The Watchman Read online

  “Are you trying to rob me of my I-told-you-so moment?” I grinned down at her. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk. Anytime you’re ready. How do you feel?”

  She touched her bandaged head. “I must look a fright.” Pure Goldie to worry about her looks after what she’d been through.

  “On the contrary, the hospital garb becomes you.”

  Chavez stepped to the bedside. “I’m Detective Chavez, Ms. Marks. I spoke to you yesterday, but you were pretty out of it. Do you feel like answering a few questions?”

  She nodded.

  I gave Goldie a stern look. “This time when they release you, go back to Texas with Barbara. Don’t leave until I call you and say it’s safe to come home. That’s an order.”

  She nodded and lay back against the pillows. “I can’t do anything else. I have a broken leg and a busted head––I’ll be homebound forever.”

  Chavez kicked me out of the room while she questioned Goldie.

  As I started to the door, Goldie called me back. “Can we talk...when the detective is finished? I’m afraid Ben might try again and...”

  I gave her a quick nod and left the room.

  A short while later, Chavez called me back in. She closed the door, leaned against it, and spoke to Goldie. “Before I leave, did you get a good look at the man who pushed you off the road? Good enough to describe him to a police artist?”

  Goldie gave a slight shiver. “Yes. I saw his face in my rearview mirror. It wasn’t Ben, but I know he’s behind it. Since I spotted him, my life has turned upside down. My home destroyed and I’ve been shoved off a mountain.”

  “I’ll send an artist by sometime tomorrow,” Chavez said.

  Goldie pulled the cover up to her chin as though suddenly cold. “I’ll do whatever it takes to find him.”

  “Good girl,” Chavez said. “I’ve got to return to the office, but I’ll be in touch.” She motioned for me to follow her.

  “Why does Goldie call you Noah?”

  I gave a nervous laugh. “It’s a pet name. She says I’m trying to save the world.”

  Chavez did the eyebrow thing again, turned, and headed for the elevators.

  I returned to Goldie’s room and moved close to her bedside. “Sure you’re up to talking now? I’ve always got my finger on the trigger, so I’m ready when you are.”

  She forced a smile. “I’m ready.”

  Barbara leaned over and kissed her sister’s cheek. “I’ll see you later, sis.”

  I reached into my inside jacket pocket to retrieve a small black New Testament I kept for just such emergencies. Dragging a chair close, I took her hand, and then turned to Romans 6:23.

  18

  Hebron, Wyoming

  I’d missed a lot of sleep during the two days spent in California. The trip from the airport to my Wyoming mountainside passed in a sleepy fog. Too tired to notice the cold, I started the snowmobile and shushed up the steep terrain. Inside the lodge, I cranked the heat to seventy degrees and fell into bed.

  Fatigue couldn’t hold back the nightmare triggered by the stressful events in California.

  

  A door slams down the hallway and jars me awake.

  Craig is home.

  Shouts begin, followed by a scream and the sharp crack of a revolver. I try to run to my mother, but my legs won’t move. I struggle with the reality of what is happening. Fear spurs me into action, and I scramble out of bed.

  Another door crashes.

  Tommy cries out.

  Another blast.

  He’s coming for me.

  I use the only weapon I have—my invisibility.

  Craig shouts, “Where are you, you little punk? I’m gonna…”

  But I’m already past him down the hall, out the front door, and to the Raineys’ home next door. Again flesh and blood, I plead for them to call an ambulance for my mother and Tommy.

  Through the window of Mr. Rainey’s home, I watch Craig stagger down the street. He waves the gun, curses, calling my name. Sirens fill the cold morning air.

  The Rainey’s try to restrain me, but I break loose and run to my mother’s bedside. Her nightgown covered with blood—her heart pumps thick red liquid from the hole in her chest. I grab a throw pillow and place it over the wound. Somehow I must stop the bleeding. She reaches for my hand and shakes her head. “Tommy…”

  I begin to cry, and she knows.

