Cait woke at seven, rested, hungry, and ready for a run now that she didn’t have Wally to worry about. She slipped on shorts and a T-shirt and then called Shep.
“I was going to call you,” Shep said.
“Good news. Wally’s dead.”
“Hallelujah! And Manning? Has he left town?”
Cait rolled her shoulders to get the kinks out and then curled up on the chaise in the sunny bay window. “That’s where it gets interesting. I don’t know if he’s left yet. He shot Wally yesterday.” She explained how it went down, how Fumié used her martial arts skills to get even with Wally for abducting her, and about the police cuffing Manning and taking him to jail. “Manning was later released.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“They let him off easy. I’d feel the same way if he were the president of the United States. He killed someone. Shooting Wally wasn’t called for. He wouldn’t have gotten away because the police were there.”
“Has he been in touch with you since his release?”
“No, and I hope I never see him again. I assume he went in this morning to sign papers. It angers me to think Manning was given special privileges because he’s a war correspondent. He should pay for killing Wally.”
“You’re right.” He paused. “Manning’s mother called the station this morning. Dispatch forwarded the call to my cell phone.”
Cait sat up on the edge of her seat. “What did she want?”
“Manning called her after midnight to talk to his daughter, but she was in bed.”
“She’s three. Of course she’d be in bed.”
“Mrs. Manning called because his behavior disturbed her. She’s certain he has PTSD, but when she tried to talk to him about it he refused to discuss it.”
“Post-traumatic stress disorder. I knew it!”
“Right. You mentioned it.”
Cait thought back to when she’d first met Manning. Arrogant, smart-ass, but didn’t exhibit signs of PTSD. She later changed her mind after researching the disorder and comparing the symptoms to Manning. “Did she say if he’d been medically diagnosed? A doctor would be obligated to report it. I mean . . . he’s not a soldier but he does report news from the front line and could endanger everyone around him.”
“It doesn’t sound like he’s been seen by a doctor, but a friend recognized the signs and suggested he see someone. Manning was afraid he’d lose his job. Concerned, his friend called Manning’s mother.”
“How long has she known?”
“She said about six months, but remember he’s out of the country a lot. She didn’t want to believe it, but lately he’s been having flashbacks, extreme claustrophobia, and he always positions himself near doors for a fast exit, signs she said he’d never revealed before. She also said he checks under his car before getting in it. It sounds like he fits the disorder.”
“I have to tell Rook right away.”
“I left him a message after I talked with Mrs. Manning. He probably showed some of these signs during his interrogation.”
“Rook knew this before they let him leave?”
“You’d have to ask him. I did a bit of research on PTSD myself and learned that a quarter of war correspondents struggle with this disorder. There are a lot of undetected emotional disorders in the profession, Cait. Policemen and firefighters are also vulnerable because they’re exposed to similar violence every day. It’s part of the job.”
Cait flashed back to when she shot Hank Dillon. Department regulations required her to talk to a professional before she was allowed back on the job. “It might explain why Manning shot Wally in police presence, but I don’t buy it entirely. Wally was on the verge of spilling something about Manning. I wish I knew what.”
“Manning could have been self-medicating with drugs or alcohol to help cover up the disorder.”
“That’s true, but if he had drugs in his system when he was arrested it would have shown up during the whole interrogation process.”
“You might want to ask Detective Rook about that. Cait, don’t let your guard down in case he turns up on your doorstep.”
“That possibility crossed my mind.”
“You take care. One day I’ll come out, play a little golf, see one of your Shakespeare plays, and take you to San Francisco like we talked about.”
“I’ll look forward to it. Thanks, Shep. I’m sure Rook appreciates everything you’ve done to help.”
“Be safe, Cait.”
Cait went downstairs with Niki.
Marcus was at the stove when Cait walked in. “I was going to call if you didn’t come down soon.”
Cait set her gun on the counter. “Why are you here on a Saturday?”
“I thought you might need help with the festival, especially after yesterday.” He set a plate of bacon and toast in front of her. “And I wanted to get back to business as usual without murder on the menu. I’m behind in my work.”
She sat on a stool to eat. “I should give you a new title, something like manager and chef, with a raise to match.”
He set a steaming coffee mug in front of her, reached for a paper towel, and swiped at a spot on the granite counter. “About that raise—”
“I never say anything I don’t mean.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m thinking of going to the ranch to ride.”
She grinned. “Get out of here. Say hi to Bo for me.”
Cait refilled her coffee mug, slipped her cell in her pocket, and went outside. Niki followed her into the meditation garden and then ran off to explore. She sat on the bench and thought about the last twenty-four hours. Wally was out of her life. Sam Cruz would be relieved when she told him he could stop worrying about his actors. And if not for Fumié, Cait might be dead. She set her coffee down and phoned June. “I’m in the garden enjoying my coffee and the sun, and I wanted you and Jim to know Manning was released last night and is probably on his way back to Ohio.”
“He sure caused a lot more trouble than he should have,” June said.
Velcro crawled out from under the bench and jumped into Cait’s lap. “After this weekend, you and Jim should take a week off, go some place fun.”
June laughed. “What’s life without a little zip? By the way, if you’re looking for Niki, he’s with us.”
“Poor Niki. I haven’t given him enough attention.” She held her hand up to shield her eyes from the bright sun. “I’ll get him in a few minutes.” She set her cell on the bench and sipped her coffee.
“Cait?”
She cringed, her heart raced, and she automatically reached for her gun, but it wasn’t there.
Velcro jumped and disappeared into the brush.
Manning stood at the entrance to the garden looking cool and calm dressed in khakis and a bright blue sports shirt under a leather jacket. She rose. “I thought you’d left town.”
“Not until I attend to some unfinished business.” He took a couple of steps into the garden.
