Body Heat (31 page)

The hope that she might be able to reach them both in time gave her the courage she needed.
I'm coming,
she promised silently, and cracked open the garage door.

Nothing happened.

She listened for any sound of movement, but there was only silence.

Prepared for the worst, she slipped into the garage and weaved through the boxes of Christmas decorations and extra clothing she'd put into storage during spring cleaning. As far as she could tell, she was alone. But she hadn't entered the house yet.

The door was locked. Fortunately, she had her keys in her pocket.

As she unlocked the door, she listened carefully—and thought she heard a strange noise. Crying? Her name being called?

Was it Rafe? Or Starkey, begging for help?

She couldn't decide. When she listened again, she could no longer hear it.

Please, God, let Rafe be okay. Starkey, too.

The click of the tumbler sounded abnormally loud. She was afraid it might give away her approach, but using the wooden panel of the door as a shield, she pushed it open and braced for attack.

If there was someone inside, waiting for her, the noise hadn't drawn him out.

Now!
she told herself and stuck her head inside, once again waiting, listening…. To silence.

Eyes wide and heart pounding, she led with her gun as she crept into the kitchen.

Pale streamers of moonlight filtered through the window over the sink. From what Sophia could see, Rafe had never had the chance to make himself a sandwich. The kitchen was just as she and Rod had left it.

Cringing to think of what might've stopped him, she walked toward the living room.

From where the kitchen met the living room, Sophia could see the couch, the TV and her favorite painting hanging on the opposite wall. And she already knew what she'd find if she came far enough into the room to face the front door—Starkey. It was what might be lurking near the slider leading onto her back porch that worried her. Judging by what had happened, the gunman had either been waiting in the alcove near the bookshelves or he'd been coming out of her bedroom. He couldn't have fired from the kitchen because the front door would've blocked his vision when it first started to open. The bedroom didn't seem viable, either, since there was no exit. Sophia couldn't imagine that the shooter would place himself in a situation he couldn't escape.

Was the culprit still around? Or had he fled after the shooting?

Part of her hoped he'd taken off. That would allow her to focus on saving Starkey and finding Rafe. The other part craved justice for even the
chance
that one or both of them might die.

Crouching so her antique secretary would obstruct the path of any bullets, she came out of the kitchen and leaned around the furniture, pointing her gun in the direction of the slider.

It stood open, the space around it shadowy but empty. Either the gunman was gone… Or he wanted her to believe he was.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front door, which was also standing open. It couldn't shut, not with Starkey slumped in the entry. She didn't think he was dead. Fortunately. Eyes closed and hands pressed to his
chest as if he could stop the blood from pouring onto his leather cut, he seemed to be concentrating on surviving. She wanted to go to him, or at least offer some words of comfort to let him know that help wouldn't be long in coming, but she couldn't give herself away. First, she had to find Rafe.

Where was the damn ambulance? Why couldn't she hear it?

Because it'd only been a few minutes since she'd called and it had to come from Douglas.
Shit!

A slight breeze stirred the drapes at the slider and sent the wind chimes on her porch tinkling. Under the cover of that sound, Sophia crept farther into the room to confirm that it was, indeed, empty. Feeling much safer, she double-checked that shadowy alcove—the only place a full-grown person could hide in the living room besides the coat closet, which she also checked—and headed for the bedroom.

Her room was just as empty. But the bathroom door was closed. And there were two bullet holes in it.

Unable to stop herself any longer, she called out. “Rafe? Are you in there? Are you here?”

“Sophie?”

She almost couldn't believe it when he answered. He was in the bathroom. “It's me,” she said. “Come on out. I'm here now. Everything's going to be okay.”

The lock clicked and, a second later, the door opened very slowly. Only after Rafe actually saw her did he forget all caution and hurry toward her. “Someone tried to break in!” he said.

She set her gun on the bed so she could hold him. “Who was it? Do you know?”

“Leonard Taylor.”

“You're sure?”

Rafe nodded. “He came by earlier, too. He was talking to me as if he and my dad are friends. But they're really not. And then he came back. This time, he didn't say a word. Not at first. Just kept messing with the door, trying to unlock it.”

“Where'd he get the key?”

“I think he saw me put it back under the frog earlier. But the lock was sticking. He had to wiggle it.”

“And you heard him.”

“Yes. I locked myself in the bathroom, but after he got in he started banging on the door, telling me you'd been in an accident and asked him to come and get me. But if that was true, why didn't he say so when he was trying to unlock the front door?”

