Bitter Sweets (19 page)

“Yes.”

“Some people cut wire by looping it over the knife first, then sawing through.”

“It must have been a pretty good knife,” Savannah mused.

“One of those very effective survival knives, I'd say.”

Mark's saw suddenly went quiet, and the women found themselves shouting in a silent room.

“Cap's off,” he said, stepping back and giving a grandiose wave toward the body. “He's all yours.”

“Ah, ha . . . . now we can find the bullet,” Dr. Liu said, all but rubbing her hands together with ghoulish delight.

Examining the front quarter of the scalp which Mark had sawn away, Jennifer carefully considered the small, round hole. “Yes, this is the entrance.” She held it under Savannah's nose. “See, the bevel slants inward. The bullet always removes more material the farther in it goes. That's how you can tell if it's the entrance or exit.”

Savannah marveled, not for the first time, at the wondrous design of the human body. Because of the dome shape, the skull was incredibly strong, yet surprisingly thin. She could see light through it as Jennifer held it up.

“And here . . . . Mark, bring us a flashlight so that I can show Savannah exactly what I'm talking about. This always amazes me, the path that a bullet makes through a brain.”

A flashlight.
Oh, great,
Savannah thought. If there was anything she didn't need right now, it was a better look.

But on closer inspection, she found that it was, indeed, amazing. The even, black tunnel of destruction had burned its way through Earl Mallock's consciousness, forever destroying a million complex biological processes, a million memories, and one life.

Dr. Liu lifted out the murdered brain and laid it carefully on the tiny dissecting table, beside the scale. When she returned to the cavity, she probed the empty bowl with her gloved fingertips. “And
here
. . . .” She held up the tiny mushroom-shaped piece of metal that had done all the damage. “. . . . is our bullet.”

She squinted at it, turning it this way and that. “Mmmm. Not what I was expecting.”

“Why? What is it?” Savannah found that her curiosity was contagious.

“I'd bet that it's a .45.”

“What's unusual about that?”

“Normally, a .45 would have gone on through . . . . created an exit wound. Maybe it was a low charge.”

“Like target ammo?”

“Exactly. But there's another reason I wasn't expecting a .45.”

“What's that?”

“I would have bet he was shot with the same weapon as Lisa Mallock. But she was killed with a nine millimeter.”

Savannah held her breath for a long time, and it had nothing to do with the stench of death in the room. “No shit?” she said at last.

Dr. Liu quirked one eyebrow. “Are you sure they were killed by the same person?”

Savannah's head swam. “I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.”

“I
don't know what you're so excited about,” Dirk told Savannah in his usual, pessimistic tone that irritated her to death. Leave it to him to pop her bubble at every possible opportunity.

“This is a very interesting development,” she argued. “You just have to see the black side of every cloud.” She poured herself another glass of Gran's homemade lemonade, leaned back in the chaise lounge, and took a long swig.

She needed it to cool off her temperament as well as her palate.

Ordinarily, this would have been a relaxing, pleasantly hedonistic experience, sitting in her backyard, beneath the grape arbor, sipping an icy beverage and listening to Gran hum through the kitchen window as she prepared her famous chicken and dumplings.

But Dirk's negativity could sour any occasion.

“I swear,” she muttered, shaking her head, “if you won the lottery, you'd bitch.”

“What's the point in winning?” He shrugged. “The whole thing's rigged, and besides, even if you won, the damned IRS would take most of it.”

She studied him, continually amazed. “Point proved. But no matter what you say, I still think this helps to define our list of suspects. Before, we were only considering people who had motives to kill both Lisa and Earl. Now we know it may have been two different individuals.”

“How does the list change?” He helped himself to a refill of lemonade. Savannah cringed when he set the cobalt blue antique pitcher down hard on the glass-topped table between their chaises. The man was hopeless.

“Well,” she said, “we can rule out Vanessa. She may have hated Lisa, but she was in love with Earl.”

“It wouldn't be the first time someone killed the one they love. Maybe she found out that Earl killed Lisa and figured it was because he was still hung up on her. Vanessa admitted she's the jealous type. Besides, she may have wanted to nab the kid . . . . like it's the one she never had, or something like that.”

“All right, I'll give you that one,” Savannah admitted reluctantly. “But how about Alan Logan? He threatened to destroy Earl's family, just like he did his. Looks like someone did exactly that.”

“He was a suspect before. He's one now. Nothing's changed there.”

