Found Money (33 page)

Nathan Rusch was angry, not about to be outrun by a woman ten years his senior. He had come down from his hiding spot in a matter of seconds, chasing down the wooded path that led to the dam. Her sixty-yard lead had closed to less than twenty. He’d tried to make verbal contact, but his shouts on the dead run had only made her scream.

His lungs were beginning to burn. The hills and thin mountain air were taking its toll. He wondered if the drug Sheila had given him back at the hotel this morning wasn’t still affecting him, making him fatigue faster. Lucky for him she’d lacked the nerve to kill. Unfortunately for her he didn’t have the same qualms.

He stopped at a fork in the footpath, unsure of which way to go. A canopy of trees completely blocked out the moonlight. He’d lost sight of Marilyn. He listened for footsteps cutting across the woods. All was silent, save for the water flowing beneath the damn.

“Freeze!” The voice had come from behind—an older man’s voice.

Startled, Rusch wheeled quickly. Jeb Stockton was standing behind a rock, his gun aimed at Rusch. “Put the gun down,” said Jeb, “hands over your head.”

Slowly, Rusch obeyed. The gun dropped. His
hands went behind his head. Jeb was obviously having a hard time seeing in the darkness, particularly with Rusch’s black clothing. He stepped out from behind the rock and took five steps forward. He closed to within ten yards. “Lay on the ground, face down. Nice and slow.”

Rusch lowered himself to one knee, his eye on Jeb’s chest. In one blinding motion his hand snapped forward from behind his head, releasing a titanium throwing knife from the sheath on his wrist. The sleek blade whirled through the air and struck the target, parting Jeb’s ribs. He groaned as the wound dropped him to his knees. He fired two erratic shots, then fell to the ground.

Rusch grabbed his gun and came to him quickly, checking the pulse. It was weak. He gave a moment’s thought to finishing him with a bullet, but it wasn’t necessary. He’d let the old man suffer. He yanked the knife from his ribs, cleaned it on Jeb’s shirt, and tucked it back into his wrist sheath.

“Don’t feel bad, old man,” he whispered smugly. “No one ever looks for the knife when they think they’re in a gunfight.”

Stockton’s left arm jerked forward. A loud crack erupted as he fired off a round from a small palm-sized revolver. Rusch was hit square in the chest and fell over in a heap.

Stockton collapsed, exhausted. “Don’t feel bad, jackass. Nobody ever looks for the second gun, either.”

The gunshots echoed like thunder in the canyon, drawing Amy and Ryan to the fork in the footpath. Amy arrived first, barreling down the hill. Ryan was close behind. Breathless and scared, she stopped at the first sight of the body on the ground.
The boots she recognized as Jeb’s. In the darkness, she hadn’t noticed the man in the black body suit, but finally she did. He was completely still. She felt a wave of relief till she noticed the blood at Jeb’s side. She ran to him and knelt close.

His eyes were glazed. He was barely conscious. Blood had soaked his shirt, covering his chest. He coughed, trying to speak. “Bastard, got me with a knife.”

“Who is it?”

“Damned if I know.”

Amy quickly went to the body, checked a pulse. Nothing. “He’s dead.” She pulled the hood off his head. The face was unfamiliar, but she knew it had to be Rusch. She came back to Jeb’s side.

“Did you see Marilyn?”

He shook his head.

“Which way did he come from?”

“The dam.”

Amy started at the pounding footsteps behind her. She rose and aimed her gun. Ryan stopped short and backed away.

“Easy,” he said. “I’m on your side. I think.”

Amy jerked her gun, directing him toward Jeb.

“Other guy’s dead. He stabbed my friend here. You’re a doctor. Help him.”

Ryan went to his side and checked the wound. It was a clean hole from an incredibly sharp knife. Air and foamy blood appeared around the edges with each expiration. “Thankfully it missed the heart. But definite signs of pneumothorax.”

“Numo-what?”

“A sucking chest wound. I think the knife punctured a lung. This man needs a chest tube. We have to get him to the ER.”

“I can’t just leave Marilyn. What if this dead guy
has a partner out there somewhere? She’s wearing a wire. They’ll kill her if they find it on her.”

“Who is
they
?”

“The people who would have killed you if Marilyn hadn’t intervened. They may have killed my mother.”

For Ryan, it was a relief to hear that someone other than his father might have killed Debby Parkens. Jeb groaned. Ryan dug Norm’s cell phone from his coat pocket. “I’ll call Medevac. Somebody has to wait here with him.”

“You’re the doctor,” she said. “I’ll find Marilyn.”

Jeb raised his arm, as if he wanted to say something. Amy leaned close but couldn’t hear.

“What’s he saying?” asked Ryan.