Rafe took a deep breath. “He said you were going to die. I was so afraid it was true I was gonna come out. But I guess I wasn't fast enough 'cause he screamed that he was in a GD hurry and I'd better open the door or he'd kill me. He tried to break the door down. When that didn't work, he started shooting.”

At last Sophia heard sirens.
Thank God!
“How was it that he didn't hit you?” she asked, hugging him closer.

“I was lying in the tub.”

“Good for you. You're so smart, bud!” He'd already been living by his wits for a long time; she supposed that helped. He was a tough kid. But should she let him see his father? Starkey might die. It would be gruesome for a fourteen-year-old to see that, especially as a result of violence. But he had the right to say goodbye, didn't he?

Sophia had just decided to break the news to him when a telltale creak and the glimpse of a dark shape in her mirror made the hair stand up on the back of her neck.

Rafe screamed as she turned. But the horror on his face had already told her what was happening. There, in the doorway, stood Leonard. He must've been out in the backyard. Must've heard her call out to Rafe and come inside to finish the job. Perhaps he was so determined to put an end to her that even self-preservation couldn't overcome the impulse.

“Leonard, listen.” Hoping for a way to get hold of her gun on the bed, she pushed Rafe behind her. “Don't be stupid. Can't you hear the sirens? A sheriff's deputy will be here any minute. You kill us and you'll get the death penalty.”

“I'm going to get your job. That's what I'm going to get. That's what I should've gotten six months ago.” He lifted his gun, aimed. Looking at the intent expression on his face, Sophia expected to be hit by a bullet any second. But there was another noise, this one from directly behind him.

Flinching, Leonard whirled around, giving Sophia just enough time to dive for her gun. Then everything went into slow motion. Leonard put a second bullet in Starkey, who was coming after him with one last surge of effort, growling like a bear. And she fired right afterward, hitting Leonard once, twice, three times.

No way would he get up and come after them again, she told herself.

And he didn't.

T
he inside of Stuart's house resembled something out of the old TV Western
Bonanza.
Even the wallpaper that ran from the chair railing to the burgundy-colored carpet appeared to be made of leather, or simulated leather, and had big brass decorative thumbtacks holding it to the wall. The wood-framed paintings, hung against a green background, were all of horses and cowboy scenes. And the few pieces of art that sat on various accent tables were brass sculptures—bucking broncos and the like.

Although Rod didn't care for most of it, he admired the furniture, which was constructed of rough-hewn logs and Navajo-blanket-covered cushions. The antler lighting fixtures weren't bad, either. Had Stuart stuck with rustic instead of veering into 1960s Western chic he might've been onto something. Regardless, it was quite obvious that he'd spent a lot of money on his place and was proud of it. No matter what their relationship had been like in life, Rod felt the tragedy in the sheer permanence of his half brother's death. Stuart would never walk into his house again.

Bruce emerged from somewhere in the back. After he'd shown Rod inside, he'd gone to retrieve whatever it was he wanted to show him. What he brought back looked
like a box full of keepsakes for a scrapbook, or maybe the contents of someone's files or desk. “What's all this?” he asked.

“I found it in the closet of Stuart's office.”

“When?”

“Just a few hours ago.”

“Why were you going through his office? I heard Sophia tell you not to come in here. That the police would have a better chance of solving his murder if you left this place alone until the FBI's forensic techs could go through it.”

His father put the box on the couch. “I was scared,” he admitted.

“Of what?”

“Of what they might find.”

Rod felt his eyebrows shoot up. “Like what?”

“He'd been acting strange lately. Secretive. And he'd been staying out late, after the bar was closed. I couldn't even guess where he was going. At first I thought he had a girlfriend or maybe he was visiting a prostitute. I tried to tell myself it was none of my business. He was a grown man, after all. But he hated Mexicans so much that…”

His words trailed off as if he'd only belatedly realized who he was talking to. Stuart had hated Mexicans because of Rod and his mother and what their presence in his life had meant, and Rod knew it. Stuart probably got a lot of his resentment from Edna, but the superiority he felt wasn't unusual among farm owners.

“You thought he might be the UDA killer,” Rod said.

Bruce sighed. “I'm sad to say it, but the suspicion was there. Especially when…when I heard where they found Stu's body. I kept imagining him heading out into the desert, going hunting, if you will, and coming upon
a group of illegals whose guide was prepared for him. There wasn't any weapon in the truck with his body, but I figured it could've been stolen. Why leave it behind? Anyway, I wanted to see if his guns were here, that sort of thing.” He shook his head. “But mostly I didn't want his mother to suffer, knowing her son had murdered twelve people. That's not the kind of grief and shame that will ever go away. And if he was dead, he couldn't hurt anyone, anyway. I decided I could get rid of the evidence and at least save her that much pain.”

