the new hubbies adopt the children and erase the Santellis name from all documentation. “Off the top of your head, what else were your brothers involved in?” “Prostitution. Money laundering. Chop shops. Extortion.” He could have gone on, but the sheriff came in, gave Eric a dirty look, glanced back outside at the sound of more cars arriving and said, “Mrs. Atkins, you might want to wait outside. You have no idea how much he’s involved.” “It’s Officer Atkins, and since this man was in prison when Dustin disappeared, I’d say his alibi is airtight.” Ruth had no idea why she defended Eric. Ricky had been right. He looked like a Santellis—somewhat. Maybe it was the somewhat that swayed her. The men in that family were all solid, dark, walking refrigerators who crushed what got in their way and never smiled. Eric had already shed his prison weight—not the muscles—and was a slender dark man who lived in a hovel and never smiled. “We will connect him to the murders,” the sheriff argued. “No, you won’t,” came a voice from the doorway. “He didn’t have to call the bodies in. He could have simply dug their graves a little deeper and forgotten about them.” Rosa Packard, still wearing her dress blues from the funeral—stretched tight due to pregnancy—stepped into the room followed by her husband, Sam, and Steve Dawson, the preacher who had just done Jose’s funeral service. Sam Packard nodded at Eric but went straight to Ruth, sat down next to her on the couch and wrapped his arms around her. For a moment, Ruth lost herself. She knew this man, had known him for years. She’d been two years behind Dustin and Sam in school and had envied their friendship. They’d done almost everything together: Boy Scouts, high-school baseball team and finally Sam had been the best man at Ruth and Dustin’s wedding. In a pinch, he even babysat Megan. When Sam joined the police force, he and Dustin had been partners—until Dustin’s disappearance. When Ruth decided to join the police force—good money, good benefits, good way to keep active the investigation into Dustin’s disappearance, Sam had been there to tell her it was a bad idea and later to help her learn to shoot a gun. She began to train, get in shape, and after two months she earned her badge. A year later, instead of Dustin, Ruth served as Sam’s partner on the Gila City police force. Then, yet another year passed, and Ruth walked down the aisle at Rosa and Sam’s wedding. She’d fought back tears because Dustin deserved to be at his best friend’s side. He deserved the chance to tell Sam that marriage meant bad breath in the morning and long kisses goodbye. Marriage meant fighting over whether or not to put mushrooms in the gravy and going to bed before you’re tired just so you can go to bed at the same time. Marriage meant watching the stick turn blue together and knowing that in nine months there’d be cries in the middle of the night and a little baby that looked like daddy. A fairy tale. She cried at Sam’s wedding because she was so very happy for Sam, and so very unhappy without Dustin. Why were all these thoughts surfacing now? Was it because any tiny shred of hope concerning Dustin was probably about to dissolve? Staring across the room, she studied Eric Santellis. He sat next to Rosa and gazed at her intently. They spoke in low intimate tones. Next to Ruth, Sam offered platitudes. Then, the minister offered more, and all the while, Rosa and Eric whispered about his big brothers. His brothers. If they weren’t already dead… “Did you know Eric had moved here?” Ruth shifted, freeing herself from the comfort of Sam’s arms. “Yes,” Sam admitted. “He called Rosa last week.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Never seemed like the right time. Jose died Monday night, and, well, okay, I kept finding reasons to put off telling you.” “That’s so lame. You knew I’d want to know about Eric Santellis moving to Broken Bones, taking up residence in this cabin, on this road.” Sam took one of Ruth’s hands and explained to Steve. “This is the road where they found Dustin’s cruiser. From the beginning, the Santellises were suspects. We searched for miles. I know we went inside that shed. If his body was there, back then, we’d have found it.” “They’re saying his body was moved,” Ruth mumbled. The minister took Ruth’s other hand. “It might not be Dustin.” “It’s Dustin,” Eric stated. “Who else could it be?” “Someone from Phoenix,” Sam guessed, looking at Eric. “Your family made plenty of enemies there. This would be a perfect place to hide a body.” “My brothers would never have left a body, make that bodies, so exposed that anyone willing to move a box or a laundry basket would stumble over them.” “True,” Rosa agreed. “And he’s wearing a uniform,” Ruth muttered. “You saw it?” Sam asked. Ruth nodded. “What’s Mallery thinking?” Sam’s annoyance was obvious. “That crime scene is probably so trampled nothing is left.” He looked at Eric. “What about the first body? The one you called in?” “It’s a woman. She’s wearing pink polyester. She hasn’t been in there long. She still