  “Should have…listened…sorry.” Her hand drops from my grasp.

  I run to Tommy, but he too slipped away into death’s cold grip.

  Both dead—my fault.

  I jarred awake at the jangle of the alarm, my pajamas damp with perspiration. I shook off the dream after a hot shower and cup of coffee. Dressed, I left to keep a doctor’s appointment.

  Just a precaution.

  The noble healer X-rayed the shoulder. “You say you broke your collarbone a week or so ago?”

  “Yeah, a possible fracture. That’s what the EMT told me.”

  “I hate to disagree with a fellow professional, but there must have been a mistake. The bone shows no sign of a break or fracture, and broken bones don’t heal that fast. However, there is something unusual in your bone structure. The density looks abnormal. I’d like to run a series of tests—.”

  “Sorry, Doc. I don’t have time today. Maybe later.”

  He had a gleam in his eye I’d seen before. I’d gotten the same response with every injury sustained since childhood. I’d been discharged from the Marines for a foot so badly fractured that medics said I would be crippled, only to be completely healed a month after leaving the service. The doc’s gaze made me uncomfortable, and I left. I would not go back for those tests, couldn’t risk what they might reveal.

  A cold north wind blew large white flakes across the trail. At least it wasn’t in my face. At the camp, I hurried inside, stoked a healthy fire in the hearth, and then went into the kitchen for a lunch of soup and sandwiches.

  Later, hot cider in hand, I pulled a file from my briefcase and spread the papers on the coffee table. I searched through the police reports Armstrong had given me and reviewed again the statements taken from the country club guests and staff the night of the charity affair.

  The list held no clues. None of the names looked familiar. Abby became upset shortly after she arrived that night. Ben Marshall must have a connection to the club. But in what capacity? A valet, a waiter, a guest? What?

  Pine Hills Country Club wasn’t too far from the retreat. I jerked on my coat and decided to interview the club personnel still employed there. If Marshall attended the event that night, and everything pointed in that direction, could he still be there?

  Long shot, but possible.

  My P.I. license got me inside. The earlier luncheon with Armstrong the day after Christmas helped. The guard remembered me and gave directions to the manager’s office in the main lobby.

  I handed my card to the receptionist. She took it, dialed an extension number, and asked the manager if he would see me. Soon a door opened at the end of the hallway. A short man in a gray wool suit walked toward me. “Mr. Spade, I’m Wilson Arthur. How may I help you?”

  “Do I call you Mr. Wilson or Mr. Arthur?”

  “Just call me Wilson, that’s my first name. People always get that backwards.”

  We walked down the corridor to his office. “Were you the general manager here three years ago?”

  Wilson stopped in mid-stride and raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you’ve come about the Abigail Armstrong matter.” A shadow passed over his face.

  I nodded. “What was it like that night? Anything unusual happen that you can remember? New caterers, extra parking attendants, et cetera?”

  “Yes to both questions. We held a charity function here, and the Chamber of Commerce had its awards banquet, as it does every year.”

  We reached the office. He opened the door, stepped aside for me to enter and pointed me to a chair by the window.

  I took the proffered seat. �
��Did the police check out the extra help you used that evening?”

  Wilson moved to his desk and leaned against the corner. “I assume so. They asked for a list of the regular staff, the temporary help, and caterers, as well as a list of all our members.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Armstrong?”

  “Yes, quite well. She came here often for lunch. Her disappearance was a terrible, personal blow.”

  “Did you see her that night?”

  He stood and walked to the large window overlooking a frozen fountain, framed by a backdrop of snow-covered cedars and white peaked mountains. Wilson turned back to me. “Yes, for a few minutes. Things were chaotic with the various functions in progress. Just before Abigail left, I met her walking toward me in the hallway—face white as a blank canvas. She looked ill. I called to her, but she appeared not to hear and returned to the ballroom. I should have followed her.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the passageway?”

