The Fall Guy (6 page)

Like he wanted me dead.

Which had to mean he thought I knew what he'd done. Or had proof that could nail him.

Wilkins was a smart guy. He knew cars. It was a stretch to think that he'd gone to the city to borrow the son's car so he could sneak up on me. Now, as the dirt bike shook loose every bone in my body, I could see all the holes in my theory.

First off, Wilkins could have any car he wanted. Customers brought in tradeins all the time. Why pick a car that stands out a mile off ? Second, how did he get back home from the city after returning the car to the son? It was a hundred miles. Not a short hop. Third, he must have known the LTD was damaged and that the cops could tie it to my accident. Even I watched enough cop shows to know that.

All of this pointed one of two ways. Either Wilkins wanted to set up his stepson for the death of his mother…

Or he wasn't the one driving the Ford.

Which meant his stepson was. I hated that thought. I shoved it out of my mind, hoping it would go away or a better one would come along. Daniel was just a kid, way younger than me and with even fewer breaks in his life. Maybe Lori-Anne hadn't been the greatest mother in the world, but from what Bethany said, she'd tried. And kids forgave their mothers almost anything.

For a while, I rested my tired brain. I got home, changed my clothes, fed the animals and started tinkering with the dirt bike. Tinkering always sorts out my head. I figured I could change the 2-stroke for a 4-stroke and replace a couple of parts, like the tires and gears. Then I'd have a pretty decent set of wheels. I wasn't sure when I'd be able to pay for my truck repairs, but a guy can get a lot done towing a little trailer behind a dirt bike.

I poked around in my sheds, looking for engine parts. Despite myself, my mind wandered back to the LTD. Why would Wilkins set up his stepson? From the sound of it, there was no love lost between them. But both kids would be out of his life before the grass was green on Lori-Anne's grave. Would they be making off with some of his money? That would sure piss him off. But I couldn't see how, since he was the one still alive.

Besides, how did Wilkins know I'd be going over to inspect the deck? How would he know ahead of time so he could get Daniel's car? I didn't like the guy. I thought he was a weasel who treated his wife like crap and was ready to let me take the blame for her death. But I didn't think he was psychic. This theory didn't make sense.

Which brought me back to Daniel. I wandered out into my back field to look at the lawn tractors. A couple of them had 4-stroke engines that might work on my dirt bike. Horsepower wasn't an issue. Some of these buggers weighed a ton.

The kids weren't in town, that's the thing. They were away at college. How could Daniel have sneaked back to tamper with the deck? And more importantly, why? From what I'd heard, they both loved their mother and wanted the best for her. The best was obviously not Jeff Wilkins. But he was rich and better than nothing.

Unless…

I remembered the thought I had earlier.
He was the one still alive.
My heart raced. Suddenly a whole new bunch of possibilities opened up. If Wilkins was dead, Lori-Anne would inherit his fortune. She would be free of his tight-ass, controlling ways. She wouldn't have to sit at home watching daytime TV and begging to use one of his cars. Her kids could drive to college in something better than a flaming death trap. They would have money for clothes, trips and partying. They would see their mother finally getting the happiness she deserved.

What if the deck accident had been meant for him and not her?

I hardly breathed so I wouldn't disturb my brain. Did that make sense? How could Lori-Anne have set it up? If she'd known the deck was dangerous, surely she'd never have leaned on it, unless she was so drunk she forgot the danger. That seemed to take her off the suspects list.

But her son? I remembered that look of pure hatred on his face as he stood at Wilkins' side. But even if he sneaked back from school and replaced the screws, he was taking a terrible risk. How could he be sure Wilkins would lean on it and not his mother? Maybe he thought the tiny woman wouldn't break the rail, but hefty, beerswilling Wilkins would?

I sat down on the tractor with a thud. Had Daniel tried to set it up? Had their mother told them about the feeder, and how Wilkins was going to hang it for her? Had he seen his chance for a perfect crime?

Almost perfect. Except for two small problems. His mother.

