Phil Taylor’s house was a large two-storey structure. It was located in Stayton’s most exclusive residential neighborhood. His neighbors included the mayor, both of the town’s lawyers and its only judge, the doctor, and, at the end of the street, the Lockhart family, whose mansion was the largest house in town and one of the largest houses in the entire state of Oregon.
Taylor’s father had built the house for his second son shortly before Phil’s marriage to Amelia Lockhart, the youngest daughter of the town’s most prominent citizen. The Taylors and the Lockharts had been closely associated for more than two decades, and what brought them together was the lumber industry. It had made both families very rich, although the Lockharts’ fortune was substantially larger than that of the Taylors. The relationship had been mutually beneficial, and so it made sense for the families to intermarry.
Apart from the servants who worked in the homes there, the street where Phil Taylor lived was rarely visited by the locals. That was the way Taylor and his neighbors liked it. It added to the feeling of exclusivity that they cherished.
The back yards of each of the homes on Water Street were bordered by the Santiam River. Taylor stood on the grass above the river, gazing down on the rippling water and smoking his pipe. He had his pistol in the holster on his hip, and a loaded shotgun leaned against a tree a few yards away. If the killer was going to come for him, Phil Taylor didn’t plan on going down easily.
Every door and window in the house was locked. This was a new custom in the Taylor house, but Taylor had ordered the maid to see to it four days before, and he found himself double-checking every night before he went to bed. The only way someone would get into his house was by breaking a window or kicking in a door, which Taylor hoped would give him time to grab a gun and defend himself. Whoever was killing the men at the mill—the men who had been involved in murdering Steve Karner—wouldn’t be able to slip into the house without being detected.
Taylor wasn’t a paranoid man by nature, and he realized that the vengeance killer might not even be aware of his brother’s involvement in the plot to kill Steve Karner. But Pete was no longer around, and if the killer did know of his involvement, Phil reckoned he might be the most convenient target.
He tapped out the dottle in his pipe against the side of a tree and then put the pipe in his pocket. He rubbed a hand down his face and silently cursed his brother for getting him into this situation. His own knowledge of the plot to kill Karner was murky. Pete had told him very little, and he had only shared the information with Phil because he was drunk. He had told him that someone had given him $5,000 to have Steve Karner killed. He said he had found three men to do it, and that two others had volunteered to help. He told Phil who the men were, but he refused to say who it was who had hired him to set the entire thing up.
It was gambling that had gotten Pete Taylor mixed up in the entire mess to begin with. Pete had been a compulsive gambler his entire adult life, to the point where his father had cut him off. Pete was always short of money, and always having trouble with the unsavory types he associated with in the gambling halls and saloons he frequented. His heavy drinking had only exacerbated his problems.
Phil Taylor sighed, cursing his brother under his breath. Pete was three years older, but he had always been the irresponsible one. Phil had been forced many times over the years to intervene on Pete’s behalf with their parents. It was as if Pete was a whirlpool, and he always found a way to pull Phil into it. This, though, was unlike any trouble Pete had been in before. And it threatened to harm Phil, or even get him killed, if his suspicions were correct.
It was thoroughly dark out now, with nary a star to be seen in the cloudless sky. The yard where Taylor stood ended at a steep embankment above the river. A thick tangle of large tree roots projected down into the water. Taylor’s thoughts were interrupted by his wife’s voice.
‘Phil,’ she called.
He turned and saw her standing on the back porch. She was silhouetted by lights inside the house.
‘Yes, dear?’ he said.
‘Everything all right?’
He smiled. ‘Everything’s fine. I’ll be in in a couple of minutes. Just wanted to take in some air.’
She returned his smile. ‘Good. I was starting to get worried. If you want some of that pie, there’s plenty left over from last night.’
‘I’ll be wanting some more—if you don’t eat it all before I come in.’
She laughed and waved, then turned back into the house. He heard the door close behind her.
He breathed in the air, smelling the river. He could see her moving behind the curtains in the dining room. Then a sound caught his attention and he pivoted back toward the riverbank. He drew a sharp breath as he looked toward the water, not quite believing what he was seeing.
A dark shape was moving up the tree roots toward him. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward, and suddenly the shape leapt up onto the bank and a wet hand gripped his throat as his mind struggled to comprehend what was happening to him. Taylor tried to scream, but the words wouldn’t come, in part because of the fingers enclosed around his neck, and in part because of sheer, intense terror. A man had climbed out of the river and now held Phil Taylor in a vice-like grip. Taylor’s hand moved down toward the pistol on his hip, but it was already too late.…
Marshal Ethan Bursofsky was dead tired as he slid his foot into a stirrup and pulled himself up into his saddle in the circular driveway in front of Edward Lockhart’s mansion.
He had hoped to get some insights into the murders of the mill workers, but the old man seemed as baffled by the crimes as the marshal himself was. He suggested that there was a madman loose in Stayton, murdering at random. Bursofsky wasn’t convinced. When their meeting came to an end, Bursofsky paused in the foyer before heading out onto the marble steps in front of the house.
