The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (23 page)

Harper’s words were blubbery. “But he deserves to know the truth.”

“Why do you think he’d believe you? Think of what you’d tell him: ‘Tom Cole shot Frank from an incredibly great distance into a moving vehicle and hit him dead center in the chest
all by accident.’
No one would believe that.
I
was the one who was the crack shot. Tom Cole couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from ten feet.”

R.J. circled the desk and spun Harper around in his chair, leaning in to him, getting a firm grip on Harper’s shoulders. “And why would you think John Riley would take the word of an alcoholic preacher
or me?
The truth told now would just seem like the desperate ploy of a dying man.”

“You don’t know that . . .
Please, you’re hurting me.
”

“You don’t know how it would turn out either. Remember it didn’t work out the way you thought seventeen years ago. Look, I made a decision a long time ago. If John Riley asked me the question directly, I’d tell him whatever he wanted to know . . .
and it’s not pretty
. But until that time, I won’t risk it. He’s the only family I have. Let
me
die in peace
or
I’ll see that
you
die in peace. Got it?”

R.J. released him and returned to the front of Harper’s desk. He knew Harper was beat; he was almost prostrate in his chair. “If I don’t make it off the operating table you
may
think that you’re free to say whatever you want. But remember what happened with Tom Cole. If John Riley thinks it’s a lie,
another damn lie,
then you’ll only make this horrible thing worse.”

R.J.’s cell phone rang. He drew it out of his pocket and looked at the display. He mumbled to himself. “So many loose ends and I’m running out of time.”

“What’s wrong?”

“John Riley’s got to stop.
I’ve got to make him stop
.”

“Stop what?”

R.J. waved off the question and put the phone back in his pocket. “I’ll get this outside.” He walked to the doorway.

Harper stood abruptly, causing his chair to roll back against the office wall. He pointed to the bloody tackle box. “But what about this? What do you want me to do with it?”

R.J. looked at the foul object. “If I’m dead next week, just bury it with me.”

26

T
HE
N
UCLEAR
O
PTION

I
T WAS
M
ONDAY MORNING
and the skies were clear, perfect weather to get something done. But Hubbard had compelling reasons to stay out of the freshly planted fields and near the kitchen where Maria was. Since the discovery of a shared language, he found there was more to her than met the eye—although what met the eye was plenty.

Casting about for something to do that kept him near the farmhouse, he took a short trip to town to buy a new overhead light for the porch to replace the one destroyed by the weekend’s trespasser. After he tightened the last screw, he came down the step ladder, and reached inside the door to flick the switch. He stood for a moment on the porch staring up at the new fixture, admiring his handiwork.
You know, some extra security lighting might be—

The milk globe above him shattered violently. He cried out in alarm and his arm rose to shield his eyes. He froze in place for a moment, and then he lowered his arm, brushing bits of glass off his shirt to the deck of the porch.

“Daddy?” It was Emily’s concerned voice from the kitchen.

Hubbard took a quick breath to settle down and called back to her. “It’s okay; I guess I crossed the wrong wires.”

The top pane of the living room window broke apart, glass clattered to the ground, and the wood siding over the front door splintered. For the first time, Hubbard heard gunshots behind him. Instinctively, he spun around and into a fighter’s stance, his hands turned into fists.

Two men marched toward the house from the tree line at the edge of his property. Both of them wore ski masks and the paper painter coveralls they sold at the
E-Z Fix
Hardware
store. The masked men broke into a sprint toward him, raising their rifles. Hubbard was so dumbfounded by the bizarre spectacle that his first reaction was only to open his mouth in shock. Once again, the men fired. The bullets slammed into the porch roof just over his head.

Frightened cries of “Monsieur Hub-birrrd!” and “Daddy!” came from inside the house, bringing him to his senses. His heart pounding, he turned to the door in time to prevent Maria from coming onto the porch with Emily trailing behind her.

He held up his hands. “No, no, no! Go inside. Go inside.” He spun them around, while looking back to see the progress of the twin shooters on his lawn. His heart went to his throat; they were closing the distance to his house too quickly. He slammed the door and locked it, just as two more bullets shattered the front windows and thudded into the living room walls. The woman and child looked up at him, panic in their eyes, waiting for him to tell them what to do.

He slung his daughter over his shoulder and grabbed Maria’s hand. “C’mon, this way.” He carried Emily through the house, towing Maria along.

“La police,” Maria said, as they passed the kitchen.