“So you came here and looked around.”

“That's right. His guns are here and accounted for. But I also found this box of stuff. And now I don't believe it was him at all. I believe he figured out who the real killer was, and that's why he's dead.” Bruce pointed to the bits of paper, envelopes, even photographs, in the box. “Take a look.”

Rod sat on the couch and pulled out an envelope filled with pictures.

“See that white Ford?” Bruce asked as soon as Rod had had a chance to study the first one.

Rod nodded.

“That belongs to Charlie Sumpter.”

“How can you tell? This picture was taken from too far away.”

“It says so on the back.”

Rod flipped it over. Sure enough, someone had written
Charlie Sumpter
and
1:23 a.m.
“That's Stuart's writing?”

“Without a doubt. Stuart even had that picture magnified so you can see a closer view of the vehicle. It should be next.”

It wasn't. The other photos were various shots of Charlie's house from the front, side and back.

“Where'd it go?” Bruce muttered, rooting around in the box until he came up with a photo that had fallen out. “Here it is. See this? This shows part of the license plate. CFF432. That's Charlie's, all right.”

“But what does this picture prove? That Charlie was out in the desert somewhere on—” Rod glanced at the date stamp “—June 21?”

“It proves his truck wasn't at his house the night the Sanchez couple was killed.”

“That doesn't mean Charlie killed them.”

“It means he could have. Look at the other pictures.”

Rod went back to the shots of Charlie's house. They had the same date stamp but showed no truck anywhere on the premises. And they also had times written on the backs—times that were within seconds of each other but twenty minutes after the picture of the truck in the desert.

It was hardly a smoking gun, but…it did raise some questions. “So Stuart was watching Charlie's place and following him?”

“That's right.”

“You think he was following Charlie last night?”

“I do. I think Charlie somehow guessed that Stuart was onto him and shot him.”

Rod wasn't so sure. “Charlie's been out of town. We haven't even been able to reach him.”

“Not according to this.”

Bruce took out another picture of Charlie's vehicle. This one showed it turning out of his drive. The surprising part was the date. It had been taken the night before last, when Charlie was supposedly gone. “Interesting.”

“That picture suggests he's been home,” Bruce said.

Stuart's research was amateurish and haphazard—circumstantial, at best. But he'd obviously believed in his suspicions enough to have done a lot of surveillance. Had he been hoping to impress Sophia by solving the puzzle of the UDA murders? Had to be. Either that or he'd wanted to come off as a hero to the whole town, because he sure as hell didn't give a damn about the poor murdered UDAs.

Still, the fact that he'd wound up dead while trying to keep an eye on Charlie was unnerving, especially since Rod knew Sophia was out at Charlie's place right now.

Suddenly in a much bigger hurry to get back to her, he stood. “I'll look into this. Let's keep it between us until we have concrete evidence.”

“No problem.” Bruce met his gaze. “Just…catch the son of a bitch who shot Stu, okay?”

“I'll do that,” Rod promised.

His father stared at him for a long second. “I wish things could've been different between you and me.”

“You're not supposed to worry about that anymore, remember?”

“I'm only saying.”

“There's still the future. So how am I getting back to town? You taking me?”

“No. Edna needs me tonight. I'll drive you to the house and give you the keys to one of the farm trucks. I can send a worker to retrieve it in the morning. Where are you staying?”

“The Boot and Spur.” Rod started for the door, then thought of something else. “By the way, does Charlie smoke?”

“Like a chimney,” he said. “Always has.”

 

Starkey's widowed mother met them at the hospital in Douglas, where Starkey had been taken by ambulance. The
doctors weren't making any promises as to his chances of survival. They hadn't said much at all. But they were doing their best to save him. At least, that was the message conveyed by the middle-aged nurse who'd just poked her head into the room to give them an update.

“Do you think he'll live?” Rafe asked Sophia, his face pale and somber.

Sophia didn't know what to say. The situation didn't look good. Starkey had taken two bullets, one that had barely missed his heart and one that had punctured a kidney. That had been part of the nurse's update. Fortunately, neither of those injuries had proved instantly fatal, but he'd lost a lot of blood. Maybe too much.

“I'm praying he does,” she responded. He'd saved their lives. How he'd found the strength to interfere when he did, she had no idea. He'd been so weak when she'd seen him slumped in the doorway. The only thing she could figure was that he'd heard her call for Rafe and realized his son was still alive but would die if he didn't do something. “He's always been tough,” she added, and that, together with a smile, seemed to have the most positive effect on Rafe.

