Chapter Sixteen

Awareness began to creep in, slow and muted, something akin to a fine Monet painting. It was all muddled and out of focus for Chris, and yet it seemed like if he could stand back a foot or two, everything would finally come into focus. Somewhere far in the distance, music played, a soft and haunting melody. He concentrated, the effort almost painful, and began after a time to recognize a familiar pattern to the tune. It was a classic, a Beethoven classic, if his recollection served him right.

Remember … remember, he told himself. It was hard, it made his head hurt, and at the same time it seemed very important to be able to recall the name of the piece. It was weird and disconcerting. It made him want to pound his fists against his forehead—if he could get his hands to move, that is. Nothing on his body wanted to move. Odd.

The music was just as strange. The last thing he remembered, he was on the job hunkered down behind a pine tree, waiting for the Medicine Man to make his appearance at the warehouse. So why now did he hear Beethoven? Somehow, it seemed more important to remember the name of the song than to move his hands.

Then it came to him and relief flowed through his body like the rush of a good stiff shot of whiskey. Fur Elise by Ludwig van Beethoven. Ha! Again and again both he and Louie had practiced that piece at the insistence of their mother. He'd found the obligatory piano lessons a drudgery he tolerated because, much to his surprise, his ability to play the piano impressed the girls. Louie'd hated the piano with a vengeance and took every chance she could to dodge both practice and lessons. She played beautifully despite her aversion to the instrument, and he wondered if it was Louie who played the haunting Beethoven now.

Mom had hoped her two children would be refined and gracious. She'd gone to great pains to coax them in that direction very early on. By the time they'd both hit their teens, Mom had given up. Chris had set his sights on the Army Rangers from the age of thirteen, when he'd watched a documentary on the elite special force. His vision had never wavered, and piano lessons had no part in his ultimate goal. Mom's only choice had been to capitulate.

Louie, oh, his beautiful little sister Louise, was a bundle of energy and determination that neither Mom nor Dad ever figured out. Mom had hoped for a ballerina or a teacher. For years, she'd dragged Louie to all the requisite dance and music lessons, to no avail. From the time she could talk, Louie had been determined to follow in Dad's footsteps and become a police officer. As always, headstrong Louie won, much to Dad's immense pride and Mom's dismay. No one would ever have guessed, given the huge smile on Mom's face the day Louie earned her shield, that she'd had any other wish for her daughter. Mom was proud of both her children even if the piano lessons were a bust.

Now, he relaxed and let the familiar sound of Fur Elise lull him. It was nice. All the sounds around him were familiar and comforting though he couldn't say why. Figuring out why, not important. At the moment he was content that it was enough. Later, when he felt a bit stronger, perhaps he'd open his eyes and figure out exactly where he was. He only knew for certain he wasn't on that hillside any longer. For now, he'd rest.

A nurse came into the room. "So what's up with you today, Chris?"

Her patient's eyes were closed, his body as still as a statue. The question was entirely rhetorical. It had been five long years of silence for the attractive man who'd intrigued all of them. She'd been here the day he'd arrived and no doubt she'd be here on the day he left. Though none of the staff ever made mention of it aloud, the pattern rarely changed.

She took a cool damp rag and blotted his forehead where tiny beads of sweat had popped out. The monitors that buzzed and whirred next to his bed jumped with activity that was a little out of the norm. She checked them to make certain they were all working as they should. Whatever made them jump could have been nothing more than a random blip of energy. It happened, not often, but it happened.

It could also signal that Chris might be nearing the end. She'd it seen time and time again—that bit of movement, a flash of activity that could give families an unfair and false sense of hope. She was glad his sister wasn't here to see the movement of the monitors.

Chris' younger sister, Louise, or Louie as she asked everyone to call her, came often to sit with her brother. All of the staff was aware of how she held on to the hope that he'd one day wake up. It was a shame because the odds were about a million to one he'd emerge from the coma. It just didn't happen.

