The Survivors Club (21 page)

CHAPTER 39

After meeting the guy who would be doing some minor repairs on her house, Tess drove into town for lunch. She spotted Jaimie Wolfe’s truck near the post office. Couldn’t miss it because of the silhouette of the horse and rider clearing a jump, and the name of her stable on it. Jaimie was stapling a poster to a telephone pole. Tess walked over. “Your dog missing?”

Jaimie had been crying. She was disheveled and her clothes looked slept-in. She swiped at her nose. “Yes. My dog is missing.”

“Bandit?”

Jaimie’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you know?”

Tess nodded to the poster. “That’s the only Australian shepherd you’ve got. Right?”

Jaimie said, “That’s right.” She added, “If you see her, let me know.”

She got into her truck and drove off.

Jaimie had called Bandit a “her.”

After a nap, the watcher woke up hungry. He had a blinding headache and needed to eat something. The diner in Patagonia was pretty good, and he was thinking biscuits and gravy.

He drove into Patagonia and parked across from the post office.

Surprise surprise, Jaimie Wolfe was stapling posters to the telephone poles.

He became aware that someone else was watching her.

He had a well-developed sixth sense. He could feel it when there was, for want of a better term, involvement from another party. Even if he didn’t expect it, and in this situation he did. He could feel it as if someone had taken a comb and gently rippled the hair on his arms.

The other watcher had turned in a few minutes ago and parked near the old railroad depot.

He squinched his eyes against the light, which at this time of day was so bright it hurt to see.

The other watcher was a woman cop.

He’d seen her before, at George Hanley’s funeral.

He’d even talked to her.

Now he watched her watch Jaimie Wolfe stapling flyers to telephone poles.

The cop walked over and had a short conversation with her, then went back to her vehicle.

Jaimie got into her truck and drove off.

He followed her at a discreet distance as she roamed the two or three streets that made up the south side of Patagonia, and the two or three streets that made up the north side of Patagonia. That’s what he assumed. Today was Poster-Put-Up Day. It was the day when a grieving Jaimie Wolfe would obsess on something smaller than the death of her brother in California.

Her little brother, Chad.

He knew that it was easier to focus on something smaller—bite-size. Easier to do something than just stay home and mourn.

She should thank him. Losing the dog was akin to therapy.

Tess had lunch, but she wasn’t very hungry. She was thinking about the DeKoven family and how to crack them.

Go for the most vulnerable.
That would be Jaimie. While she drank coffee she tried to figure out the best way to approach her.

Walking back to her vehicle, she called Danny to see how Theresa and Elena were doing.

“Great on all counts. I can’t believe she’s here.”

Tess smiled at the sound of his voice. He was trying to sound normal, but he seemed to be bursting at the seams with good feeling.

“So they’re both doing great?”

“Better than great! You need to come over here and see her.”

“Tell me when and I’ll be there.”

“Maybe later this afternoon? Wait till you see her. She’s the most beautiful baby girl in the world.”

“I expected as much,” Tess said.

Danny said, “Pat Scofield called me.”

“She did? I thought she dropped off the planet.”

“I had some downtime while Theresa was sleeping, so I went over there earlier.”

He told her about the son-in-law driving by, how Pat had been rattled by it.

“She’s afraid of this man?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s terrified. Why don’t we meet over there and talk to her?”

Tess met Danny outside the Scofield house. Their car was parked out front, not yet garaged.

Bert Scofield answered the door. He didn’t look happy to see them. His expression said plainly, “Again?”

“We’d like to talk to you about your father-in-law,” Danny said.

Bert stepped back—reluctantly. “Come out on the back terrace. Pat’s knitting and she likes being out there.”

They walked through the small house. Tess noted several framed photos on the fireplace mantel—one might have been Pat’s sister. Pat’s hair was faded blonde, but this woman’s hair was dark. The studio picture was many years old—a portrait of the young bride with her bridesmaids.

Tess noticed there was no photo of the bride and groom.

They followed him out to the patio. It was tiny, with a high wall. Pat sat near a round glass table, her knitting bag at her feet. When she saw Tess she said, “Have you found out who killed Dad?”

“Not yet. You mind if we sit down?”

“Sure. Please.” She sat forward, her knitting forgotten. She looked at Danny. “First he drove down this street…”

Bert blew air through his pursed lips, did everything to show his exasperation but roll his eyes.

“Bert, you know I saw him!” she turned back to Tess. “He thinks I’m being silly. But it was like a goose walked over my grave. And after what we’ve been through with Dad…” She started to tear up.

Tess said, “Why are you afraid of your brother-in-law?”

“He’s a bad person.”

“He’s not a bad person, Pat,” Bert said. “You just got off on the wrong foot with him. He’s a good guy.”

Tess kept her concentration on Pat. “Why is he a bad person?”

“He was cruel to my sister, Karen. Mean. He’d
do
things, mean little things, like undermine her in front of other people. It was just the way he acted. But when he talked to us, he was nice as pie. Friendly, you know? Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I only saw that side of him with Karen.”