  Wilson nodded. “A man stood at the end of the hall, his back toward me. I didn’t recognize him, but he was a large man with dark hair.”

  “When you say large, do you mean overweight, tall...?”

  “Tall, about your height, definitely not fat, muscular was the sense I got, although I couldn’t really tell.”

  “Did you get the impression he was a club member or one of the employees?”

  “Definitely not one of the staff. He wore a black tuxedo.”

  “Thank you, Wilson. I appreciate that you made time for me in your schedule. Anything else you remember about that night?”

  He shook his head and his mouth drew into a grim line. “Perhaps I should have done more to help her, asked questions. I’ve dealt with all the recriminations you feel when you lose a friend.”

  I asked a few more questions, to confirm what was in the reports and left. He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know, except the man in the hallway could have been Abigail’s killer. Possibly, Ben Marshall.

  Back at the Jeep, I drove to the mountain’s base for the ride home. Chill seeped through ankle-deep powder and slipped into the top of my boots as I trudged to the snowmobile. I hopped aboard leaving a trail a blind man could follow. The weather worsened and despite the extra layers of clothes I’d added, the twenty-minute trip felt like an eternity before the lodge peeked over the ridge.

  After my short tour in Iraq, I didn’t like to complain. A hundred and twenty in the shade gave me a real appreciation for long Wyoming winters, but I still hated the cold.

  Once inside and warm, I took out the box of snapshots Goldie had given me, sorted through the collection, and scrutinized each one. I checked for dates and notations on the backs and then stacked them neatly back into the box.

  It’s a depressing business to look at photographs of a beautiful woman and child who died out of season. The keepsakes featured poses almost entirely of Joey. A sad-faced, little kid with a cute sprinkle of freckles. He appeared fragile and delicate, like his mother. There were a few shots of Abby and Joey at the zoo and at Disneyland. Even in what should have been happy occasions, the smiles never reached their eyes.

  At the bottom of the pile, I found a silver frame with a portrait of the boy—smudges on the surface. In my mind’s eye, I could see Abby weeping after the death of her son as she held the photo—the sorrow almost palpable.

  A heartbreaking, but true fact––life has never been fair.

  The musical sounds of the National Anthem shattered my reverie. Startled, I jumped to answer the call and the silver frame bounced from my lap and crashed against the hardwood floor. I ignored the busted glass and hurried across the room to grab my cell.

  Amos’s voice filled the line.”I have good news.”

  I lumbered back to the bed and sat on the side. “Great, I can use it.”

  “The faxed photo of Marshall should be here today. The chief wants this case moved to the top of the pile. He’s somewhat embarrassed about the way we handled the situation in the past.” He chuckled. “This means we move you to the bottom.”

  “I guess it’s too much to hope you locals would take me off the radar completely.”

  “One thing at a time. I only perform one miracle a day. The good news is, they haven’t caught you yet. The bad news is, the FBI still wants you to lead them to Rachel and Cody.”

  I growled. “Did you call to cheer me up?”

  He chuckled. “You OK up there? Need food or wood pellets?”

  “I’m fine. If I’d been forced to bring supplies in on the runabout, it would have been tricky. But the pantry is stocked to the rafters. The lodge also has a Sno-Cat I’ve been tempted to use because it’s enclosed. But it’s also a hundred times slower than the snow jet. So far, I’ve managed to resist the urge.”

  After the conversation ended, I pushed the end call button and returned to clean up my mess. I searched the laundry room and found a broom and dustpan. Overhead lights twinkled on the broken glass like stars in the galaxy. I removed the photo and frame from the debris and placed them on the bed. I swept up the glass shards and dumped them into the trash bin.

  When I picked up Joey’s portrait, it appeared thicker than normal. A side view revealed another piece of cardboard stuck behind it. Over time, the photographs had sandwiched together and melded into one. A hurried search of the desk produced a letter opener, and I used it to gently separate the two. After the surgical removal, I gazed at a family portrait of Abigail, Joey, and Ben Marshall.