And me.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

T
he phone was ringing when I rounded the barn. I got about two phone calls a week, if you didn't count Aunt Penny or some scammer from the city. A phone call meant money, so I ran to answer it. My sore muscles weren't happy, but I figured they'd get over it.

There was no one there. Empty air. Usually this means one of those computers from the city, dialing up numbers by chance. But this sounded different. Not an annoying hum but a rumble. And I thought I could hear breathing. Soft, like they were holding it in. Listening.

Then Chevie went racing down the lane, barking her head off. I peered out the front window. There was nothing there, but in the distance down by the main road a cloud of dust hung in the air. On the phone, I heard the roar of a car, accelerating away. Followed by nothing.

I hung up, my heart beating. I stared out the window. Nothing but the late afternoon sun and the crickets. I was imagining things. I was freaked out by the accident and my mind was playing tricks. Who would be calling? Who would be cruising past my house? Daniel? Why? To scare me, or to check out my home? He was just a kid. This seemed way more sinister than anything he could do. I still hated the idea that he tampered with the deck.

Maybe I was missing something. Wilkins knew much more about decks than Daniel did, and had a much better chance to switch the screws. He knew his wife was impatient about the feeder. He'd been stalling so long, it was almost like he drove her to it.

I wished I could walk away. If Daniel was guilty, I wasn't sure I wanted him caught. The kids had had a rough start. I knew what that could do to a kid. And he'd already been punished way more than any court would do. Killing his own mother was a nightmare he'd never forget.

If Wilkins was guilty, I didn't know how I could prove it. Nobody believed me. The screw was at the bottom of the creek, and all the other signs, like the old Ford, pointed away from him. The bastard had already slapped a lawsuit on me to make sure the fingers didn't point to him.

It was that thought that really got me going. I wasn't going to let Wilkins sue me for every last blade of grass on my farm. I wasn't going to let the whole county think I'd killed a woman because I couldn't design a deck to save my life. Not to mention I'd driven my truck into Silver Creek in a drunken stupor.

I couldn't walk away. I had to prove, once and for all, who had killed Lori-Anne Wilkins.

The best way would be a confession. I was betting tempers were pretty raw at the Wilkins' place by now, and nobody would be holding back. If I could get close enough to hear, I'd probably learn all I needed to. I pictured the long laneway up to the cottage. Most of it was shielded by bush, so no one would see my approach, and when I got close enough, I could sneak along the foundation to an open window.

I went outside, full of purpose, and caught sight of my dirt bike in the side yard. Crap. No one would see my approach, but they'd sure as hell hear it. I'd have to walk the last half mile in, or they'd all be waiting on the front porch for me. And even if I got there unnoticed, even if I got my confession, who was going to believe me? So far, it was Wilkins three, me zip. I needed proof. I needed a recording.

I've never really liked technology. It takes you too far away from nature. Blame it on my Mom, who spent more time with Elvis and
Dynasty
reruns that she ever did with real life. I like to hear the sounds of the birds and even the goat chomping my daisies more than the sound of the latest rock band. I like to sit on my front porch watching the sunsets and the hay turning golden in the fall more than I like to sit in a dark, stuffy room. Television is about ridiculously pretty people making morons of themselves. I own a TV and a phone, like I said, but I never bothered with radios or CD players or computers. Don't get me started on computers.

Still, there are times a tape recorder would come in handy. Like now. I wondered if Aunt Penny had one I could borrow, but then she'd want to know why and she'd give me that look. Not worth it.

I started wandering around my sheds, looking for possibilities. That's another reason I don't like technology. It's always changing, and old parts don't fit new things. You can't just stick things together and experiment. You need a microscope to see what you're doing, and a shot of 10w-30 is no help at all. Why can't something that worked fine thirty years ago still work fine today?

