Lost Legacy (A Zoe Chambers Mystery Book 2) (31 page)

Froats didn’t wait for Pete to answer. “Because you knew danged well I’d have followed you in my own car if you didn’t. If,” Froats held up one finger, “and I’m only saying
if
this mess is my fault, I intend to be around to make it right.”

Pete refrained from mentioning he also didn’t quite trust his predecessor yet, and he’d rather have Froats close where he could keep an eye on him.

Baronick reached across Pete to the glove box, pulled out a walkie-talkie, and handed it to him. “Just in case.”

Pete rammed it into his pocket.

Baronick and Froats climbed out of the car. Pete struggled with his crutches, but heaved himself up on the second try. Another flash of lightning gave them a momentary glimpse of the overgrown yard and dilapidated house. A muggy breeze hissed through the leaves of the massive silver maple.

Baronick led the way. Pete let him. The detective had two free hands for accessing his sidearm. Pete had insisted Froats leave his antique but effective Colt .45 locked up back at the station.

Wilford Engle would’ve had to be deaf to not hear Pete’s cumbersome climb up the rickety steps. But no additional lights flicked on inside. Baronick pounded on the screen door’s frame. “Mr. Engle? Police. We need to talk to you.”

The only response was the wind whispering through the maple’s leaves.

Something wasn’t right. Tension gnawed at Pete’s shoulders, and it was more than the crutches causing it. “Baronick, take the back.”

The detective bounded down the steps. Stopped. Turned back. “What about him?” He heaved a thumb at Froats.

“He’s with me.”

Baronick snorted. “It’s your funeral.”

Pete and Froats leaned against the house, flanking the doorjamb. Pete shifted both crutches to his left side and unholstered his Glock.

“You should have let me bring my gun,” Froats muttered.

“If old man Engle shoots me, you can use mine.”

Froats grunted. 

The walkie-talkie in Pete’s pocket crackled to life. “I’m in position,” Baronick said.

Gun in one hand, crutches in the other, Pete released a growling breath. He holstered his Glock, dug out the walkie-talkie, and tossed it to Froats. “Make yourself useful.”

When Pete was set once again, he nodded to Froats.

“Go,” the retired chief barked into the radio.

Wilford Engle sat in the passenger-side backseat of Patsy’s Tundra with his gun aimed at Harry, who sat to his left. “Pull over here.”

“Here?” Patsy squeaked. “There’s nothing here.”

Every time they’d passed a car going the other way, Zoe, who sat sideways next to Patsy, had a clear view of Engle, his gun, and Harry. Headlights provided snapshots of Harry’s blank stare. Engle’s dark, hard eyes. The evil glint of metal.

Zoe could also make out the strain in Patsy’s face from the glow of the dashboard instruments. What Zoe didn’t need to see was the spot along the game lands road where Engle had ordered Patsy to stop. Zoe knew it intimately. This was where her dad had gone over the hill to his death.

But that memory was a lie. Her dad had already been dead—gunned down by the same old revolver now aimed at Harry.

Engle leaned forward and pressed the muzzle of the gun into Patsy’s neck. “Pull over
now
.”

Patsy let out a small cry, over-steered, and nearly sent them down the hill. But she jammed the brakes, and the Tundra lurched to a stop.

“Turn it off,” Engle ordered.

Trembling, Patsy obeyed.

Zoe’s eyes burned, but she had no time for the luxury of tears.

Harry appeared oblivious, as if he’d been drugged. Had Engle given him something? Or was he simply immersed in his dementia fog?

“Let Harry go.” Zoe held her voice steady. “He’s got Alzheimer’s. He doesn’t remember who you are or where he saw you before.”

As if his name had awakened him, Harry blinked and looked at Zoe.

Crap. This was not the time for a moment of clarity.

“Nadine? Is that you? Thank heavens. Will you please take me home?”

Zoe sighed in relief. “I’m working on it, Pop.” To Engle she said, “See what I mean? He’s harmless. Even if he did say anything, no one would believe him.”

Engle leaned back against the seat, again taking aim at Harry. He appeared to consider it. “You people have been a pain in my ass.”

Puzzled, Zoe asked, “What people?”

The gun stayed on Harry, but Engle’s dark gaze flashed to her. “You’re kin of them Millers, ain’t you?”

“They were my great uncles.”

Engle sniffed in disdain. “They weren’t so great. That son of a bitch Vernie went and seduced my little sister. Got her knocked up. Then he flat out refused to make an honest woman of her. He even had the gall to offer her money to get an abortion. Now tell me. What’s so great about that?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Poor sweet Mae.” His voice wavered. “She’s been gone from this earth forty-four years as of this coming Friday. Mae Flower, I used to call her. Figured she was destined to be an old maid. She was thirty and never had no man make a fuss over her before. But along came that Vernie Miller.” Engle said the name as if it tasted rancid on his tongue. “He was a good ten years older than Mae, more wise to the ways of the world. She thought she loved that son of a bitch. And he broke her heart. Worse. He broke her spirit.”