has features.” “You know,” Rosa said slowly, “Eric made a good point. His brothers would have buried the bodies so deep only a steam shovel could have unearthed them.” “Maybe they were in a hurry,” the minister said. Dawson had only been in Gila City for eight months. Eric’s older brothers died before his arrival. For the past few months, the Santellis name had lost much of its luster. No one was left to enforce the reputation. It amazed Ruth how quickly the public forgot, how fickle were their memories, how enhanced hers was—at least when it came to the Santellises and what they’d done in Gila City and Broken Bones. She really hadn’t needed to ask Eric about their other vices. She’d known all about them…every cop did, every cop wanted to bring the family down. And Rosa had. Yet she and Eric Santellis called each other friend. Maybe Ruth could have forgiven Eric if he’d moved some place like Miami or New York City—some place far, far away. “Ma’am?” It was one of the two deputies. “Sheriff said to show this to you.” He had a Ziploc baggy in his hand. “See if the number belonged to your husband.” Ruth took what he offered and almost dropped it. Then, she grasped it so tightly that the edges dug into her palm leaving red indentations. When she finally opened her hand and stared at the badge, she felt almost surprised by how ordinary it looked. It hadn’t tarnished; Dustin would be pleased. He shone the thing every morning. And it was Dustin’s badge. It bore his number and traces of his blood. Sam jumped up, pushed past the deputy and ran across the yard. Numbly, Ruth followed, stood on the porch, suddenly afraid to go any farther, and listened. Rosa and Eric soon joined her. Rosa took her hand and squeezed. “I’m so, so sorry. So sorry.” Numb, Ruth swallowed back the tears and squeezed in return. The Santellises had been responsible for the death of Rosa’s parents and brother. If anyone understood Ruth’s pain, her sorrow, it would be her best friend, Rosa. A loud confrontation began inside the shed. Ruth recognized Sam’s shouts. Words like proper procedure, common sense and idiot punctuated the air. Then, it got quiet. Next, those waiting on the porch were privy to a higher-pitched shout. Ruth guessed it to be Sheriff Mallery—a man she’d bugged off and on for the last two years, always trying to find out some info on her husband. He delivered the final blow. “…last one to see her alive.” The deputy who’d delivered the badge looked relieved not to be part of the shed’s crowd. The door to the shed opened, and the other deputy hurried toward the porch. Sam was on his heels. “Ma’am?” the deputy said. Ruth gripped a porch rail, but the cop wasn’t talking to her. He was addressing Rosa. “Yes.” “Sheriff wants you to come to the shed. He thinks you can help with the other body.” Rosa’s eyebrows drew together. One hand dropped to her stomach. “Me? Are you sure he meant me?” “I’m sure.” “Honey—” Sam’s teeth were clinched “—don’t worry, there’s no way they can tie you to this crime.” Rosa blanched. One hand dropped to her stomach. “Sam, we overhead some of what the sheriff said. What’s going on?” “Yes, Sam, what’s going on?” Ruth looked from the deputy to Sam to Rosa and took a step back. FIVE It was the preliminary identification of the pink-clad woman as Lucille Damaris Straus that ended any hope Eric had of settling in quietly at Broken Bones. The same identification moved Rosa to first place on the list of suspects. The sheriff made the necessary phone calls and government intervention arrived in the form of state agencies and the FBI. Rosa and Sam were hustled off to who knows where. Eric, Ricky, the minister and Ruth were ordered to stay in the cabin. At first, they’d all headed for the porch, curiosity so tangible it almost pushed them. After a few stern looks, they retreated inside. Then, carefully, Eric headed for the porch and a rocker. Ruth followed, taking the second rocker. For Eric, sitting still and simply observing was not a hardship. He’d spent a lifetime learning how to be seen and not heard. It had saved his hide more than once both growing up in the Santellis family and later while surviving in prison. If what he was observing now was true, Ruth didn’t know how to sit still. White-knuckled hands clutched the armrests of the rocking chair. Impatient feet tapped a beat that threatened to dance off the porch. Tenaciously balanced on the edge of the seat, she was poised for flight but shackled by her belief in the system. A belief he didn’t share. “You do know that Rosa couldn’t possibly be involved in this?” She looked at him, blinked and finally settled into the chair. “I—I—I don’t know what to think. I’ll wait—” “Did you ever meet Lucy?” She stared at him, as if surprised everyday conversation was possible. Her feet slowed their dance and her knuckles relaxed. “No, I think Rosa had already gotten her off the street by the time I joined the force. And, if I ran across her before that, I’d not have thought twice.” Gila City and Broken Bones had their quota of the homeless, thanks to