He heard a foot kick against the locked front door. “No time. Keep moving. We’ve got to get out of here.”

They burst out the back door, went down the three steps and into the backyard. Hubbard glanced back and forth across his flat fields. There was nowhere to run that a bullet couldn’t reach. He took Emily off his shoulder. Maybe Maria and Emily could make a run for it while he held the two men at bay.
No.
They would make short work of him and then take them both down with rifle fire. He had to think.
Of course
.

“There!” He pointed to his grandfather’s old bomb shelter which served as storage space for his vegetables.
If it can lock out an atom bomb
. . . “C’mon!” They ran to the small, partially-buried structure and Hubbard yanked open the solid, cast-iron door.

Maria took Emily by the hand and they scrambled down the three steps to the dank interior. They turned around when they realized that he hadn’t followed.

“Keep this door closed,” Hubbard said. He pointed back at the house. “When they come out the back door, I’m going to—” Maria and Emily bounded back up the steps to pull him in. He pushed back. “No. You stay safe in here . . .”

They now appeared more frightened than ever, eyes widening, pulling Hubbard toward the steps. “No,” they cried out in unison. Hubbard didn’t know what he planned to do when the masked men exited the house firing their rifles, but hiding was cowardly. The females ignored his instructions and attached themselves to Hubbard, Emily grabbing one leg, Maria wrapping her arms around his chest.

Two bullets smashed into the back door, splintering their way outside. Hubbard gave in to reason. “Okay, okay. Let’s get inside.”

Not trusting him to follow, they got behind him and pushed him down into the bomb shelter. Once they were inside, Hubbard reached back, closed the shelter door, and latched it, keeping his hand on it for security. They stood there a moment, breathing heavily, listening for more gun shots or any other sounds coming from the two men. Only silence. Hubbard squeezed Emily’s shoulders, and brought her closer to him.

With a start, Hubbard remembered his cell phone. He pulled it from his pocket and looked at the screen. No service inside the thick concrete walls. Maria took hers out and looked at it. Her eyes met his and she shook her head.

Emily began weeping, her shoulders trembling.

Hubbard searched for comforting words. “You’re okay, Emily. This old shelter has a
written guarantee
to withstand . . .”

Maria started speaking in an agitated French-Spanish-English gumbo of languages. “Quit sont-ils? Esos hombres? Who mauvaise gentlemen? Tears streamed down her cheek. “Il s’agit d’dun enfant!”

Hubbard looked around the tight confines of the shelter and felt a new sense of dread.
What if I’m wrong?
He didn’t quite get all of Maria’s questions, but he knew the Arab kid’s murder was behind this. He wanted to shout out to the men, ‘I don’t know anything,’ but that would be a futile gesture. His hands became fists, he hated this helpless feeling. He ached to fight.

Two rounds slammed into the cast iron door, startling him and causing him to drop his hand from the latch for a moment, then he reached back to grasp it. Emily cried out, covering her ears. Maria pulled Emily away from the door and encircled her in her arms. Again and again, bullets crashed into the metal door, each strike echoing in the small space. The two men had to know that their bullets had no effect, but must be sadistically enjoying the terror they created inside the shelter.

The firing stopped. There was an eerie quiet.
Did they give up?

Hubbard felt an upward pressure on the latch in his hand, as if it wanted to be released. Someone on the outside was pulling up on it, trying to open the door. He pressed down, marshaling all his strength. The old latch was thick and heavy, but it was covered in rust.

It might break apart.

He leaned into it, making a small noise of exertion as his effort increased against the upward pressure. He heard Maria gasp as she realized there was a real danger that the door handle could give way.

Emily buried her face into Maria, wrapping her arms around her. Hubbard fought to ignore his emotions welling up inside him from his daughter’s anguish. He had to think clearly if they were going to get out of there alive.

He looked up at the gray concrete roof. The only natural light in the shelter came from two air pipes that allowed a small view of blue skies. A long time ago, the lead pipes had the ability to be sealed air tight, but the gaskets were long gone. Even if he could take his hand away from the door handle, a glimpse of blue skies would tell him nothing.

After an agonizing minute, the pressure on the handle ceased. He thought he caught some muffled words from outside. The exchange was rapid, but indistinct.

The thugs’ excited conversation could mean they had hit upon a new plan of attack. He kept his hand pressing down on the handle and waited. In this pause, his head bowed with guilt.
I’m responsible for this. I didn’t listen to anyone. I didn’t give up when I should have.