Zoe tried to imagine. It wasn’t hard. She’d had a few heartbreaks of her own over the years.

“What was I to do? I was her brother. It was up to me to make him pay for what he’d done to her.”

“You killed him?”

Engle sat straighter. “Wasn’t my intention.” As if that made it all right. “I just went to beat on him some. Make him hurt like he’d hurt my sister. But he was a smug bastard. Next thing I knew, my hands were around his throat and he wasn’t moving no more.”

Zoe risked glancing at Harry. He’d retreated into his mental fog again, his head lowered. In the dark, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she guessed they were either closed or looking at his hands. In that moment she realized while searching for her dad, she’d come to love Pete’s as if he were her own. She had to get him to safety. She and Patsy might stand a chance—somehow be able to jump old Wilford—disarm him—but she would not jeopardize Harry’s life. “What about Denver?” she asked. Keep Engle talking.

“He walked in right about then. Must’ve heard the commotion. Saw I’d killed his brother. He had a gun.” Engle held up the revolver. “This gun, as a matter of a fact. We fought over it. It went off and there he was. Dead.” He brought the muzzle back down toward Harry. “You see? I didn’t intend on killing neither of them boys. It was all an accident.”

From the tone of his voice, Zoe figured he didn’t believe that any more than she did.

“I called my brother Jim, and he came over and helped me string Vernie up to look like he’d hung himself. We set it up good. Spread the stories about them boys fighting over that other girl. And I kept this gun as a souvenir. Never know when someone’s gonna need killin’.”

Like her father. Zoe closed her eyes. Slowed her breathing. “Why would Jim go along with it? Why didn’t he tell the truth?”

Engle fell silent for a moment then said, “He wanted to. But he’s my brother. And moreover, Mae was his sister, too. Then when she died giving birth to her daughter, we both hated Vernie even more. It was his fault she died. He deserved what he got.”

A daughter. Mae had a daughter. “What about the baby?”

Engle swung the gun toward Zoe. Even in the darkness, she could make out the gaping black maw aimed at her. But a flash of lightning emphasized the reality of being mere inches away from death.

“Enough with the questions.” Engle waved the gun toward the door. “Get out.” He turned the gun on Patsy. “You, too. And then you help this old buzzard-bait out.”

Zoe released the latch. Eased her door open. This might be her chance. When Engle was climbing out behind her, she could ram his door closed on him. Maybe slam his arm—the one with the gun—in it.

But, no. As Patsy held the driver’s side back door open for Harry, Engle kept the gun aimed at him and slid across the seat to get out on Patsy’s side, too. Zoe stood alone on the passenger side, guardrails and the hill where her father had died behind her. She listened for the sound of an approaching car. Nothing. No one was coming to their aid. And no one knew where they were. She could make a break for it. Run like hell into the night. But that meant leaving Harry and Patsy to fend for themselves. No. Escape wasn’t an option.

“Move.” Engle herded Harry and Patsy toward Zoe. “I want this whole mess to be over. I don’t know why folks can’t leave well enough alone.” He pointed the gun at Zoe again. “First your daddy starts asking questions. Gets everyone wondering about that night. He just wouldn’t shut up. Until I made him.”

The heat rising up Zoe’s neck had nothing to do with the steamy night air. Her fingernails sliced into her palms. Gun or no gun, she wanted to pummel the life out of Wilford Engle.

“And then Kroll started poking around, trying to get Jim to talk,” Engle muttered. “I had to shut him up, too. But the old fool didn’t die. At least not yet. Then this old lamebrain went and spotted me at the hospital—” Engle brought the gun to Harry’s ribs. “I could’ve handled him. He’d have been easy. Knock him over the head. Toss him in a ditch somewhere. Another old mental case wanders off, falls, hits his head, and dies. Happens all the time. Except you two have to show up at my house before I get it done. Now look at the mess I’ve got.”

Harry, oblivious to the conversation going on about him, gazed into the night, his hands shoved into his pockets. The same man who’d killed Zoe’s father now intended to take Pete’s dad from him, too. She could not—would not—let that happen. “Don’t hurt Harry. Let him go. Look at him. He’s not a threat to you.”

“Like hell. He may not remember now, but he might start remembering later. That’s why I had to get rid of Carl. And it’s why I’ll have to finish what I started with Marvin Kroll.”

“But it’s different with Harry. His memory isn’t going to get better. He’s got Alzheimer’s. His memory, what’s left of it, is only going to get worse. Let him go.”

For a moment, Engle seemed to consider it. But then he shook his head. “The only reason I’ve been able to live my life the way I want is because I made sure no one talked.” He gave a raspy sigh. “I can see, though, that I’m going about this all wrong. I was going to take care of the old man first and then you two. Now that’s not gonna fly. You’re right. He’s fairly harmless. But I don’t think you two gals are gonna stand by while I club him like a baby seal.”

Damn right.