“And then there's the colonel. Gran says he was grief-stricken. He may have killed Earl because Earl murdered his daughter. I couldn't say that I'd blame him too much.”

He sniffed. “Naw, the colonel's an old fart with arthritis. If you and me were huffin' and puffin' to hike back there to that shed, he never would've made it. He was barely able to get around his living room the other day.”

Savannah heard a loud crash from the kitchen. A skillet or pan had hit the tiles. A moment later, Gran's head appeared at the window. “Dropped the diamond outta my ring,” she said cheerfully. “Nothin' to worry about.”

Yesterday, she had broken a glass, and a plate the day before. Savannah had decided not to concern herself. Dishes were replaceable. Gran was priceless.

“And then,” Dirk continued, “there's that punk, Ian Warner. If he did it, then a whole houseful of people are lying for him. Which is possible, but not likely. Before, I figured he killed both Lisa and Earl to get to Christy. Now, I reckon Earl could have beat him to Lisa, but that don't change nothin'. It don't matter what Dr. Liu says about it bein' two different killers. Like I said, we're up Shit Creek without a paddle.”

He settled back in his chair, drew a deep breath, and assumed that self-important, omniscient look that made Savannah want to slap him naked and hide his clothes.

“Yep . . . .” he said, “. . . . for my money, I'm still bettin' on the brother. He's the one with the most to gain with both Earl and Lisa dead and the kid missing. That way, he don't have to share with nobody.”

“Three lives, for only fifty thousand dollars?” Savannah said, desperately refusing not to meander down that trail of thought.

“Get real, Van. People have been knocked off for a helluva lot less.”

Savannah sighed, giving up the fight. Sometimes, it was futile to try to battle Dirk's cynicism. Like the mumps or German measles, it was contagious. If you were around it, eventually, you caught it.

“You're right,” she admitted, chug-a-lugging the rest of the lemonade, wishing it were straight Scotch. “There's no point. The IRS probably would nab it all. Besides, quadzillions of people would write you tearjerker letters and beg for money, and . . . . God, I hope I never win.”

“Me, too.”

 

Across the dark brown crockery bowl that contained the world's lightest dumplings, Gran studied Savannah with a curious look on her face.

“I heard what you and that Dirk character were talking about out there this afternoon,” Granny told her as she ladled another helping onto Savannah's plate.

“Oh, you did, huh?” Savannah chuckled. “Is there anything you don't hear?”

“Not much.”

“That's what I thought. And I suppose you have an opinion about what was said, or you wouldn't have brought it up, right?”

Gran smiled broadly. “Moss don't have a chance to grow on you, does it, sweetie-pie.”

“Moss doesn't grow well in piss and vinegar . . . . or so I've heard you say.”

“That's true. And I do have an opinion about what was said in your backyard. I think your friend, Mr. Dirk Coulter, is a donkey's rump.”

Savannah laughed. “Not many would argue with you about that.”

“And I think he needs a bit of an attitude adjustment where old people are involved.”

“And women . . . . and kids . . . . and cats . . . . and . . . .”

“But older folks, especially.”

Taking a closer look, Savannah saw that her grandmother was genuinely offended, a rare occurrence. “What did he say that upset you, Gran?”

“Your rude friend called Colonel Neilson an old fart—which he ain't. He's a man who's managed to keep himself alive for seventy or so years, that's all. And fought three wars for his country and won himself a Congressional Medal of Honor in the process.” Gran hesitated, toying with a bit of dumpling on her plate, her eyes full of hurt. “And what's worse, Savannah, is that you didn't even set Mr. Coulter straight for sayin' it. I'm surprised at you, honey.”

Her grandmother's gentle rebuke went straight to Savannah's heart. She was right, of course.

How many times had she jumped on Dirk's case for uttering a racial slur, a sexist remark, an unkind observation about someone who was overweight, underweight, badly dressed, mentally or physically challenged, or just plain different in some way from himself.

But she had never thought to come to the defense of a person who was being denigrated because of his advanced years.

“Prejudice is prejudice, Savannah,” Gran continued, “no matter who it's against. It's just plain ol' ignorance: one person thinkin' he's better than any other one of God's creations. Ignorance and arrogance.”

“I understand. I'm sorry, Gran. I should have said something.”

“I've brought five children into this world, and they've blessed me with twenty-two grandkids besides. I'm here to tell you, they're every one different and I love 'em in different ways. But I love every single one completely, with all my heart and soul. It hurts me to hear one of 'em talkin' trash about the other one. And I'm not nearly as good a parent as the good Lord above. I can tell you, He feels the same.”