  My skin felt clammy, and I almost tripped over my feet in haste to call Amos back. “I need you to meet me in Sally Benedetti’s office. I’ve discovered something extraordinary.”

  His voice took on a puzzled tone. “Sure, but do you think that’s wise? I just told you we still have your mug on the department’s desperately-seeking list.”

  My confidence soared. “Not to worry, my friend. I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”

  He mumbled something about my sanity and hung up.

  I called Sally.

  After layering on my travel gear, I placed a hundred-dollar bill in an envelope and displayed it prominently on the kitchen table, with a note to replace the food I’d used. Pastor Miller would forgive me when I explained the circumstances.

  Climbing aboard the snowmobile wasn’t a problem this time. By the grace of God, this would be my final ride down that cold, forbidding mountain.

  Before the meeting with Sally and Amos, I made a detour across town.

  

  At the crime lab, I hurried to Sally Benedetti’s office. She sat at her desk, a beautiful Irish lass with auburn hair, freckles, and sapphire blue eyes. I had told Amos Sally liked me, and she did, but not as much as she liked her handsome Italian husband. Sally had two kids in grade school and a Marine spouse stationed in Afghanistan.

  We chatted until Amos hurried through the door, a breakfast sandwich in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

  I glanced at Sally’s computer screen. “Those Ben Marshall’s fingerprints on the screen?”

  She nodded. “Just like you asked.”

  Amos looked over my shoulder. “What are we looking for?”

  I held up my hand. “Be patient. You won’t believe what you’re about to see.”

  I’d asked Sally to compare a partial set of prints I’d brought with me. The screen flashed and the other prints overlaid the first ones.

  Sally gasped. “It’s a fifteen-point match. Who would ever believe this?”

  “Whose prints are those?” Amos asked.

  With a broad smile, I explained. “Judge Harry London is Ben Marshall, murderer, escaped convict, Abigail Armstrong’s first husband, and Rachel London’s current one.”

  Amos’s mouth dropped open. “Where’d you get London’s prints, and who’s the guy who died in San Quentin?”

  “The second set of prints came from a coffee mug in London’s office. As to the dead guy at Quentin, it couldn’t have been anyone but Ralph Jensen. He and Marshall were the
same size, and only one convict turned up missing after the riot. That’s the only conclusion that makes sense.”

  Amos pulled up a chair and sat down with a thump. “You went into London’s office? How’d you get the cup without being caught?”

  I grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I guess this clears you and may even let Rachel London off the hook.”

  I gave Amos the Marshall family picture.

  Sally copied both sets of prints and handed them to him. She looked across at me. “Where is the real Harry London?”

  That question had also occurred to me. “I don’t know. But as soon as I get my hands on Marshall, I’m going to find out.”

  There was more to that statement than Sally and Amos would ever know.

  I leaned against the wall of Sally’s cubicle and couldn’t keep the grin off my face. “Do you want to get the arrest warrant issued? That just might get you a promotion and a raise.”

  Amos stuffed the prints and photo into his inside coat pocket and his lips spread into a broad smile. “You bet I do. I only know about two judges and one D.A. who would sell their mother for the privilege.”

  I flipped my cell phone open and called Rachel.

  After I explained the Marshall/London connection, the phone went silent for a moment.

  “I—I can’t believe it. Are you sure? Is it really over? I can take Cody home?”

  “I’m sure, Rachel. The police are on the way to get a warrant issued for Ben at this very moment. He should be in custody within the hour. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.

  “The jailbreak charges against you still stand, but I’ll call Jake. Let’s see what he can do before you return to Hebron.”

  I hung up, two calls still needed to be made. One to Jake and one to Lincoln Armstrong.

  They were going to love this.

  19

  Hand Me Down Ranch

  The ranch loomed clean and pristine when I arrived New Year’s Day.