“I don’t know. He’s delirious.”

“I can’t leave him. He’ll go into shock. But don’t you go charging off by yourself. This is too dangerous.”

“Sorry,” said Amy. “You’re the one with the Hippocratic oath.”

Before he could speak, Amy darted down the path in the direction of the last scream. Low-hanging branches slapped her in the darkness. She was running on pure adrenaline, rounded a sharp turn, then stopped short. She had reached a clearing. The dam was straight ahead. A moonlit view of the canyon stretched beyond. The powerful sounds of rushing water rose from the depths. She took a step forward and nearly lost her footing. The gentle slope of the trail was at an end. It was a steep drop to the dam and observation deck, accessible only by a walkway of makeshift steps cut into the mountainside.

“That’s far enough.” It was a booming voice from the side.

Amy froze. Joe Kozelka stepped out from behind the rocks. He had sent Rusch to do the job, but this assignment was far too important to rely totally on a subordinate. He
had
to follow, arriving quietly by boat off big Lake Cheesman, which stretched for miles behind the dam.

His gun pressed against the base of Marilyn’s skull. He was standing right behind her, using her body as a human shield. Amy turned her gun toward him, but Marilyn was in the way.

“Drop the gun,” he said.

Her arms stretched out before her. The gun felt heavy in her hands. But she didn’t move.

“I said,
drop
it.”

Amy squeezed her gun.

“Don’t listen to him,” said Marilyn.

“Shut up!” He wrenched her arm behind her back.

Marilyn cringed. “Don’t give up your gun, Amy. He’ll kill you.”

“Lose it,” said Kozelka. “Or I shoot her right now.”

Amy couldn’t move. She tried to take aim, but her hands were unsteady. She knew how to use a gun, but only because her mother’s death had made her afraid of them. She had always tried to learn about the things that frightened her. This shot, however, was beyond her capabilities.

Marilyn squirmed. “He’s bluffing, Amy. He can’t shoot me. I’m too important to him.”

“Drop it!” Kozelka was seething, nearly screaming. “I swear I’ll pop her right here. Right in front of you. You want to see another woman with a bullet in her head, kid?”

The words were like explosives—not just for Amy, but for Marilyn, too. On impulse, she fell
back against him with all her force, knocking them both off the ledge. Together, they tumbled backward, head over heels, rolling out of control toward the observation platform.

Amy charged down the steps after them, but they were rolling too fast down the steep embankment, gaining momentum. They slammed against the rail at the edge of the platform, Kozelka taking the major blow. The wooden beams split on impact. Splintered chunks of wood fell two hundred feet down into the canyon, into the churning river water far below. Marilyn grabbed a railing to stop her fall. Kozelka grabbed the other, but his weight was too great. The bolts ripped from the footing. His body sailed over the edge, but he caught the bottom of the platform in a desperate lunge. He barely had a grip. His hand was slipping. He struggled to pull himself up, but couldn’t. He looked down. The fall was straight down. He could barely see bottom.

Amy ran to the platform and grabbed Marilyn. “Are you okay?”

She dabbed some blood from her nose. “Yeah. I think so.”

Amy peered over the edge and looked down at Kozelka. He was flailing at the end of the broken railing, like a hooked fish, trying to pull himself up. From this height, the fall alone would be deadly. Just below them, in a magnificent display of overkill, tons of running water shot from the open outlet tunnel that cut through the canyon wall.

Amy handed Marilyn her gun. “Keep an aim on him. If he tries anything funny, you know what to do.”

Marilyn took aim. “What are you doing?”

Amy braced herself against the railing and leaned over the edge. She extended her hand toward him, but not all the way. It was just out of his reach.

Marilyn’s voice shook. “Amy, get away. He’ll kill you.”

She ignored her. “You’re going to die, mister. Unless you tell me the truth.”

He groped desperately for her hand, but he couldn’t make contact. He was out of breath, barely able to speak. “What. Truth?”

“Tell me, you bastard. Did you kill my mother?”

“No.”

“You ordered her killed, didn’t you!”

“No. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You’re lying! Don’t play this game. Tell the truth and I’ll help you.”

“I
am
telling the truth. I didn’t kill your old lady. I didn’t have her killed. That’s the truth!”

Amy nearly burst with anger. She wanted the confession, but she couldn’t just let him fall. Mercifully, reluctantly, she lowered her hand.

Kozelka was suddenly rigid. His eyes were two narrow slits. “Don’t look now, kid. But Marilyn Gaslow is about to shoot you in the back.”

Amy gasped and turned quickly. Kozelka freed one hand and grabbed a fallen branch from the cliffside the size of a baseball bat. He was about to crack Amy’s skull, as if betting that his beleaguered ex-wife wouldn’t pull the trigger. She did. Twice. The booming gunshots ripped through the canyon.