the lack of winter. Eric knew Ruth to be an Arizona native, which meant acclimated to the sight of men and women pushing shopping carts loaded with an odd assortment of belongings. “If I remember correctly,” Eric said, “she was mentally ill.” Ruth nodded, but didn’t respond. “I wonder how she wound up in my shed. Rosa said something about Lucy having a rough childhood….” A man wearing a suit much too dignified for the middle of a desert crime scene walked toward the porch and called, “Mrs. Atkins. We’d like to show you something.” And she was gone, before Eric could convince her of Rosa’s innocence, of his innocence. Funny, she was the only doubter he wanted to convince. He certainly felt no need to convince the barrage of officials who crowded into his living room. The minister was escorted home. Who knew where Ricky, the reporter, disappeared to? And the officials, convinced Eric not only knew how the bodies came to be in his shed but also who put them there, let him know that his contributions, or lack thereof, only angered them. It didn’t matter to them that Eric hadn’t been to the cabin in a decade. It didn’t matter to them that he had alibis. And, it didn’t matter to them that other than serving time and later being exonerated, he had no criminal record. All he could do was tell them the history of his family’s cabin. His great-great-great-grandfather had built the cabin in the 1800s. His grandfather had left it to Eric. His sister and her husband had lived in it a decade ago. Yes, Rosa knew about the cabin. Yes, Rosa had been his sister’s childhood friend. She’d been his teenage crush. His oldest brother was responsible for her brother’s death. He’d hooked up with her during an undercover sting operation four years ago. They both worked on the side of good. Ten months ago, she, her husband, Ruth and a man named Mitch Williams proved Eric innocent of murder of the police officer he’d been working with. That’s when he heard about Lucy Straus. He’d never met the woman. His story never changed. It couldn’t. It was the truth. A truth that didn’t make the authorities any happier. They wanted to solve this case. It would be so much easier if they could tighten the noose around a Santellis neck. They were willing to work all night to tie the knot. Eric’s last thought, as he stretched out on the couch in his living room, his bed for now, was about how the local authorities were making it perfectly clear they’d settle for Rosa’s neck instead of his. The alarm rang at six. Eric didn’t remember setting it, and for a moment, he contemplated getting a few more minutes shut-eye. That’s when he heard the voices outside and the memory of yesterday’s mess catapulted him off the couch and back to his front porch. The door to the shed was open. Eric started toward it. The sheriff, looking as though he hadn’t been to bed at all, stepped out and shook his head. Eric interpreted the look: I ask questions; I seldom answer them, and I don’t know how to share. After downing a bowl of cereal and brushing crumbs off the low-slung jeans he’d slept in, Eric decided to act as if this Saturday morning was like any other. He’d start checking for exterior and interior damage, start doing with the cabin what he’d be doing if the authorities weren’t here. It’s not as if they were including him in the investigation. Plus, maybe if he blended into the scenery, didn’t appear so much an observer, they’d forget he was here, talk a bit more freely, and then he could figure out what they were doing with Rosa. Before he could begin, James Winters’s white Cadillac pulled up and the elderly doctor stepped out. Wisely, he avoided the shed and came toward Eric instead. “Curiosity is a poor bedfellow,” he said. “I didn’t sleep all night. Feel like company?” “Think they’ll let you stay?” “Sheriff owes me.” The doctor sat in the second rocker and tossed Eric a newspaper. “Thought you’d find this interesting.” Eric settled back into his chair and cringed. Friday’s Gila City Gazette’s front-page headline screamed Mafia Hit! The first few paragraphs focused on Lucille Damaris Straus, the pink-clad woman. Ricky the reporter had gotten it right. Lucy had first come to the nation’s attention last year when the truth about Cliff Handley, a Gila City native and a beloved police officer who lived a double life, was made public. Lucy, a homeless woman, had assisted in his arrest rather unwittingly. She’d loaned, for a price, her identity to Rosa. Using Lucy’s name and social-security number, Rosa made a place for herself in Gila City and hunted down every person, every place, every move from Cliff’s past. Her goal: to prove Eric innocent. She’d ferreted out details about Cliff Handley that not even he realized. Then Rosa had been arrested and her true identity revealed. She was a mere civilian determined to see justice done. But her arrest exposed the truth about both Cliff and Eric. Cliff was a murderer; Eric was not. Unfortunately, Lucy hadn’t been around last year for Rosa to ceremoniously return her identification. And even more