“Pat, you’re painting a pretty ugly picture here. Besides, he lives in California and we haven’t seen him in over ten years.”

“I saw him, Bert! I saw him slow down and drive by. Maybe he found out that Dad was dead and it brought him here.”

Tess asked, “Did they not get along?”

“Oh, they got along great! Even though I think Wade was using him. My dad had a soft spot for him, I guess because they worked together for so long. But Karen said he has a mean temper. And once I saw it. Just for a minute. They were at a party at our house and he was holding her hand. Just leaning over her. She’d gone in to get something—a drink, maybe—from the fridge, and I was coming in with some dirty plates, and he was holding onto her hand and it looked like he was crushing it. She looked up and called my name. And he just relaxed his hand and smiled at me without a by-your-leave. But I know he hated me. And you, too, Bert. He didn’t think much of you, either.”

Bert shook his head and wandered away.

Tess said, “He was good friends with your dad, though?”

“Yes. But I got the feeling Dad cut him off after what happened to Karen. Like he didn’t think Wade cared enough. And that was true. Wade got married not six months later.”

“You think he victimized her?”

Pat wiped at a tear. “I
know
he victimized her.”

Tess asked her how Karen died. She told her about the convenience store, the robber in the ski mask. How she was shot. “Poor Karen. She was such a great sister. I can’t stand to think of it. And I know
he
didn’t make her life any better.” She added bitterly, “And I don’t think he mourned the loss of her child either. She was five months pregnant.”

Tess held Pat’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry.”

“You know, maybe I’m being silly. Wade Poole wouldn’t come by here. He doesn’t care about us. We’re old business. He lives in California. That’s what Dad said.”

She asked again about the progress they were making, and Tess had to tell her it wasn’t much. “But we’re working on it. We’ll do our best to find whoever killed him and bring that person to justice.”

The words sounded empty in her mouth. Because she was no closer to finding his killer, and neither was Danny.

“I thought it was a Mexican cartel—that’s what a friend of Bert’s thinks. The…way he was…” She put her hand to her mouth. “I can’t think about that.”

Tess said, “He died quickly.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know. I’ve seen lots of people killed.”

She saw the recognition in Pat’s eyes.

“You’re sure?”

Tess nodded. “I’m sure.”

He’d been dead before he hit the ground.

As Tess and Danny left the house, Tess said, “I wonder what was going on between George Hanley and Wade Poole.”

“You think he’s in the area then?” Danny said.

“You heard her. She was sure it was him. Remember what was written on his calendar? Wading Pool. Maybe that was his nickname for Wade Poole.”

“Weird, but possible.”

CHAPTER 40

The next morning was Michael’s regular bike riding day. It was a beautiful spring day, and shaken as he was, he did not deviate from his routine. Lately, his favorite ride was up the mountain to Kitt Peak Observatory west of Tucson, out on the Indian reservation. He thought of it as the Indian reservation, because that’s what his father called them. The Indians there now called themselves Tohono O’odham, which meant something positive (he couldn’t remember what), but Michael liked the old name Papago. That was the name he’d grown up with. Papago meant bean eaters. In his opinion, the Papago people were like every other minority: overly sensitive. Like they thought they were owed something just because they were called racial epithets and got handouts from the federal government.

It was a perfect day. Clear and bright, with deep blue skies. Michael needed to think, and he did his best thinking alone on his bike. He liked the twelve-mile trip up the mountain from the valley floor for a number of reasons. One was the lack of car traffic. Hardly anyone drove up there from late morning on, especially at this time of year, unless there were tours. Most of the observatory’s visitors drove up at night, when they could take the tours and look through the telescopes at the stars. The road was steep and winding and he liked to push himself. His personal best was forty-eight minutes, but he always strove to beat it. Riding cleared his mind. Every time he reached the top, he felt triumphant. And the ride down was like a video game—pure speed in places, places where he could corner like a Porsche. Thrills and chills.

He took the 4Runner, fitted with a top-of-the-line bike rack. He brought a change of clothes and wore his bike togs—wearing the same jersey he always wore, the orange jersey with a Beechcraft Baron 58 twin-engine plane silhouetted against a yellow sun he’d had designed specially for himself and his brother and sisters. Even though they didn’t ride, Chad, Jaimie, and Brayden all had jerseys with the Beechcraft on it.

Above the plane were the words “The Survivors Club.”

Because that was what they were. Survivors.

Every time he pulled it on, he thought of Dad and his last moments in the Beechcraft Baron.

He thought: Got you back, you fucking bastard.

He took 86 west toward Ajo, the mountain ahead of him. Hardly any traffic after he got past the town of Three Points on the res. He was waved through a checkpoint by the Border Patrol. In his rearview mirror, he noticed how the traffic had thinned out, just one vehicle way back. Probably a Papago’s ranch truck, like the white one behind him at the last traffic light out of town. He turned left onto State Route 386 and took an immediate right into the dirt parking area where cyclists left their cars. Two other cars with bike racks had been parked there ahead of him; he’d probably see cyclists coming down. The cars were both older than his and cheap. He parked far enough away that they wouldn’t ding him coming out, and changed into his Sidi bike shoes before unloading his most recent purchase, a Pinarello FPTeam Carbon—one gorgeous bike. He filled up his jersey pockets with gel packs and Clif bars and a hero sandwich from Santaria Mike’s—plenty of carbs.