That's when it hit me. I did have something. My mother hoarded everything. You never knew when you might need it, she said. And if you didn't, you could always sell it at a yard sale. When I was a baby, she had this little baby monitor. It had a transmitter that went in my room and a receiver in her room. It transmitted every sound I made—every cry and burp—down to the room where she was watching TV. Sometimes she carried it out to the barn or vegetable garden. They had a pretty good range, those little things. Once I'd used it to warn me when a cat was going into labor in the back barn a hundred yards from the house. If I planted one inside the Wilkins' house and hid down the lane, I should be able to hear everything.

I knew exactly where the baby monitor was. Aunt Penny thinks my place is just a jumble, but it's not. It took me less than thirty seconds to reach the shed, get up on the stool and pull it down from the top shelf. I had to replace the batteries, but then it worked as well as the day the kittens were born. But I still had a problem. I needed a way to record what I heard.

Mom to the rescue again. This time the old tape recorder she'd bought at a yard sale to tape Elvis off the radio. I'd never used it, but I remembered her using it well enough. Sitting on the porch with that dreamy look in her eyes. Swaying to the music from this black box. She'd turn the radio up really loud and then press the Record button on the tape machine. That should work. That cat's yowling had sounded really loud on the baby monitor.

I popped the lid and saw there was still some tape in the cassette. I dusted it off, put in new batteries and gave the thing a quick test. By some miracle, it still worked. Maybe for once, the old guy upstairs had decided to humor me.

I stuffed all the electronics into a backpack and revved up the dirt bike. The sun was getting low in the sky, making it hard to see. But that meant the shadows would be deep and it would be easier to hide. I roared along the highway, through the village and past the church. The parking lot was empty now, the wake over. About half a mile up Wilkins' road I killed the engine, hid the bike in the brush and walked up the gravel lane. I stuck to the edge so I could dive out of sight if I had to. I felt jumpy as a cat. My heart thumped, and sweat soaked my shirt under the pack.

The parking area in front of the cottage was empty. No sign of the old Ford or Wilkins' car. The cottage sat in the shadows, spooky and still. I crouched down and ran up to the front window. Nearly had a heart attack when the security lights flooded the scene. I dove for cover. Nothing happened. I crept back and pressed my ear to the wall. Nothing. No voices. No sounds of music or TV. I peered inside but everything was dark. I ducked and ran along to the next window. That room was dark too. I circled the house, checking out the kitchen, the bedrooms and all three bathrooms. No one was home.

Perfect luck. I worked one of the windows until it slid open. I climbed inside, hauling my backpack with me. A loud beeping almost sent me through the roof. I was so spooked I'd forgotten the alarm! Lucky for me, Wilkins had given me the code so I could come and go. Hands shaking, I punched it in, and the clamor stopped.

I stood in the living room, straining to hear. Nothing. In the stillness I pictured the dead woman standing in the middle of the room, giving me that little wave.

The silence was eerie. I wondered where they all were. It didn't seem like family outings were high on their list. I stuck the baby transmitter into a palm tree in the corner of the living room. Lori-Anne's palm tree. She'd said she was hoping it would grow tall and make her feel like she was on a tropical island.

I shivered, feeling her ghost again. As fast as I could, I crawled back out the window and hightailed it down the lane. I expected to see headlights or hear the purr of Wilkins' car any moment. There was nothing. The crickets cheeped, the frogs croaked and, far off, a coyote yipped. I found my bike and crawled in beside it, careful to pull the bushes back in front of us.

Then I dug the baby monitor and tape recorder out of the backpack and settled down to wait.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

D
arkness fell. I cursed my stupidity. I'd forgotten a jacket. I'd forgotten to eat supper or put on bug spray. Even in September, the little buggers were out in force. I curled my arms around myself and tried to be small while I waited.

The sound of a broken muffler woke me with a start. I peered at my watch: 9:05. The Ford rumbled by me. It was too dark to see inside, but I sat up at attention. I listened as the car growled to a stop and car doors slammed. Distant voices drifted toward me. One girl, one boy. Loud and angry. Good. I pressed the Record button and waited to see if my contraption would work.