unfortunate was the general consensus that Rosa, who claimed not to have seen Lucy in all that time, most likely was the last person to see Lucy alive. Add to that the fact that Rosa’s fingerprints were on some of Lucy’s belongings and, for the authorities and press, the consensus easily turned into the questions Did Rosa kill Lucy? And if so, why? Dustin Atkins got equal coverage. Pictures of his deserted squad car, found just a mile from Eric’s cabin, looked sinister. A family photo of Dustin, Ruth and a little girl looked prime-time perfect. The piece on Dustin began with his dedication to keeping Gila City’s youth off drugs; it ended with Ruth’s new position on the police force and her dedication to not only ridding the streets of killers but also keeping her husband’s case open. Finally Eric turned the page and was treated to his own history—that of the Santellis crime family. He didn’t need to read a word. They dealt drugs. Most had the word Killer tattooed on their forearms. In Eric’s opinion, the press needed to spend more time on the verifiable truth. Rosa was a cop, married to a cop and about to have a little cop. Nowadays, everything she did was by the book. Eric was a Santellis trying to start a new life. It didn’t seem to matter to the press that innocents were intruded upon. It didn’t matter to curious locals, either. Like the minivan of retirees who were slowly driving past his cabin. The couples, families and even the occasional single female who slowed down for a look felt like paparazzi. And every hour it got worse. Eric, and everyone else trying to keep the crime site intact, watched as a little-traveled road on Prospector’s Way turned into a traffic jam. Only Doc seemed able to handle the deluge of people. He knew most of them. He returned greetings, asked one driver about the year of his BMW, claimed not to know anything about the bodies, yet, and advised the drivers to leave the policing to the police and go home. A few brave souls yelled for Eric to sign their newspaper, which pretty much acted like a road map to the stars. Eric’s home was becoming one of Arizona’s seven wonders, a landmark destination ranked right up there with the Grand Canyon. Sheriff Mallery growled every time the curious slowed down for a stare. Of course, Mallery had more than a passing interest in the traffic. His family owned the land adjacent to Eric’s and had for as long as the Santellises had owned theirs. No doubt, until now, most of the town was unaware of the pitiful condition of the sheriff’s younger brother’s cabin. Old cars, trash, broken-down campers, you name it, littered the Mallery land. It looked much like the Santellis property—only now Eric intended to change that, clean up his land, make it livable. After the first hour and with no slowdown of the deluge of cars, Mallery sent a deputy to ascertain the names of those who “belonged” on Prospector’s Way. There were five cabins, two ranches and one permanent gold camp with a population of just over a hundred. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was necessary to identify locals. That same deputy was now busy setting up road barriers. By late afternoon the traffic should return to normal. Normal? Nothing was normal for a Santellis. Or maybe what Eric was witnessing now was normal for his family. In the last hour, he’d heard that Rosa’s lawyer wanted her to have nothing to do with him; he’d heard that Dustin Atkins had been positively identified; and he’d heard that the only good Santellis was a dead Santellis. He doubted the sheriff cared that he’d been overheard. SIX “I’m so sorry about your loss.” It was the same woman who, in a grating voice, had tallied the death toll at Jose’s funeral. It made sense she’d attend Dustin’s funeral, too. Some cop Ruth was. If a sketch artist were to ask what the speaker looked like, Ruth wouldn’t be able to assist. Her blinding tears made it impossible to do anything but nod. “Technically,” the woman continued, “Dustin Atkins cannot be considered as the seventh to die in the line of duty but the third. He died well before Jose.” Died? It still sounded like a foreign word. Ruth had spent two years carefully saying missing. Now, thanks to dental records, Dustin had been positively identified on Saturday, and Ruth officially became a widow. They released his body on Monday. And here it was Thursday, just one week after Jose’s service, and the Gila City police were once again saying goodbye to one of their own. “Thank you for coming,” Ruth said. She’d said the same thing to at least a hundred people. “I wouldn’t miss it,” the woman said. “But I just can’t believe the gall of some people.” She looked at the back row of the church where Sam and Rosa sat. Without missing a beat, she continued, “That woman is bad news. How she became a police officer, I’ll never know.” Ruth almost said Two months at the police academy in Phoenix learning how to fight, shoot and handle dead bodies, that’s how. Same as me. But the woman didn’t need to hear the words, wouldn’t have heard them if Ruth