It was really too bad he was still so far away from them. Chris Russell was a man who, before the gunshot, possessed all the potential in the world. Even emaciated from years of silence and inactivity, she could see what a handsome man he was. Such a loss that he'd never come back to this world where family and friends held on to hope. It was bound to break their hearts all over again, especially for his sister.

Shrugging, the nurse straightened his blanket, blotted his forehead one more time, and patted his cool hand. Change was in the air; she could feel it. "You rest easy, Chris. We'll be here when you need us. We won't let you go alone."

Looking at the CD player Chris' sister brought in years ago, she noticed that it had ejected the disc. She pushed the CD back in, and once more the classical strains of music began to play softly. She didn't know if he heard the music or if it even helped, but it was pretty and, at least in her opinion, brought some beauty into a world that was otherwise locked in silence.

With one last glance at the monitors that had settled into a familiar, constant pattern, she left the room.

* * * *

Louie had to wait until dark. Kendall Stewart's house still had yellow police tape across the front and back doors, which meant Louie'd have to sneak in. Couldn't do that in broad daylight, so she waited, hoping no one would notice. She had a way of blending into the background, and she was relying on that now. She seemed to pull the shadows around her like Dracula's cape.

Under the cover of darkness, she kept close to trees and bushes until she got to the back door. Picking the lock took a little longer than made her happy. What could she do? It took what it took. She wasn't a professional but it just happened it was one of those little skills that came in handy once in a while. Chris had been able to teach her all sorts of nifty tricks before his accident, and they were lessons she remembered well. When he came out of his coma, she'd thank him again.

With her hands covered by a nice pair of latex gloves, she peeled away the yellow tape with care. When she left, she'd put it back in place and no one would be the wiser about her little nocturnal visit.

Inside, the house was as dark and quiet as a cemetery. Her penlight didn't give her much illumination, but she'd have to make do. It wouldn't be wise to turn on an overhead light and broadcast to the neighbors that the recent murder site currently hosted a visitor. Too many amateur sleuths these days, thanks to reality television and a slew of crime scene investigation shows. She didn't need either the complication or the annoyance, so penlight it would have to be.

She stepped carefully to avoid the blood-covered floor. The stains left a detailed picture of the violence that had claimed Kendall's young life. Once past the scene of the shooting, Louie went through the rest of the house, room by room. She hoped that she'd find something to help her understand both Kendall's connection to James McDonald and the reason why she was killed. As random as the killing seemed, Louie was convinced it was anything but.

Kendall had been a tidy woman. The only mess in the house had been created by her murder and the subsequent investigation. Fingerprint powder was smudged everywhere and blood stains streaked the otherwise lovely kitchen floor. She pitied the cleanup crew saddled with this job. Few people thought about the aftermath of violence and what was often left behind for the families. Another piece of the heartache Louie didn't wish upon anyone.

Her gaze went to the floor and she sucked in a breath. She didn't need an outline to remind her where the body had been. She could see it all too vividly in her mind, blood and all. Chills still went up her back at the memory. She'd seen many dead bodies in various states of decomp, but that didn't mean she ever grew accustomed to it. Death was cruel and it was ugly. There was no getting around it. Anybody who did, well, she had the name of a good shrink.

She stood in the kitchen and tried to get a sense of what had happened that night. She closed her eyes and remembered what she and Paul had seen: the trail of blood, the position of the body. Opening her eyes and turning in a slow circle, Louie walked to the kitchen sink. A window above the sink opened to the backyard. Although it wasn't a large yard, it did have several old maples big enough for a man to stand behind, unseen from inside the house. Correction … big enough for a man and a rifle to stand behind.

When she'd been here the night Kendall died, Louie hadn't had enough time to study the window. She had the time now. Though the window didn't shatter, the hole was surrounded by a network of cracks. One big wind storm and the window would give it up.

"You son of a bitch," she muttered.

He'd been outside in the yard, probably waiting for James to run to his girlfriend. Actually, it was pretty faultless logic. But why had Kendall been killed rather than James? What did she do? Or more likely, what did she know? This was the kind of crime that pissed off Louie the most. It wasn't fair that a woman died just because she knew or was involved with a man. Kendall didn't do one single thing wrong and still she'd lost her life.