His head snapped back in a violent explosion. Amy’s heart was in her throat as she watched him fall away, a long and graceful descent into the gaping canyon, the blood trailing from his massive
head wound like a fatal red jet stream. She looked away before his body splattered on the rocks in the stream below. Shaking with emotion, Amy slid back onto the platform. Marilyn scooted toward her, dropped the gun, and pulled her close.

They held each other in silence, overcome with shock and horror. Marilyn stroked her head. “It’s okay. That bastard has had it coming since I was fifteen years old.”

Amy’s voice quivered. “He said he had nothing to do with my mom’s death.”

“I heard.”

“It had to be him. How could it not be?”

“Just because he denied it doesn’t mean he’s innocent.”

“I was looking him right in the eye, Marilyn. He was barely hanging on, scared for his life. So scared, he was believable. I don’t think he killed Mom.”

Their embrace tightened. Amy was looking past Marilyn, peering over her shoulder into the night sky. The clouds had cleared. Stars were everywhere, exactly the way they’d looked the night her mother died. The patterns began to swirl against the blackness, then finally came into focus. Amy felt a chill, struck by the sudden realization.

Marilyn said, “I don’t know what to think.”

“I don’t either,” she said quietly. “Except the unthinkable.”

Amy left before the police arrived. With Marilyn’s permission, she drove Jeb’s van back to Boulder. Ryan and Marilyn had plenty to explain on their own, which would probably take all night. She, too, would have to give a full statement. That was fine with her. Before talking to the police, however, she had to do one more thing.

She had to unravel her latest suspicions.

It was after 4:00
A.M
. when she arrived back at the apartment. It was dark inside, save for the night light in the hall. She peeked in on Taylor. She was asleep on her stomach in one of those lumpy positions that only a four-year-old could find comfortable, scrunched up like a turtle. She stroked her head lightly and kissed her on the cheek. Taylor didn’t stir. Amy turned toward the door, then started. Gram was standing in the doorway. It was an eerie feeling, one that angered her inside. She rarely shared a tender moment with Taylor when she didn’t feel Gram was somehow watching. She used to think it was out of concern. She was beginning to think otherwise.

Amy stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

“I heard you come in,” said Gram. She was dressed in her nightgown and slippers, a silk cap protecting her hair.

“Did you wait up for me?”

“Of course. I was worried about you, darling.”

Amy walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Gram followed and took a seat at the table. “What happened tonight?”

Amy opened the refrigerator and poured herself some orange juice. She leaned against the counter, leaving Gram alone at the table. “I found out who didn’t kill Mom.”

Gram looked confused. “What?”

“But I think I know who did.”

“Who?”

She sipped her orange juice. “You don’t want to tell me?”

“What are you talking about, Amy?”

Her tone sharpened. “Remember how I told you that I couldn’t remember much about the night Mom died? Every time I got to a certain point, those numbers would pop into my head.”

“Yes.”

“I told you it was M 57. I always thought that was a form of psychological self-preservation. When ever I got too close to my most painful memories, my adult brain would kick in and short-circuit everything, cluttering my mind with the astronomical designation for the star I was looking at the night Mom died.”

“That would be logical.”

“Except that I lied to you last night. I did see numbers when I went back to the house. But this time it wasn’t M 57. It wasn’t an astronomical designation at all.”

“What was it?”

She stared at Gram, almost looking through her. “I saw numbers and letters. I’m not really sure which ones. The important thing I remem
ber is that they were from a license tag.”

Gram folded her hands nervously. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t, either, until tonight, when it came back to me. When I looked through my telescope as a little girl, I didn’t always look up into the sky. Sometimes I’d watch people in their yards. Sometimes I’d watch cars on the road. That night, I remember watching a car come toward the house before I went to bed. I remember it was a Ford Galaxie, black vinyl roof. I remember focusing on it, because it was your car.”

Gram was ashen, more frail than Amy had ever seen her. “You must be confused.”

“No. I had just blocked it out, suppressed it all these years. But since I went back to the house, the memory has become more clear. The funny thing is, I still don’t remember you coming by the house that night. You were right in the neighborhood, but you didn’t stop by the house.”

“I stopped by after you went to bed.”

Amy’s glare tightened. “Yes. That’s what I thought. I saw your car almost an hour before I went to bed. But you came by after I went to sleep.”

“Well, I—I don’t know about the timing.”

“I remember now,” said Amy. “I remember thinking, Where’s Gram? Where did she go? I was expecting you to come by any minute, but you never came.”

“I don’t really remember.”

“I think you do. You were outside waiting for me to go to sleep.”