had uttered them. No, the busybody prattled on, fascinated with her own theories, theories that were being bandied about by almost all the people who knew Rosa had been taken in for questioning. Did Rosa kill Lucille Straus? And, if so, why? What did the authorities know that they were keeping back even from her? Surely there had to be something more than fingerprints. Guilt and suspicion wrapped their hands around Ruth’s already broken heart. Rosa was her best friend, so much so that Ruth had planned to throw Rosa a baby shower in just a few months. Who knew what would happen in the next few weeks? The suspicion and guilt didn’t feel natural. It didn’t feel right. Yet, the events of that morning replayed at the most inopportune times—like at funerals. Ruth blinked away the tears. She had to regain control of herself. She couldn’t lose it, couldn’t keep reliving the day she’d been forced to accept his death. Looking around the church, she found Megan right where she’d left her, sitting next to Grandma and Uncle Billy. Tears slid down the five-year-old’s cheeks. Truthfully, Megan didn’t remember the man Ruth referred to as Daddy. What Megan understood was that most of her friends had daddies and that daddies must be a wonderful thing. Last night, Ruth sat Megan down and delicately explained that Rosa might somehow be in trouble. Megan said, “Nope, not Miss Rosie.” Megan’s allegiance to Rosa brought Rosa’s fan club to three: Eric, Sam and Megan. No one else wholeheartedly bought into Rosa’s innocence. The police were calling Rosa a person of interest. They found her so interesting she was put on leave until their investigation either found her innocent or found her even more interesting. Ruth didn’t know what to believe. She only knew that if Sam had been married to anyone else, he’d be sitting with her, on the other side of Megan and Uncle Billy, offering comfort, and being a best friend to Dustin one last time. Instead, Sam sat in the very last pew, next to Rosa, who looked ready to cry. Sam looked ready to hit something. The police liaison started guiding the rest of the stragglers into the auditorium. Too bad he hadn’t started ten minutes before the woman with the grating voice got hold of Ruth. Now Ruth had a headache along with heartache. Entering the auditorium, she slipped into the pew and stared at the closed casket. Three pictures of Dustin sat on top of the American flag. One was of him, his parents and his brother Billy. Another, just of him, showed a cop proud of his uniform. The final portrait, of the family, showed Dustin with an arm around each of his girls: Ruth and Megan. Next to an elaborate array of flowers, a slide show played on a television set: Dustin during childhood and his teenage years, with parents who had gone ahead of him. Dustin going through the police academy, getting married, becoming a dad. The television faded to black and Steve Dawson led the prayer starting the memorial. As the minister cited Romans and called Dustin one of God’s servants, Ruth removed two wrinkled pages of notes from her purse. Last night, she’d written her last tribute to her husband. Once the minister finished his talk, Dustin’s peers took their place behind the podium. One after another, five, ten, and even more, they spoke about Dustin’s bravery, his even temper, his dedication to the force, his family, God. How much they missed him. Ruth’s throat closed—no way would she be able to go up front and stumble through her notes. The dam broke and tears spilled over. Cops don’t cry. That’s what she’d told herself at Jose’s funeral. And she’d believed it. But today she wasn’t a cop. No, today she was a widow, a single mother and feeling so alone. Cops do cry. She felt the arm go around her shoulder and leaned into its comfort. Sam Packard had taken his rightful place beside his best friend’s widow. “Two years,” Ruth whispered. “What?” “I figured it out and wrote it down.” She handed him the notes. “From childhood, the only time you and Dustin separated were those two years you served in the military.” Sam nodded and glanced over her words. “He had seniority over me in the police force because of those two years. He sure loved to remind me of that.” “Yup. He did.” “He stayed in Gila City because of you.” “Yup.” Ruth always held that knowledge close to her heart. Dustin loved her and chose not to follow the military career he and Sam had planned during high school. Sam had been his best friend; Ruth had been his best girl, until Megan’s birth had given him the privilege of having two best girls. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered, “say it isn’t so.” “I wish I could.” He sounded choked up. “How will I live without him?” “The way you’ve been living without him for the last three years. You’ll hold his memory close, and you’ll know you’re surrounded by good friends. You also know that God is with you. He won’t leave you.” Sam had said much the same thing during the early days of Dustin’s disappearance, and Ruth had shaken her head. Dustin had been faithful to God, and back then, to Ruth’s mind, God hadn’t been faithful to Dustin. She didn’t shake her head today. Not with a church full of people who one after the other got behind the podium. Every single police officer and church friend mentioned Dustin’s faith. Every single one, even those who didn’t share his faith. Sam left her side and walked to the front. Those who’d been whispering fell silent. Ruth bowed her head, and every word Sam uttered, she repeated. He managed to add almost every point she’d made in her notes and attributed them to her. He also mentioned how she was coming to know the God who meant so much to Dustin. After the service, Jose’s whole family surged forward to hug Ruth, pat Megan on the head and invite them to dinner. “You’ll come to our house soon, for dinner,” Gracia Santos said, “and bring your family.” “I don’t know. Maybe if…” “No maybes. We’re widows together. You’re not alone. We have God, and we have each other.” Gracia’s children, only a step behind their mother nodded. “That includes you, too, Sam Packard,” Gracia said loudly. Sam had been gathering the pallbearers to the side, readying them for the drive to the cemetery. “You hear?” Gracia asserted. “I hear,” he acknowledged. “And bring your wife.” With that, Gracia looked at Ruth as if daring her to squabble. Ruth nodded in what she hoped looked like noncommitment. She was outnumbered, no doubt. Jose’s big happy family had always fascinated her. She’d been an only child born to a man who didn’t deserve children. Dustin had been the second son born to two people who thought he hung the moon, and Ruth had always been grateful his parents hadn’t had to deal with his disappearance. They died right after Megan was born. Carolyn George, Ruth’s mother, leaned against a wall with her eyes closed. This funeral made the second time Ruth was aware of that her mom had stepped foot inside a place of worship. The first had been Ruth’s wedding. “We’re so sorry.” The words jarred Ruth, returning her to the present. Mourners still waited to offer her emotional support. Phone numbers were pressed in Ruth’s hand. Women hugged, and men shuffled to the unheard beat of “I don’t know what to do or say.” Interspersed between the church people were Dustin’s police buddies and their families. Emotional support was not the goal, though. She heard, instead, “If anybody bothers you…If you just need drive-bys…If…If…If…” When the line slowed down, Ruth sidled over. “Mom, are you all right? You look a bit overwhelmed.” “This is nothing like your father’s funeral.” Darryl George, Ruth’s father, didn’t have any friends. His buddies at the bar couldn’t tear themselves away from the bottle long enough to come pay their condolences. “Everyone loved Dustin,” Ruth said instead. “Yes, they did.” Billy Atkins, Dustin’s big brother, came up behind her. “It’s time to go, Ruth.” Billy guided the two women to the waiting limousine. Megan held his hand until he hustled her in next to her mother. Then, he went back to the car with the other pallbearers. The drive to the cemetery took twenty minutes. It should have taken five, but the line of cars looked unending. “Your daddy was a hero,” Ruth said to Megan. So much a hero, the cemetery didn’t have enough parking. A good number of people missed the final prayer before Dustin Atkins was lowered into the ground. They only got to see Megan carrying her daddy’s flag back to the limo. Finally, the family returned to the funeral home where Ruth signed one final paper. She’d just taken care of Dustin for the last time. Twenty minutes later, she pulled into the driveway of the house she and Dustin had shared. Cars lined the streets of her neighborhood, spilling around the corner. Dustin’s friends, her friends, were bringing food. Megan had the back door opened before the car completely stopped. Ruth’s mother could only utter, “Oh, my,” as they crossed the lawn and finally entered the house to find a banquet of casseroles, fried chicken, chips, so much food they wouldn’t need to cook for a week. And in the kitchen, there was Sam trying to find room in the refrigerator for some hard-boiled eggs while Rosa washed dishes at the sink. Rosa was noticeably alone, even as her church friends patted her on the back and whispered encouragement. Suspicion’s cloak might as well have been colored bright red. It was clear that the community was not only doubtful as to her involvement in Dustin’s murder, but also as to how Ruth might react to seeing Rosa in her kitchen. “Miss Rosie,” Megan cried, running over to her beloved friend. “You’re here.” And that was when Ruth knew she hadn’t just taken care of Dustin for the last time. She still had one more thing to do: find his killer. SEVEN Ruth’s mother hustled the last visitor out the door just after nine o’clock, picked up her crochet and settled on the couch to watch a legal thriller rerun. Ruth changed out of her black clothes and a few minutes later she stood staring at the mounds of food littering her kitchen. It would take them a year to make a dent in all this. She took a