Bitter Recoil

Chapter 33

A thousand hands hoisted us out of the shaft. The ground under my feet was hard and firm-with nothing hanging over my head but the night sky.

“Be careful with the child,” someone said. Her eyes were tightly closed, with her arms drawn up tightly to her chest and her fists balled under her chin.

I struggled to my feet and saw Nolan Parris. The priest was trying to reach the child, trying to push his way past the medical team and the assisting cops. His face was as white as his Roman collar and his eyes wide with concern for the child…but he was heading for disaster.

“Parris!” I shouted at him. He jerked up and saw me. I wrenched my arm away from someone and staggered toward the priest. I caught him by the shirtfront and for a minute we both executed a slow, clumsy dance as I tried to keep my balance.

I shook Parris until he was looking me in the eye.

“Listen!” I shouted at him and then I lowered my voice. “Listen to me. Now’s not the time. You’re a stranger to her, just like the rest of us.”

“But I…”

I shook him, but it was a damn feeble shake. “Stay out of their way. She’s in good hands. And you’re not going to be able to just walk back into her life. She doesn’t know you. You’ll make matters worse.” He turned in my grip and watched the medics bundle the little girl toward the medivac helicopter.

Hell, I knew what he wanted. He’d made up his mind and now wanted to make up for four lost years. But he had no idea how tough that road was going to be. The little girl wasn’t going to run into his arms, shouting, “Daddy, Daddy!” I figured she’d had her fill of adults for a while. If I’d been her, I’d have wanted to stay catatonic for about a month until I sorted life out.

Camera lights bathed the helicopter as the reporters got what they had come for. A little, helpless, battered child made damn good copy.

I could see Nolan Parris wasn’t going to do anything stupid, and I released my hold on him. “Help me over to the chopper. We’ll ride into the hospital with her.”

***

Twenty hours later Pat Tate answered the telephone for me. I was standing in front of the small mirror that hung over the nightstand in my hospital room, trying to manipulate the electric shaver so I didn’t hack my chin wattles to pieces. Even over the buzz of the razor, I heard the caller’s ranting and knew right away who it was.

“You betcha,” Sheriff Tate said. He nodded and repeated himself, then added, “Here he is.” He held out the receiver, and I set the razor down.

“Holman?”

“Himself.”

Posadas County Sheriff Martin Holman was pissed. I got in the first word.

“Yup,” I said into the phone and the tirade began.

“What the hell is going on up there with you?” he shouted, and I held the receiver away from my ear. Tate grinned, tapped his watch, and mouthed that he’d be back in a few minutes. Holman was still barking, and I let him roll on until he lost some momentum.

“My God, all I see in the papers and on television is your mug, and for Christ’s sakes you don’t even work for them.”

“Those are the breaks,” I said.

Holman almost choked, and I listened to him cough for a minute before he got control. “Do you know how many times I’ve called?”

“No, sir,” I said. He was twenty years my junior, but what the hell. He signed my paychecks. “No one told me you’d called.”

“Three times yesterday,” Holman barked. He really was angry. “Three goddamned times. And shit…four times today, at least.”

“Sorry about that. Things were hectic though.” Pat Tate must have been having fun. And the son of a gun never had told me.

“They said you were asleep.”

“The docs wouldn’t let anyone in to see me. They were worried about me combining exhaustion with coronary stress.”

“Coronary stress, hell. You’ve got the next best thing to a new one. No one can kill you.” His tone modulated a little. “They could have at least told you I called.”

“I’m sure they were planning on it.” I saw an opening and took it. “And Estelle is doing well. I thought you might like to hear that.”

“I know that,” Holman said. “I talked with her husband. More than once,” he added pointedly. “He says she’s going to recover fully.”

“Yes.”

“So how the hell did you piece together that this character was wanted in Washington? Talk about grandstanding heroics. Jesus.”

“I didn’t piece it together. He saw an old newspaper I’d kept after we got the APB earlier this month. He thought I had nailed him.”