Once more Louie closed her eyes. This time she put herself in Kendall's shoes. She envisioned Kendall standing at the sink when out of the inky darkness a shot hits her in the chest. At first she doesn't understand why suddenly there's a burning sensation in the middle of her chest. She spins, lurches for the phone, and falls. As she drops, she realizes in an instant that had to have seemed more like an eternity, that someone has shot her. She looks down in amazement at the flowering red stain as it spreads across the front of her shirt.

Louie mimicked the imagined movements, falling to the floor near where Kendall had lain while managing to avoid the police marks and dried blood. She wanted to understand, but she couldn't disturb anything. She stretched her right arm out above her head where she remembered Kendall's had been, and turned her head, so her cheek rested against the cool tile floor. She could smell the faint though unmistakable scent of blood.

Louie slowed her breathing and relaxed. She listened to the sounds of the refrigerator running, the occasional car driving by on the street outside, a dog barking. She went outside herself to become Kendall Stewart and a whole new world was revealed. Her eyes scanned the floor from where she lay looking for something, anything that the police might have missed.

It worked. The tiny speck of white was almost impossible to see from where she lay, and would have been concealed from any angle other than prone on the floor. She slid her fingers as far she could beneath the lip of the range and was able to feel just the edge of the card. She worked it until she could slide it out.

"Thank you, Kendall," she whispered.

Louie sat up and blew the dust off the business card. She recognized the name, and a chill raced through her. In her business she knew them all, from the gypsy car dealers to the loan sharks who preyed on those souls who needed money and had no where else to turn. Martin Fitz was one of the latter, or as he was known around town, Money Marty. He was the guy always willing to bail out the druggies and the gamblers…at a price. A very big price. Why would Kendall Stewart have Money Marty's card?

Something was written on the back. As Louie turned the card over, the chill turned to ice.

* * * *

The only thing left for Paul to do was pack up Jamie's desk. The scarred wreck looked as though it might have been salvaged from a Dumpster. He picked up a calendar with notes in Jamie's handwriting jotted all over it. Curious, he flipped through the months. A few phone numbers were written along the edges every month or so, and one, a Spokane number, looked vaguely familiar. More than likely Kendall Stewart's, and perhaps it looked familiar because of the area code. He looked at the number again, shrugged and dropped the calendar into one of the packing boxes.

The second drawer Paul opened had a shoebox inside. As soon as he removed the lid, his vision blurred. Ticket stubs to games he'd played in and even a fair number of games he'd coached filled the battered shoebox. He picked the stubs up, one after another, and his heart ached a little more with each one. He'd wondered for years why Jamie kept coming to the States. As he stared into the box he suddenly understood why Jamie came back over and over. More than Kendall Stewart had brought Jamie over the border.

His heart twisting, Paul put the lid back on the shoebox and placed it inside the packing box next to the calendar. There'd been so much about Jamie that Paul hadn't been willing or able to understand. Now he did and now it was too late. He'd made the conscious choice to see only the bad things about his brother and by doing so had blinded himself to the good things. What kind of man did something like that? What kind of brother did something like that? All he could do now was right the wrong done to Jamie. His killer would be found and brought to justice.

He started to close the packing box and, prompted by some inner instinct, stopped to pick up the calendar one more time. He flipped six pages or so and looked at the phone numbers. One caught his attention, the Spokane one. He was pretty certain it wasn't Kendall's, because it looked familiar, and he didn't know Kendall Stewart's phone number. Taking a piece of scratch paper, he copied it and shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. Then, he dropped the calendar back into the box, closed the lid and ran a strip of fiber tape across the top.

Slowly, he walked around the apartment one last time. The boxes were taped, marked and stacked. Everything was ready for when his folks felt up to moving them out. The place no longer held the personality it had a few hours earlier. The sneakers were gone, the picture was gone, Jamie was gone.