“I'm sure He does, Gran. I'll talk to Dirk the very next time I see him. I promise.”

“Well, you better. You inform Mr. Hot Shot Coulter, that he's gonna be old, too. It'll happen before he knows it, too, unless he kicks the bucket early, that is, and most people don't want to do that. You tell him that us old folks aren't any different than anybody else, except that we've been around longer. Just like younger people, we feel love and hate, sorrow and joy. Every day we decide whether to do good deeds or evil. And don't fool yourself, we're perfectly capable of both.”

“Are you telling me that Dirk should reinstate the colonel on his list of suspects?”

“Hell, yes!” Gran's eyes blazed with a passion and conviction that, as always, made Savannah less afraid to grow old. “Don't you hear what I'm telling you, girl? To leave Colonel Neilson off that list is a downright insult! He belongs on there with the best and the worst of 'em!”

With the help of the Yellow Pages section of her phone book, Savannah located the bike rental agency that was nearest the abandoned Montoya Ranch where they had found Earl Mallock's body.

It was only a mile away from the cutoff that led to the old ranch house. She reminded herself to give Ryan a punch in the chops, at least verbally, for not mentioning this fact earlier. It irked her to think they could have ridden to the spread on the relative comfort of a dirt bike, rather than trudged over hills, through valley and dale.

“How long have you guys been in business?” she asked the swarthy, curly-haired fellow behind the counter. He was wearing a Grateful Dead tee shirt, but she decided he must be a second or third generation Deadhead. He didn't appear to be more than nineteen or twenty.

“Dad opened the place last fall,” he replied as he scribbled down her driver's license number and expiration date on a rental form.

“So, you're new. That must be why my friend didn't know about you.”

“Don't tell me you
hiked
the old trail all the way to the Montoya Ranch.”

“I did. With these two feet and a twenty-gallon aquarium of water strapped to my waist.”

“Really?”

He stared at her blankly; she determined he was a deadhead in more ways than one.

“No, not really. It just felt like it after the first hour or so.”

“Well, you'll get there a lot faster on a bike. You do know how to ride, don't you?”

“Sure.”

“Good. 'Cause Dad says we shouldn't rent to anybody who isn't experienced.”

Five minutes later, Savannah sat on the bike in front of the shop, staring at the controls on the handles. “No problem,” she mumbled once the kid was out of earshot. “Now, which one do you suppose is the brake?”

 

Two “hit-a-rock-or-some-damned-thing” spinouts, three “lose-your-balance” dump overs, and a first-class “bike goes east, rider goes west” dive, and Savannah was there.

Well, she was
almost
there.

The tin shed, trussed with yellow crime scene tape, was within sight, barely, across the open field. This time she was approaching from the rear, the opposite of when she, Dirk, and Ryan had come before.

And this was the end of the trail.

The young guy at the rental shop had described the beginning of the newly established dirt bike path. He had mentioned that hikers, tired of walking the long trail had begun to take bikes into the area. In an effort to stop the flow, forest rangers had erected the barricades across the old path, which the three of them had seen earlier.

Not to be undone, the bikers had forged another trail. And, although it wasn't as wide or well established, the path provided an only marginally treacherous route to the Montoya Ranch. This new path had only natural barricades: broken trees, unexpected rocks, the occasional bit of fauna.

Savannah concluded it was worth the bumps and bruises when she saw the tire marks, which she had been following, come to a halt, in the middle of nowhere, still a distance from the shed.

Other than that one structure, there was nothing for anyone to see in the area, no reason to come out here. So, why didn't they ride on up to the shed?

She had spotted the tire tracks as soon as she had started down the path. The marks had a unique distinction: an extra indentation, not caused by the tire itself, that was repeated regularly. It was a stone, wedged between the treads that created the demarcation.

Savannah was sure, because the imprint was exactly the same as the one left by the bike she was riding.

Someone else had recently rented this machine and driven it to this exact spot. And for some reason, they had elected to walk the rest of the way to the shed.

She got off the bike, released its kickstand, and followed the footprints in the loose soil. The prints were larger than hers, but that didn't surprise her. All of her suspects were male and had feet that were bigger . . . . except for Vanessa, and Savannah had noticed that her shoes were in proportion to the remainder of the giantess.

As she neared the shed, the dirt became more compact and rocky, and the footprints faded. That explained why the police hadn't followed the trail from the shed out to the bike path, she surmised.