Coming down the stairs toward him was Tom Lockhart, one of the patriarch’s twin sons. The young Lockhart grinned and waved toward the marshal. He was a small man, approaching thirty years old, with dark brown hair and spectacles. Unlike the Taylor boys, whose father was the second-richest man in the Stayton area, Lockhart wasn’t known for putting on airs. If anything, he was one of the most widely liked men in town, with a quiet, friendly demeanor, and a reputation for fairness toward his employees at the Lockhart mill. This was in stark contrast to his twin brother, Paul, who was as surly and arrogant as Tom was easy going. Bursofsky saw no sign of Paul.
‘Evening, Marshal,’ Tom said genially. ‘What brings you by?’
‘I wanted to have a talk with your pa,’ Bursofsky said.
‘What about?’
‘The killings that have been taking place.’
Tom Lockhart’s face darkened. ‘Yes, I’ve heard about them, of course. Everybody’s talking about it. You got any idea what it’s all about?’
Bursofsky spread his hands. ‘Not a clue. I was hoping maybe your pa might know something, but he doesn’t seem to have any ideas, either.’
‘Well, Pa’s not involved in the day-to-day running of the mill as much as he used to be, especially since his eyesight started going south. I’ve taken over most of that business for him.’
‘You got any theory about why somebody might be killing your men?’
‘Can’t say I do, Marshal. I wish I could help. We’ve had to bring in men from Salem to fill their positions at the mill.’ He frowned. ‘You think there’s some sort of connection to the mill—some reason this killer is choosing them?’
‘I think that’s likely. We have one missing man and four men murdered in less than a week. Every single one worked for your family’s business. I’ve tried to wrap my mind around it, but I think it has to be linked to the mill.’
Lockhart crossed his arms, thinking over the marshal’s words.
‘If there’s anything I can do to help, all you have to do is ask,’ he said. ‘If you want to come down tomorrow to talk to some of the men, you’re more than welcome to do so. This is a terrible thing, these murders. I can’t remember anything like it happening here in Stayton before.’
‘Nor can I.’
‘It’s pretty frightening, that’s for sure. But as I said, you can come on down to the mill and talk to anybody you please. I’ll see to it.’
‘I’m grateful, Tom. I think I just might take you up on that offer.’
Lockhart extended his hand and the marshal shook it firmly. ‘Have a good evening.’
‘Same to you,’ Bursofsky said.
He went out through the door and down the steps to where his sorrel was tied to a lamp post on the side of the driveway. It was dark and brisk out. A sudden wind blew some dead leaves across the yard. Bursofsky buttoned up his coat and untied his horse. Seconds later he was riding off the Lockhart property and turning right up Water Street toward the center of town.
A woman’s piercing shriek caused the marshal to pull leather and reach for his pistol. He looked to his right and realized he had halted in front of Phil and Amelia Taylor’s house. When he heard another scream, he leapt from the saddle, tossing the reins over his horse’s head. He moved across the yard to the side of the house and began creeping along the path toward the back of the property.
The Taylors’ yard was meticulously maintained, with sculpted shrubbery and neatly trimmed rose bushes. Large trees cloaked the lawn in shadows, although light shone through the windows at the back, offering a little illumination.
Bursofsky came up to the left side of the back porch and halted, his eyes sweeping over the yard. Two men were struggling near the edge of the lawn, just above the river. One he recognized as Phil Taylor. The other man was shirtless and bootless, his hair and beard wet, his bare upper body glistening with water from the river. He was getting the better of Taylor, and Bursofsky saw him twist Taylor’s arm away from the pistol on his hip. Taylor let out a cry of pain, and the shirtless man pulled the pistol from the young man’s holster.
‘Halt, there!’ Bursofsky yelled, striding out past the edge of the porch. His pistol was raised and pointed at Taylor and the stranger. To his right, Bursofsky could see Amelia Taylor on the porch. She must have been the one whose screams he had heard from the street.
The shirtless man looked toward the marshal. His left hand still gripped Taylor’s arm, and he released him, pushing him down onto the grass. The pistol in his other hand was pointed at Taylor.
‘Drop that pistol, feller!’ warned Bursofsky. He took a few more steps toward the man. ‘I’m the town marshal, and I’ll shoot you where you stand.’ The man hesitated, looking back and forth between the lawman and the cringing man on the ground. Finally, he tossed his weapon aside. Relief washed over Ethan Bursofsky. ‘Now you step away from Mr. Taylor and put your hands in the air.’
After a moment, the man complied. Taylor’s wide eyes glinted in the light coming from the back of the house. He raised a trembling finger and extended it toward the man who had emerged from the river.
‘Marshal,’ he said in a warbling voice. ‘Marshal—’
‘What is it, Phil?’ Bursofsky said. ‘You know this feller?’
‘It’s Steve Karner!’
Bursofsky moved closer to the man with no shirt. ‘Steve Karner?’ he said incredulously. ‘It can’t be.’
‘It’s him!’ Taylor exclaimed. He seemed almost hysterical.
Bursofsky kept his pistol on the stranger. ‘You got a name, partner?’
‘Yes, I do,’ the man said, defiance in his face. ‘I’m Steve Karner.’ He smiled reluctantly. ‘It’s been a long time, Ethan.’