He locked up just as a white truck turned off 86 and took 386 toward the mountain. Could be the same one. A work truck—certainly not top-of-the-line. Maybe it wasn’t a Papago’s truck—could belong to somebody working up at the observatory. He sped to catch up with it, hoping he could draft on the truck for fun. Almost got to him, but then the truck spurted away.

Fuck him.

Oh, well—it was a perfect day. There were no other cars.

Riding was pure application and striving for a personal best. But Michael soon realized that his mind was wandering. Wandering back to their family cottage in Laguna Beach, to Chad.

Hard to believe Chad was dead.

As he rode, as he pushed himself up the steep hills—hard—up out of the saddle, pounding out the rhythm on the pedals, he could feel something solid and small walling itself off inside his chest. Like a tiny nut.

He recognized it, because he’d lived with it as a kid. He’d lived with it every time his father turned his evil eye on him. As a kid, he’d read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and he could picture his father’s avid eye turned on him now, could almost see the laser ray, what he called the Eye of Mordor.

His father had done unspeakable things to him—and worse, made him like it.

Made him crave it.

No wonder he was bi. You gravitated to what you were used to.

But the feeling he had wasn’t about his father. He’d fixed his father. His father wasn’t around to fuck with him now. He’d burned to death in the plane crash in the Pinaleños.

But Michael was still afraid. He still felt that hard little nut of worry.

There was no reason for anyone to kill Chad.

As he pushed up the steepest part, getting into the rhythm, his lungs burning, his calves and thighs straining, the tiny nut in his heart gripped hard:

Dread.

The words formed in his head, as he pushed one pedal down and the other pedal came up, back and forth, back and forth.

Alec Sheppard.

Maybe he was paranoid. Sheppard might be long gone, back to Houston. But who else knew about Michael’s trip there? He’d shot the finger gun at him.

Sheppard hadn’t forgotten that. He’d hired Barkman to look into it, and he probably had whatever information Barkman had given him. Probably.

One thing, though—the two female detectives had nothing, if you went by their fishing expedition of the other day. He was pretty sure of that. He could read people well, and they were floundering. The two of them.

But Sheppard was different. Michael had read up on him, targeted him, and one reason he’d gone after Sheppard was because Sheppard was a star. He was a worthy foe. Michael had assigned Brayden to slap the tag on Sheppard, but at the last minute, Michael had decided to do it himself. He’d wanted to see what the man was like. And Alec Sheppard was impressive.

Impressive enough to kill? Few people could do it. Few people had the resolve when it came right down to it. But he had felt it when he slapped the tag on. It had resonated like a tuning fork—the power in this man. He knew about powerful people. He was a powerful person. He’d loved and hated power all this life.

Did Sheppard have it in him to kill Chad? Did he have the ability, the knowledge, to kill him with a chokehold?

Michael didn’t know for sure, but he thought that it was entirely possible that Sheppard had come here to even the score.

He made it to the top, winded but happy. Shaved off ten seconds—a new personal best. He liked it up here.

Today, though, there were a lot of tourists milling around the gift shop and walking on the winding road that went up to the telescopes. They’d come off a tour bus.

Usually, the place was almost spooky in a quaint way. Michael had always loved the reruns of the scary movies of the fifties. His father kept a video library of them, and later, upgraded to DVDs. This place was right out of
The Day the Earth Stood Still
.
Klaatu barado nikto
. Red brick buildings, all dating to the fifties and sixties. The large white domes of the telescopes like mushrooms popping up on a hill. At any minute he expected to hear an air raid siren. Any minute he expected to see giant crickets coming up over the hill waving twelve-foot-high antennae.

It was a nice spot on top of a mountain.

He found a place under an oak tree and ate his lunch.

The tour bus engine started up. People funneled through the gates in the bus’s direction. People were mostly herd animals. Michael respected the cyclists who came up here, but tourists rubbed him the wrong way.

He ate slowly, soaking in the sunshine. He wanted to give the bus some time to clear before he headed down. A couple of vehicles came by. A truck and a Jeep Cherokee, both white. He balled up the sandwich paper and found a garbage can. The bus lumbered out. Time to ride down.
The best part
. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about Sheppard.

The guy was in his head.

He knew it was most likely he was imagining things. Sheppard had sold a thriving business. He had started another one and it was doing well—Michael had read up him. Sheppard might have come down here to see Barkman, but what did he know, really?

Maybe someone had just rolled Chad and killed him in doing so.

But Michael knew that Chad hadn’t been rolled. He didn’t carry money when he surfed. No one had taken his board.

He got on the bike and started down.

Behind him he heard the start of an engine—probably a truck. Glad at least he’d gotten in front of him so he didn’t have to follow him all the way down the mountain.