“That’s silly. Why would I do that?”

“Because you came by the house to see Mom. And you didn’t want me or anyone else to know you had been there that night.”

Gram looked away, flustered. “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” she said harshly. “But I don’t deserve this.”

“You killed her, didn’t you?”

“No!” she said, indignant. “She killed herself, like the police said. That’s why she tied the rope around your bedroom door, so you wouldn’t find the body.”

“
You
tied the rope, Gram. The police were right in one respect. The person who took Mom’s life loved me so much she didn’t want me to find the body. The cops thought it was Mom. Problem is, Mom knew I could climb out of my room through the attic. But you didn’t.”

“Amy, I didn’t kill your mother.”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “It’s like you said. When Dad was killed in Vietnam—your only child—I was the replacement.”

“I was practically raising you anyway, even before your mother got sick. She was always so busy with one thing or another. I always loved you as my own.”

“But that’s not the guardianship Mom envisioned. Marilyn told me. It must have shocked you when she asked Marilyn to look after me, instead of you.”

Gram shook with anger. “Marilyn Gaslow had no right to you.”

“It was what Mom wanted.”

“It was the
wrong
choice. I knew it. Your mother knew it. Even
she
was having reservations. She told me how Marilyn was afraid to take you because of the skeleton in her closet—the rape that didn’t happen.”

“You knew Frank Duffy was innocent?”

“Your mother told me exactly what Marilyn
had told her. She was brutally honest,” she said with a false chuckle. “I guess she wanted me to understand the risk she was taking by giving you to Marilyn. Maybe she even wanted my blessing. She wanted me to be ready to step in if the Frank Duffy thing ever exploded and the court found Marilyn unfit to be your guardian. Like I was second string or something.”

Amy came to the table, glaring at Gram. “You sent the letter to Frank Duffy. That’s why the penmanship was shaky in places.”

“All I wanted was to expose Marilyn for what she was. An unfit guardian. I didn’t expect him to blackmail her.”

“You more than expected it. I think the two of you planned it. That’s why he sent me two hundred thousand dollars when he died. Was that your cut, Gram? Is that why you wouldn’t let me call the police when the money arrived?”

Her mouth quivered. “This wasn’t about money. I never asked for a cent.”

“But he gave it to you anyway. Or maybe you wouldn’t take it, so he made an anonymous gift to your granddaughter.”

“I don’t know what he was thinking. I don’t
care
what he was thinking.”

“So long as the letter kept Marilyn from becoming my guardian.”

“Not the letter,” said Gram. “The truth.
I
told the truth. It was better that way.”

“Better for you.”

“And for you.”

Amy shook with disbelief. “Is that how your mind works? Just rationalize everything?”

“I’m not rationalizing anything.”

“Then how do you live with yourself?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I raised you the best I could. That’s how.”

“After you killed my mother.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You killed her before she could meet with her lawyer and change her will to name Marilyn guardian.”

“No.”

“You came by the house and shot her with her own gun.”

“That’s not true.”

“Admit it. You killed her!”

“For God’s sake, she was already dying!”

They looked at each other, stunned, as if neither could fathom the words she’d just uttered. Gram broke down, sobbing. “I’d already lost one child, Amy. I couldn’t lose you, too. When your mother said she was giving you to Marilyn, something snapped inside me. It was like losing your father all over again. Only this time, I could stop it from happening. This was the only way to stop it.”

Amy stared, incredulous. The rationale of a murderer. It was as good as a confession, but she felt no fulfillment. Only sadness—then anger.

“She deserved it, didn’t she, Gram?”

“What?”

“In your eyes. Mom deserved to die a death as violent as Dad’s.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Mom never grieved enough for your son, did she? I saw it in your eyes whenever she went on a date, the nights you babysat me. I saw it every time she brought another man through our front door. Your looks of contempt. You could have pulled the trigger right then and there.”

“Amy, I did this for you.”

Amy hurried from the kitchen and walked briskly down the hall. Gram followed.

“Amy, wait!”

She ignored the call and entered Taylor’s room. Her daughter was still sound asleep. Amy snatched the tote bag from the closet and packed some clothes for Taylor.

“What are you doing?” She was shaking, desperate.

Amy strung the bag over her shoulder and lifted Taylor from the bed. Taylor’s arms wrapped around her neck, but she kept right on sleeping. Amy held her tight as she blew right past Gram, crossed the living room, and threw open the front door.

“Please,” said Gram, her voice cracking. “I swear, I did it for you.”

Amy stopped in the doorway, looked Gram in the eye. “You did it for yourself.
Everything
you do, you do for yourself.”

Amy slammed the door behind her. With Taylor in her arms, she headed for her truck—her mother’s old truck.