She sipped her coffee to appear at ease. “Oh? What business might that be?”
“Seeing you one more time.”
The tiny hairs at the back of her neck tickled. “I thought our business was finished yesterday.”
He took a couple more steps and she noticed his bloodshot eyes. Has he been drinking or is he on meds?
“Are you afraid of me, Cait?”
Stray bits of windblown trash settled at her feet. “Should I be?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re a survivor, Cait,” he said with bitter admiration.
With her gun in the kitchen and her cell phone a stretch away on the bench, fear began to consume her, but her police training allowed her to keep her composure. Did the police return his gun? Where would he get another one without Wally? Tension gave her voice an edge. “You should go to prison for a very long time for killing Wally.”
“You’re a sweetheart, Cait. Can’t help but admire your tenacity. Still”—he shrugged—“it’s time to finish what I came here to do.”
A final piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Manning, not Wally, wanted her dead. He used Wally so he could blame him for her death. This is what Wally was trying to say before he was shot. Manning killed him to shut him up.
He smiled. “Ah, I see you understand. Don’t take it personally, Cait. It was the circumstances we were caught up in.” Then, “Damn you! Damn the police! Trigger-happy, all of you.”
With tightness in her throat, Cait decided the safest course was to go along with him. It might buy time for June to wonder where she was after saying she’d be over to get Niki. The probability of Manning having PTSD was confirmed by his sudden outburst of anger.
His eyes narrowed as he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. He smiled. “It’s just us now. No cops to save you this time.”
A chill ran along her spine. Think of your training. Talk is your weapon when nothing else is available. “Manning, if you’re going to kill me, at least tell me why.”
His eyebrows arched. “Because you killed Hank. He was like a brother.”
“The adoption never went through.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
“I know a lot,” she said. “Give me another reason. You waited two years to come after me. That’s a long time.”
He glared at her.
“Then I’ll tell you. Your dad, an African-American, was shot and killed by a cop. Then I killed Hank. You hate cops. You think I’m a racist. How am I doing?”
His face white as rice paper, his hazel eyes sparked with hate, he jabbed a finger at her. With rage smoldering in his voice, he said, “A cop killed my dad, an innocent man, as he walked out of a grocery store. My dad died on the street like a common criminal.”
Cait felt anger vibrating through his body as he moved closer.
“He was murdered because he was black! Like Hank!” His gun wavered in his shaking hand.
Cait lost track of time and threw everything she had at him. “Tell me about Chip Fallon. Why did you kill him? Because he was white?”
He steadied his gun on Cait. “The guy in the vineyard? That was Wally’s doing. His death was a tragic misfortune.”
“What about Wally’s cousin, John LeBow? More bad luck?”
He shrugged. “A necessary evil. So was the girl’s kidnapping.”
Her skin crawled at the easy way he dismissed murder, as if the victims were insignificant insects. “Why didn’t you kill Fumié?”
“She’s hot. I like Asian women.”
“You’re sick. You used Wally to get to me. Am I the first you and Wally planned to kill, or were there others? How long have you schemed together?”
He laughed. “Schemed together?You don’t send a street punk to do a man’s job. He already had reason to hate you. A little blackmail from me and he was easy.”
“Could have fooled me. He tried to kill me, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“He wanted to play by his own rules and kill you, but I told him not to shoot to kill. That pleasure was going to be all mine.”
“He was vulnerable because of Hank.”
“Most people are vulnerable, Cait.”
She was running out of questions when a phone rang, startling both of them. She knew it wasn’t hers; it didn’t have a tweety ring she’d programmed into it. “You going to get that? Could be important.”
Manning hesitated. He started to reach in his pants pocket for his phone, when Cait tossed her coffee in his face and went for his gun.
Caught off guard, he swiped his face, dropped his phone, gripped his gun, and shoved it hard into Cait’s neck, cutting off her breath. “Stupid bitch!” He ignored the rivulets of coffee running down his face.
Cait gasped, heart pounding.
“This ends now,” he snarled.
A tree branch swayed in the breeze. June or Jim? The police? Cait kept her attention on Manning.
Manning released the pressure on her neck.
Cait shoved him and tried to kick his leg out from under him.
He struggled for balance, his gun wobbling in his hand.
Cait went for it. Both of them went down and rolled in masses of lime thyme. She got her hand on his jacket sleeve, yanked hard, releasing his gun. She dove for it, grabbed it, and struggled to get to her feet. Her ankle turned. She grimaced. Sitting on her rear, she scooted away from Manning and pointed the gun at his chest. “Freeze! I swear I’ll shoot you!”
Manning froze and glared at her.
She gave a warning shot into the air, hoping the Harts would call for help. “Go on,” she hissed, “give me a reason to shoot you, you despicable SOB.”
Rook and RT ran from one side of the house, Perough and Vanicheque from the other side, all with their guns drawn.
She was shocked to see RT, but her twisted ankle along with the fear that Manning could still react and do something she couldn’t control kept her on the ground.
“Manning!” Rook yelled as he came up behind him. “Hands behind your head!”
June and Jim ran to Cait as Rook grabbed Manning’s arms and snapped cuffs on his wrists.
Shoulders slumped, Manning asked, “How did you know?” as Rook and RT pulled him to his feet.
“Your mother,” RT said.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, your mom,” Rook said. “The police in Columbus have been in touch with her. She’s worried about your mental health. That call just now was from her.”
“My mom shouldn’t have been involved.”
“She didn’t have a choice,” Rook said. “You need help.”
RT helped Cait to her feet. “You okay?”
She brushed herself off. “Never felt better.”
A sharp yup-yup-yup echoed overhead. A large bird soared and spiraled on unseen currents.
A golden eagle.