Paul breathed deeply and stepped outside. The door clicked shut and he walked away.

He was on the freeway and a few hours out of Spokane when he remembered why that telephone number seemed familiar. He hit the brakes, pulled the car over to the side of the road, and clicked on the interior light. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out the piece of paper and again looked at the mysterious phone number. Then he pulled his cell phone out and punched in Louie's number, which he'd memorized about two seconds after she'd given it to him.

"Paul?" She sounded surprised.

"Yeah."

"Are you all right?" Her surprise had shifted to concern.

"Why are you whispering?"

"Give me a sec."

He heard rustling, the sound of a door closing, some more rustling and then what sounded the opening and closing of a car door. What in the world was she up to?

"Louie?"

"One more sec."

He could hear a car start and assumed she was on the road.

"Okay," she said, her voice now at a more normal pitch.

"What was that all about?"

"You don't want to know."

"I think I do."

"Why did you call me?"

He didn't miss the change in subject and while any other time he might pursue it, tonight he had something more important on his mind. "I've been in Jamie's apartment."

"Did you find something?"

"I found Harry's phone number jotted on Jamie's calendar."

"No big deal there. Harry was his bondsman, so of course he'd have his number."

"Except it was on his calendar six months ago."

There was a moment of dead silence before she asked him, "Where are you?"

"Just west of Moses Lake. I'll be Spokane in less than two hours."

"Meet me at the office."

He didn't like the way her voice sounded. "What's up?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm going to find out."

* * * *

Louie looked at her watch. She had some time. Enough? Could be pushing it. She was maybe a mile from Harry's house and odds were in her favor he'd be at the office for at least another hour or so. He rarely, if ever, left before eleven. Most of his business came during the night and he liked to be available. She was banking on that now.

As she anticipated, the house was dark and the street quiet. His middle-class neighbors were, from all appearances, tucked in for the night. She drove by and parked a block away, hoping to blend in with little or no notice by inquiring eyes. As quickly and quietly as she could, she closed the distance between her car and Harry's house. So far so good.

The lights were out in the neighboring houses and she managed to make it to his back door without arousing any sleepless dogs. The lock was a little challenging, yielding only after a fair amount of coaxing. She slipped into the kitchen and breathed out a sigh of relief. This breaking and entering was becoming a bad habit tonight, even if it was necessary. And to think she'd personally arrested any number of perps for B and E.

Harry was a pragmatist which meant there was an alarm mounted on the wall not far from the door. A bright red light on the small panel blinked rapidly. She'd have only a couple of minutes to get in and get out. No delusions here. She could pick a lock pretty quickly but she had no expertise at all at disarming security systems. But she'd been in Harry's house dozens of time through the years and knew exactly where to look. All she needed was sixty seconds, give or take a moment or two.

She glided out of the kitchen and down the hallway to the den. Twenty seconds later, she stood in front of a large, lighted gun display case. One bit of luck today, Harry had it in the display case instead of locked inside the gun vault installed in a corner of the basement.

"Oh, Harry," she murmured.

The M24 sniper rifle was his pride and joy. Valuable as it was, he tended to keep it out for guests, and himself, to admire rather than hiding it away in the much more secure vault. There was always the chance he'd have put it downstairs. Tonight luck and predictability were on her side.

One minute and counting.

Once more, Louie pulled the picks out. Was there time? After a short moment of indecision she stuffed them back in her pocket. Instead, she picked up a book from the nearby table and used it to smash the glass.

Thirty seconds gone.

She grabbed the bolt-action rifle and ran down the carpeted hallway, past the blinking alarm panel, and into the kitchen. She dashed out the back door pausing only long enough to turn the lock as she went. No sense advertising her entry into the house.

Keeping to the shadows, she ran as fast as she could to her car. She put the rifle into the trunk and covered it with a tarp. Slamming the trunk lid shut, she got into the driver's seat and started the car. Telling herself to be calm, she began to drive down Harry's street, right on the speed limit.

In the distance, a siren wailed.