Nest in the Ashes (20 page)

“But why, Jackie? That’s what I want to know. Why kill him?”

“Do you think it was easy living with him?” She stared toward Eric, looking right through him. “The Alzheimer’s changed Wayne. There were times he didn’t know us anymore.” She moved away from the desk and closed the French doors leading to the dining room. “Nora Frank wanted to have him fired. He had two years left, two years. There’s no way he could have lasted that long. We would have lost his full pension. Tamara wouldn’t have been able to go to college.” Jackie latched the doors. “She simply couldn’t bear the thought.”

Her words triggered a memory. He and Wayne hunkered down behind a bush in a park campground, being charged by a mother bear. A mother bear protecting her cub. In the flash of a memory, Eric knew the truth.

“It wasn’t you up
on Eagle Cliff Mountain, was it? It was Tamara.”

Jackie flashed Eric a thin smile, then gestured for him to sit down. “She did us all a favor, you know. Wayne didn’t want to live like that. I couldn’t help him. I loved him too selfishly. He told us both, ‘The best thing that could happen now, the best thing for all of us, is for me to die. And preferably on the job.’ Don’t you see, he asked her to kill him. Tamara loved her daddy with a purity of heart only the young can define, and she did what her daddy asked her to do.”

“Are you saying she helped him commit suicide?”

“In a sense.” Jackie’s gun arm trembled, and she braced it with her free hand. “She followed him up there, unsure about his plans but prepared to help him make it look like he died in a fire. She took an emergency flare from her car.”

That explains the nail, thought Eric. “What happened then?”

“Wayne was testing for moisture on an incline, and his balance wasn’t good,” she said, gesturing toward the couch again, this time with the barrel of the gun. “Tamara pushed him. He fell and hit his head. She thought he was dead, so she started the fire. Then she stuck the fusee in his hand and left.”

Which explained the fusee residue on Wayne’s glove.

Eric moved slowly toward the couch. “She murdered her own father, Jackie. She needs help. You both need help.”

“What sort of help, Eric? The sort we’d get in prison?” She uttered a brittle laugh. “My baby doesn’t belong in prison. She belongs at Harvard or Yale. She was valedictorian of this year’s class, or didn’t you know?”

Eric knew.

“Put the gun down, Jackie,” he said. “Everyone knows I came here to see you. It’s over. If you shoot me, they’ll know you did it.”

“But I can tell them my version of what happened, which means I can still save my baby.” Jackie’s finger teased the trigger. “It’s the only choice you’ve given me.”

Eric’s eyes searched the room for a way out. Jackie had locked the French doors leading to the dining room, which left only the entrance to the hall open. Unfortunately, she stood between him and there. And while ducking behind the couch might buy him a little time, she had only to squeeze the trigger a second time.

Wait!
Jackie had pulled the gun from the Queen Anne’s desk, but who had put it there? Wayne? He had kept loaded guns around the house for protection. He also
always
left the first round blank.

Eric prayed the Alzheimer’s hadn’t affected Wayne’s routines. It was his only hope.

“I’m sorry, Eric.” Jackie’s eyes shone. Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I didn’t know the sacrifices we’d all have to make when I asked you to help us.”

Then she didn’t know it was Tamara when she first asked him to help her find Wayne’s killer.

“When did you figure it out?” he asked.

“I found the psychrometer in her jeans pocket while I was doing laundry.”

The front door opened, and Tamara came in. “Hi, Mama, I’m home.”

In a panic, Jackie turned away from Eric. “I’m in the living room, honey, but don’t come in here, please. I have a surprise for you. I don’t want you to spoil it.”

Now was his chance. Eric leaped for the gun.

Jackie whirled back around and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a click.

Eric made another leap. Jackie squeezed the trigger again, drawing back the hammer. He batted her arm to the side. The gun fired.

Tamara screamed, her shrill voice piercing the air. Jackie stared in horror. Tamara hadn’t done what her mother had told her. Instead, she’d made a beeline for the living room.

Tamara dropped to the floor, and the gun dropped from Jackie’s hand. The woman sank to her knees beside her daughter.