Engle brought the revolver around, aiming it square at Zoe. Patsy cried out from behind her. For the second time in only a few minutes, Zoe faced the business end of Wilford Engle’s gun.

“You know what they say.” Engle chuckled. “Ladies first.”

Like a statue come to life, Harry threw himself at Engle. The flash from the muzzle momentarily blinded Zoe at the same instant the blast exploded in her ears. Patsy screamed. Harry had Engle by the wrists. Wrestled him for the gun.

Zoe staggered forward, wanting to help. Harry was bigger. He should be able to take Engle down.

The gun fired a second shot. This time the flash and the blast were muffled. Harry groaned. His knees buckled. And he slid to the ground.

Thirty-One

“This place sure is homey.” Sarcasm oozed from Froats’ voice.

He and Pete stood in the middle of Wilford Engle’s stifling kitchen. Overhead, floorboards creaked as Baronick searched the rest of the house. “My pop said this place gave him the heeby-jeebies,” Pete said.

The lack of any call from Zoe about Harry added to Pete’s gut feeling that something was very wrong here. His father’s voice and observation rising through the inner chaos didn’t help. Pete pulled out his phone as Baronick’s boots echoed
thud thud thud
down the stairs from the second floor.

“All clear,” the detective called out.

Pete pressed Zoe’s number into the phone. It rang and rang, finally going to voice mail. “Where are you? Call me.”

Froats peered in the kitchen sink and shuddered. “Who’re you trying to reach?”

“Zoe.”

Baronick, wearing gloves and pinching a sheet of paper, appeared in the living room doorway. “She find your old man yet?”

Pete wished he knew. He pointed at the paper. “What’s that?”

Baronick waved it in the air. “James Engle was a very prolific writer.”

“Another letter?”

“Yep.” The detective strode into the kitchen and smoothed the page on the table top. “And they keep getting better and better.”

Pete dug out his reading glasses, rammed them on his face, and leaned over the table.

Dear Wilford,

By the time you read this I can only assume you will know I do not have cancer.

What I do have is a heavy burden of guilt for what you and I have done. I’ve often told you over the years that I wanted us to confess to our sins, but you, dear brother, would have none of it. I wanted you to believe I was a dying man with one dying wish: that you should admit it was you who killed the Miller brothers and Gary Chambers.

But you refuse to grant my “final request.”

Years ago, I swore on our mother’s grave that I would never betray you. But I cannot go on living with the knowledge that I took part in your madness. Without going back on my oath to you, I’ve tried to make some of it right with the survivors.

You should know by taking my own life in the same manner as we staged Vernon Miller’s “suicide” and in the same spot, I hope to get the attention of someone who remembers and whose curiosity might drive them to look into the past and discover the truth.

I implore you to confess. Turn yourself in. Certainly, the legal system will go easy on an old man.

Please forgive me.

Your brother,

Jim

Froats, who had been reading over Pete’s shoulder, let out a low whistle. “Where’d you find it?”

“In an envelope on his dresser.” Baronick picked up the letter and slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag. “I recognized the handwriting from the other letters. By the way—it was postmarked last Wednesday.”

“The same day he hung himself.” The letter may have offered a solid answer to many of the questions that had plagued Pete over the past week, but it did nothing to quell the unease building in his gut. “Does Engle own another vehicle?”

“Nothing that’s registered.”

“So either he’s here somewhere, or he caught a ride.” Pete stared at the phone. Noticed the symbol indicating he had a message. The call he’d ignored earlier.

He pressed the button to retrieve it. While he waited for the automated prompts, he said, “Check outside. The garage. The barn. I think I remember a workshop out back.”

Baronick handed the evidence to Pete and headed for the rear door. “On it.” 

The voice on the recording sent Pete reeling. He caught his balance on the tacky kitchen counter. “Pete? It’s Zoe. I have a problem. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think Wilford Engle might have something to do with the shootings. At least Mr. Kroll’s.” There was a pause. When she continued, her voice trembled. “I’m afraid he might have snatched Harry. Patsy and I are on our way to Wilford’s place now. I’ll call you when we find him. I’m so sorry, Pete.”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Froats demanded.

Pete gripped the counter. He should have taken that call. How long had it been? Zoe must have already been here and gone. Engle had Harry. Where were they?

Pete pressed Zoe’s number again. It rang. Rang again. So the phone wasn’t turned off. Why wasn’t she answering? Wait. He glanced at the phone. She’d called from a different number. He fumbled with the menu buttons. Pulled up the number from that last call and dialed. Like Zoe’s, it rang until going to voicemail. At the tone, he shouted into the cell. “Damn it, Zoe. Call me. Now.”

The last time he hadn’t been able to reach her by phone—last winter—she’d been facing down a killer. He prayed history wasn’t repeating itself.

But his gut told him otherwise.

Froats stepped in front of Pete, getting in his face. “What’s going on?”

Pete stared into the old chief’s eyes. “You worked those cases. You knew these people. If Wilford Engle were going to take someone somewhere—to kill them—where would he go?”