tentative step toward the table where bags of chips and a stack of canned goods waited. She looked around the kitchen for someplace different to set them, then put them back down. She couldn’t do this, rearrange the food in the kitchen, act normally. Where had this exhaustion come from? Burying her husband today? Finding her husband last week? Worrying about her husband the last few years? It was a good thing she’d learned to pray because prayer was the only thing that would give her any comfort tonight. Three years of wondering was over. It was time to go on with “let go and let God” as Sam would say. First she wanted God to let her go find Dustin’s killer. No, second she wanted God to let her go find Dustin’s killer, first she wanted God to help her take good care of the daughter Dustin left behind. Turning off the kitchen light, she tiptoed down the hall to check on Megan. The little girl had fallen asleep hours ago while the house still bustled with activity. Stuffed with the food and attention of those who loved her, she’d just plain worn out. Ruth stood in Megan’s doorway, listening to the gentle breathing, and then she headed out to the garage, to her office. Three years ago she’d moved her mother into Dustin’s office, and Dustin’s office out here. Back then, for a solid week, while her mother got to know Megan, Ruth had gone through each and every one of Dustin’s notes, looking for information about the Santellises and writing everything in notebooks. She knew they were the murderers. Later, convinced there was nothing left to discover, she’d packed up his files and stored them in the crawl-space sized attic. She didn’t need them anymore; she’d started taking her own notes on the Santellises. Now was as good a time as any to open up the files that had been gathering dust for almost a year. It looked as though Rosa needed her, but this time it seemed that Rosa’s plight had something to do with Dustin. The last time she’d written anything down had been when she testified for Eric Santellis. Her testimony helped release him. She’d thrown up afterward. Her mother opened the door that separated the garage from the laundry room. “Please don’t tell me it’s starting again.” “What?” “You, the notebooks, the search for answers, this obsession with the Santellises and the town of Broken Bones.” Carolyn gripped the door so hard, Ruth thought maybe her mother was about to faint. “I need to know what happened.” “But Ruthie, some things are better left alone.” “Like what? The fact that someone moved Dustin’s body, put it in a shed, next to another body that somehow wound up there, and now the local authorities think they can blame Rosa? I have six weeks of leave. I intend to find the murderer this time.” Her mother shook her head and slowly closed the door. How many times had Ruth seen the exact same move whenever her father was acting out? Mom had retreat down to a fine art. Not so Ruth. First, she pulled out the maps Dustin had kept of the area. He probably knew as much about the area as anyone. Some of Dustin’s earliest maps were yellow-and-brown with age and looked as if a ten-year-old had made a pencil drawing. They showed the old mines, a small town, long-eradicated tunnels and only two roads. The latest map was a few years old and was not only in color but also glossy. There were quite a few more roads. How had Dustin’s body gotten to that shed? In the trunk of somebody’s car? In a bag? From which direction? Closing her eyes, she could see the outskirts of Broken Bones as it was almost two decades ago when she lived there. It was a brown, ugly town that smelled like hot cement and sweat. A sign at the city limits boasted a population of just over five hundred. She spent two years of her life in Broken Bones. Years that centered around a drab house, a lonely school, a bar, a sheriff’s office and a grocery store—in that order. The house was as brown and ugly as the town. She’d attended Thomas T. Mallery Elementary School for third and fourth grades. Her one-and-only friend had been Ricky Mason. Elizabeth Winters, Doc’s wife, had been her third-grade teacher. When Ruth’s mother worked late cleaning for the Winters family, Ruth saw what a family meal looked like. It’s was Ruth’s first introduction to the prayer before meals. Doc had always said it, and Mrs. Winters’d said “Amen.” Pictures, of the Winterses’ grown children and their children, had lined their walls. A time line of family antiques filled the shelves. Ruth knew even in fourth grade that she wanted what the Winters had. What she didn’t want was what she had. Namely, a father who couldn’t stay out of trouble and who preferred Axel’s Bar to home. “Just going to town,” Darryl George would tell his wife many an afternoon. “I’ll pick up some milk.” Sometimes, as if to prove his story, he’d take Ruth with him. A few times, he even remembered the milk. More often than not, he forgot about his daughter sitting there, outside the bar, waiting, on the sidewalk. Sometimes she still felt like that lonely, lost girl, picking herself up off