“I'm praying, too.” Careful not to come too close to his grandma, who sat on his other side, he settled back in his chair.

Starkey's mother, her face pinched with worry, glanced at him, but she didn't speak—to him or to Sophia. She'd been silent almost since they'd arrived. But Sophia hadn't expected her to be friendly. Somehow she blamed Sophia for Starkey's inability to straighten up and live a law-abiding life. She'd once claimed that he'd be a different person if Sophia had married him.

Sophia knew he wouldn't have changed. But she wasn't going to argue with the woman. Grandma Starkey had lived a hard life. She'd worked in a two-bit diner for the past two decades and didn't have a lot of reserves—mentally, physically or financially. She would've taken Rafe from Starkey years ago if she'd been in a better position to raise him.

“The guy who shot him is dead, though, right?” Rafe piped up. He was still trying to process everything that had occurred.

Sophia nodded. She'd shot him. Then she'd left him lying on the floor of her living room. The sheriff's department had come while the paramedics were loading Starkey into the ambulance. Because Sophia had fired her weapon, she couldn't also work the police end, couldn't get involved in it at all. The sheriff would handle that, and possibly the FBI. On her way out she'd passed Cooper, who'd indicated he was going to call Van Dormer.

What conclusions were they drawing from the evidence? She couldn't even make a call to see what was going on. Cell phone use wasn't permitted in the hospital. She didn't want to interrupt them in the middle of their work, anyway.

Planning to step outside so she could notify Rod of her whereabouts, she stood up, but Rafe grabbed her arm.

“Where're you going?” he asked. “You're not leaving, are you?”

He didn't particularly like his bony grandmother, who looked eighty instead of sixty and often muttered aloud but rarely made sense. Reading the panic on his face at the prospect of being left alone with her, Sophia didn't have the heart to abandon him, even for a few minutes. “You can come with me, if you want. I'll just be a minute.”

He shook his head. “No. What if the nurse comes?”

Judging by the determination on his face, he wouldn't budge. She decided to wait until they heard about his father. But in the rush to get Starkey the help he needed, Sophia hadn't been able to check in with Rod. She'd tried once, in the ambulance, got his voice mail and hadn't left a message because she'd planned to call back right away. What with all the chaos and people coming at her with questions, she hadn't had a second chance, not until everything had slowed to a crawl right here in the waiting room. And then she couldn't use her cell.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost two. Surely Rod would've started looking for her by now. He must've already stopped by her house and talked with Van Dormer or the sheriff, so he'd know where she was and why. Or maybe when she didn't show up at the dude ranch, he'd called the sheriff's department to see if they'd heard anything. Those were his two most logical options and, either way, he would've been given the same information.

Putting her phone back in her purse, she slipped her arm around Rafe. She needed to relax and concentrate on getting him through this. Rod was probably waiting for her at the Boot and Spur.

 

The ranch truck rattled and chugged as Rod pushed it to go faster on the drive to Charlie Sumpter's ranch. He'd received a call from Sophia earlier, but had somehow missed it. He wasn't sure how; he'd never heard it ring. And now it kept transferring to voice mail on the first ring, as if she'd shut it off. Considering what he'd learned from Bruce, he was terrified Sophia had come out here and gotten herself killed. She didn't believe Charlie was dangerous—not really. Of all the names listed on that limited partnership
agreement, his was the one she'd been most skeptical of. She obviously had some affection for him. So Rod was afraid she hadn't been as cautious as she should've been. The UDA killer could be almost anyone.

He couldn't be sure Charlie was dangerous, but he was going straight to the place she'd said she'd be, just in case she needed him. He couldn't imagine where else she could've gone. She hadn't shown up at the Boot and Spur. He'd called the ranch four times. He'd even had the manager check the lot for his Hummer and go down and bang on the door of his cabin.

Once he hit the long straight section of road heading toward the ranches near the border, he pushed the needle on the speedometer higher and called Sophia again.

It was no use. She didn't answer.

What the hell was going on? Why wasn't she picking up? He'd left her at least six messages, all of which had gone unanswered.

Had her stepfather caught up with her? Waylaid her somehow? Hurt her? That thought was almost as frightening as thinking of her face-to-face with the UDA killer. For all he knew, Gary was just as dangerous. But his best guess was that she'd be at Charlie's, because that was where she'd been heading when he left her.

Charlie's place came up on the right. Rod remembered it from when he was a kid. Jorge used to bring him out here to help load the pickup with wrapped meat from a butchered cow for the Family. The Dunlaps purchased one each fall.