His head rose. No time for this. His eyes went to Emily. “Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’s got this.” He prayed she bought into his bravura.

“Who are they? Why are they so
mean?”

“I don’t know. But when I find out, they’ll never do this again. I promise.”

There was a noise above him in the air pipes and the concrete interior grew darker. Hubbard leaned forward, trying to see what was happening while keeping his hand on the latch. He pointed to a light switch by Maria. She turned it on and a single bulb burned overhead.

Maria patted Emily’s shoulder, and broke away from her to look up into the ventilation. Her hand went to her mouth, and she turned to Hubbard. “Tuyau d’incendie”, she said.

Fire hoses?
No.
They were putting the
irrigation
hoses into the air intake tubes. A new feeling of horror came over him as he realized what would come next.

Water cascaded into shelter, pumped from his stock pond, the pressure steadily increasing. Emily screamed as the icy water splashed against her legs. Maria lifted her up on a bench and tried to shield her from the freezing water.

Hubbard’s chest tightened as he saw how quickly it covered the entire floor. The powerful irrigation pumps could deliver hundreds of gallons a minute if turned up to full volume. The small shelter had concrete walls three feet thick—watertight. The pumps would overwhelm the small floor drain and water would rise to the ceiling in minutes, drowning them inside.

Maria’s eyes met Hubbard’s. He could see from the alarm on her face that she understood the motive behind the water flooding the compartment and the probable result.

He had no other choice.

It was impossible to be heard over the roar of water. He beckoned to Maria to come to him. She nodded and took Emily by the hand and they slogged through the rising water and root vegetables floating on the surface, released from their wicker storage baskets. His arms encircled them both. He pressed his face against Maria’s soft cheek and spoke into her ear, hoping she could hear his French through the deafening cascade of water.

“Okay. We have to go out before it rises any higher. They’ll be expecting me to run away from them,
not charge them
. I’ll draw their fire—”

Maria tried to say something, to object to the suicidal plan.

“No. Please, listen to me. There’s a path on the other side of the road at the front of the house that leads to the Gibbons’s farm. You can’t find it unless you know where it is. It’s hidden by tall brush. Emily uses it all the time, she’ll show you. Once you’re on that path, keep running.”

Maria leaned away to face him. Her face flushed with emotion. “No, I won’t leave you.”

“You have to. After all this, um, after it’s over, please tell Emily to not think about this day, just all the other days. She’ll miss so much if she’s always looking back.”

His brow creased at his own words. What was he telling her? Who was he to talk? His life was just the echo of a gunshot delivered years ago . . . now it was over.

Maria must have seen the pain in his expression. She touched his face.

He couldn’t explain his actions; maybe it was because he had nothing left to lose. He took Maria in his arms and he kissed her.

Momentarily surprised, she soon returned it with the same urgency.

He forced himself to stop. He took her lovely face in his hands and held it like it was a precious jewel. “I promise you. I won’t go down until you’re out of the yard and on your way. You can count on me. No matter how many times I’m . . . I won’t fall until you’re both away from here. A .22 bullet is like a bee sting. It’s nothing.”

He bent down and pulled Emily to him and kissed her, switching to English. “Emily, we’re all going to run to the Gibbons’s farm. We’ll be safe there. You’re going to lead the way.
You’ve got to lead Maria
. I’ll be right behind you both, keeping those bad men away, so don’t worry about them. Keep running as fast as you can until you get Maria to the Gibbons’s farm. She needs
you
to show her the way. Without
you,
she’s lost.
So run, run, run
.”

Emily’s eyes opened wide, unsure that she could do as asked. She looked up a Maria, but her new responsibility didn’t overwhelm her, but actually seemed to help her manage her fear. She took Maria’s hand and nodded that she understood.

Hubbard blinked a few times.

Maria wailed a loud, “Noooo,” of protest, raising her arms, swinging them broadly in frustration. She waded through the rising water and shouted upward defiantly at the roaring waterfall. Her words were in Spanish, something about a child.

“They can’t hear you over the water,” he called. Even if they did, they wouldn’t care. We have to do this now!”

Maria’s face was twisted by her distress. “No!”

Under pressure, Hubbard had trouble finding the words in French. “You—have to—help my daughter survive. Please! I beg you!”

She stood there motionless, breathing heavily, and then her shoulders dropped and she nodded with grim understanding. She waded back to him by the door.