the sideway and walking home, believing in the ghosts of Broken Bones the whole way. The jail was another establishment Ruth knew well. True, she’d visited it plenty after Dustin disappeared, but she’d known it two decades earlier, as well. It was the only two-story building in Broken Bones. Two cells were upstairs. The main floor housed offices, a waiting room, booking room, etc. All the rooms the general public expected to see. The basement had one cell and storage. Ruth’s dad had always been upstairs. His crimes were enough to build his reputation as a petty criminal but not enough to warrant moving him to Florence or Perryville Prison. He’d turn over in his grave now if he knew his daughter was an officer of the law. “You need to go to bed.” Her mother appeared again. Ruth glanced down at the maps and at the file labeled Broken Bones. She hadn’t even opened it. She’d been lost in her own history instead of Dustin’s. “I hate Broken Bones,” she whispered. Carolyn nodded. “And I hate that Dustin died there. Of all places, there.” Carolyn again nodded. “Why did you stay with him?” Carolyn didn’t question who “him” was. Darryl George was a topic they avoided. Three years ago, just after Dustin went missing, Carolyn moved in with Ruth. It was a blessing for both of them. Ruth had a live-in babysitter, and Carolyn felt needed. The arrangement worked until Ruth brought up her father. The merest mention of his name sent her mother out the door. At first it was to the park down the street, but then as Ruth became bolder, and asked even more pointed questions, her mother increased the time and distance of her escapes. Still, all Ruth had to do was head for one of Carolyn’s friend’s houses. Mom’s face tightened. It was a look Ruth remembered well. “Why did you stay with him? And why, whenever I ask you about our time spent in Broken Bones, do you leave and I have to find you?” Carolyn started for the door. “Don’t do it. Don’t walk out.” For a moment, Carolyn hesitated. She almost turned, almost said something, but before she could— “Mom!” Megan’s voice, a distant whine, interrupted whatever Carolyn might have been about to say. Ruth left her mother, the maps, the files, basically the clutter of her life, and headed for her daughter’s room. “You okay?” The flyaway brown hair came from Dustin, so did the brown eyes and wide lips. Size and imagination came from Ruth. Megan, like Ruth, knew there really were monsters in the closet. Ruth’s had been real. Its name had been Darryl George. With Megan, they were imaginary and had started back when Dustin stopped coming home, and Ruth took a full-time job. “It’s so quiet,” Megan complained, picking at the edge of her blanket. “I’m thinking about Daddy. And I’m alone.” “Grandma and I are both here. We were in the garage.” “You’re not going to work tomorrow, are you?” “No, not for a long time.” No need to explain to a five-year-old the ins and outs of family emergency leave. Ruth was just grateful to have time to spend with her family, time to spend burying Dustin both physically and mentally. “Will you sit in the chair?” “Yes, I can do that.” Years ago, when Megan was a baby, Ruth would pick her up and rock her in the pale blue rocking chair. Sitting in that chair with a precious little daughter had made the exhaustion almost pleasurable. Not like today. Putting her feet on the floor instead of on the footstool, Ruth pushed herself back and forth while listening to her daughter breathe and to the sound of the television returning to life in the next room, her mother’s room. So, Carolyn was sticking around. And Ruth needed to decide if she wanted to pursue this conversation on the day she buried her husband. Some things needed to stay buried. Ruth was smart enough to believe that; she just didn’t intend to allow it to happen. EIGHT The aroma of breakfast pulled Ruth from a sound sleep. Good thing, too, because if she’d slept in the rocker any longer, her neck would forever tilt at an awkward angle. After making sure Megan was still asleep, Ruth stumbled from the room and joined her mother in the kitchen. Her mom hadn’t prepared breakfast since her husband died. He’d always demanded she make him three pancakes, four slices of bacon, two pieces of toast and orange juice. For a man who didn’t bring home a regular paycheck, sometimes his demands were unrealistic. But Ruth couldn’t remember a morning her mother didn’t make the breakfast. Sitting down at the kitchen table, Ruth picked up a fork, examined it and asked, “You ready to talk?” “No.” “Why are you making breakfast then?” “Because I’m willing to change.” “What all are you going to change?” “I’ve not completely decided. Right now I’m just changing my morning habits. I’ve always liked breakfast. I let your father take that away from me, along with other things, and I need to get it, and them, back.” “Talk to me, Mom.” “I can’t today, Ruthie. I need to think.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/pamela-tracy/the-price-of-redemption/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.