“Tamara. Oh my God, my baby.” Jackie stroked her daughter’s hair away from her face. “I’m sorry. Oh my God, what have I done?”

Eric pulled into the Beaver Meadows turnaround bright and early. Lark was waiting for him. She sat on the tailgate of her pickup, watching the sun tint the mountains pink in the dawn of the day.

“Coffee?” She held out a thermal mug.

“Thanks.” He sipped the dark roast, then scooted up beside her, letting his feet dangle.

“How’s Tamara?” she asked, kicking her feet and letting them swing.

“She took a bullet to the shoulder. She’ll live.”

“Ah,” Lark said. “A soap and water wound.”

“No, it was worse than that. She needed surgery. And stitches. And she also found herself a good lawyer. From what I hear, in addition to defending her in the criminal trial, she had the attorney file a lawsuit against Jackie for reckless endangerment.”

Lark smiled and sipped her coffee. With her head bent, the early morning sun warmed her hair to a shade of golden honey. “What’s going to happen to them?”

Eric forced his gaze to the meadow. “They’re going to jail.”

“And Paxton?” Lark pulled her blue flannel shirt closer around her.

“Cold?” he asked, draping his arm about her shoulders. She snuggled in closer.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Paxton gets off.”

“Completely?”

Eric nodded. “The way Vic explained it, Paxton didn’t commit any crime. He piled wood with intent, but he never lit the fire, and there’s nothing in the Colorado statutes that says piling wood is a crime.”

“What about the tape Vic found?”

“Jackie Devlin planted it there. Paxton went to see Verbiscar, but he never actually connected.”

Lark took another sip of coffee. “So, how is she?”

“Verbiscar?” Eric rubbed his hand up and down Lark’s arm. “She’s healing. I hear they’re going to let her out of the hospital soon. And, apparently, the network is going to give her a shot at the early morning broadcast. Trust me, she’ll dine out on this story for years.”

A car pulled up to the turnaround, and Eric lifted his arm from Lark’s shoulder. The rest of the participating EPOCH members had arrived. Dorothy MacBean and Cecilia Meyer came first, followed by Andrew and Opal Henderson. And, as they unloaded their birding equipment, Harry Eckles showed up with Gertie Tanager.

“Give us the lowdown, Eric,” said Andrew. “What exactly do you want us to do?”

“I want us to fan out across the meadow. The purpose of the study is to determine the impact of fire on avian populations. We know that some birds fare better than others after a fire. We expect to see declines in some bird species and increases in others. And we expect there will be some species that disappear completely and never return.”

“Like the green-tailed towhee?”

“That’s my fear.” Eric looped his binoculars around his neck and picked up his field notebook. “In addition to the birds you spot, would you please jot down the types of live vegetation you see, and make notes of any other wildlife or invertebrates spotted in the area—beetles, squirrels, rabbits?” He scanned the faces. “Questions?”

Gertie’s hand shot up. “How long do you want us to stay out there?” She gestured toward the meadow.

“Half a day. Longer if you’re up for it.” He glanced around. “Anyone else?”

No one said anything.

“Let’s get going, then.” Eric stepped off the berm, and the meadow spread before them—a charred blanket of ash and burned bushes. The late-spring snow had encouraged some of the unburned grass to green up, and spots of the meadow already showed signs of recovery. Too bad the forested area rebound as quickly, he thought.

He’d gone thirty feet, then spotted the bush where he’d seen the green-tailed towhee building its nest prior to the burn. The charred branches of antelope bitterbrush stuck up in brittle spikes, ready to be felled by the first puff of wind.

Drawing closer, Eric could see that the back side of the plant was still green. He jotted down the observation, and a flash of movement caught his eye. He studied the bush and spotted another flash of orange.

“Lark,” he called in a stage whisper. “Everybody. Check this out.”

The group gathered.

“Remember I told you I was worried about the green-tailed towhee?”

They nodded.

He pointed to the bush. “They stayed.” He smiled at the others. “Check it out. They’re building a nest in the ashes.”