“You mean you hadn’t made the connection?”

“Nope. I was as stupid as everyone else.”

“Everyone is saying you did.”

“Nope. Dumb luck.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. And he was in New Mexico when the murders took place in Washington…that’s what Tate said earlier.”

“That’s right. He sent a friend back to Washington…a kid that lived with him. Slipped in, shot the governor and warden, slipped back out.”

“Hell, he could as easily have ended up down here in Posadas, Bill. Right in our backyard.”

“They have to end up somewhere. Pat Tate got lucky.”

“And he was a nut case? That’s what Tate said.”

“In and out. We haven’t had a chance to really sort everything out with the cops from Washington State, but from what they told us over the phone, Finn was treated at one of the state hospitals there about five years before. And he was treated as an outpatient on occasion before and after that. He and his younger sister used to run a fundamentalist church of sorts.”

“He was a preacher?”

“Sort of. Fire-and-brimstone stuff. Eye for an eye. He was arrested once for assault, but that was tossed out. Apparently he managed to keep the lid on until his little sister was killed in a women’s correctional facility a year ago.”

“His sister?”

“Yes. A young woman named Ruth Tolever. She was arrested for something Finn contended she never did. She was killed during an altercation before she could be sprung on bail. The fight had nothing to do with her, they’re telling us…she just got caught in it. That set Finn off. He blamed the whole system.”

“He took his time, if revenge was what he had in mind.”

“A planner,” I said. “And the son of a bitch wasn’t one of those nuts who wants to be caught. He moved down here, planning all the time what he was going to do. Hooked up with his young friend and found Arajanian was an apt pupil.”

“And the little girl? The TV men sure had a field day with that story.”

“As near as we can figure from what Washington tells us, Finn probably saw the little girl as a replacement for his sister…that’s my guess. Maybe he really did love Cecilia Burgess. She was going to have his kid. Maybe he just kept her around so he could keep Daisy. We may never know for sure.”

“One cold bastard.” Holman fell silent for a minute. “He had his pal kill all those kids in the truck.”

“That’s the way it looks. The one kid lived, and from what he’s told Pat Tate, that’s what happened. Since revenge worked in Washington State he probably figured it’d work here, too.”

Holman grunted. “So, how are you?”

“All right. Bruised and tired.”

“When are you heading back?”

I chuckled. “By the end of the week, I guess. Not before. I want to stick around to make sure Estelle’s on the mend and doesn’t need anything. And they haven’t brought my Blazer back yet either.”

“My house burned down, you know.”

“I know. Bob Torrez told me. Did you find the key to my place all right?”

“We’re staying at the Essex Motel.”

“For God’s sakes, Martin, what for? Get the goddamned key and use my house.”

Sheriff Pat Tate had stepped into the room. I grinned at him and looked heavenward. Holman said, “Well, I don’t know…and it was arson. To cover up a robbery.”

“No shit? Bob didn’t say anything about that.”

“Hell no. We didn’t know until yesterday. I was going to tell you, but they’d never put me through to you. How could I?”

“What was taken?”

“The usual stuff. My stereo, some guns, pottery, a couple rugs. Stuff like that.”

“Any leads?”

“None yet. I was kinda hoping you’d be back so I could go over some things with you.”

“End of the week for sure. Any other messages?”

“No. Well, wait a minute.” He shuffled papers. “Your daughter in Flint called. But she said it wasn’t important. You’re supposed to call her when you can. I think she saw something on television and got worried.”

“Fine. Anything else?”

Holman laughed, his usual good mood returning. “I feel like I’m being dismissed.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said, although I had. “I got company, is all, and we got a meeting with about eight different law agencies from Washington…and the feds.”

“Better you than me,” Holman said. “End of the week, then. Give my best to Estelle and Francis. And tell Tate that you don’t work for him.”

“I’ll do that.” We hung up and I repeated Holman’s message to Tate.

“By the time we’re through with all the paperwork and all the meetings, you’ll think that you do, kid,” Tate said.