The White River Killer: A Mystery Novel (26 page)

Hubbard fell to his knees and cradled his head in his hands. “Was Luis telling the truth?”

Maria’s voice was filled with anguish. “I . . . don’t know.”

Hubbard felt his face flush and became aware of the dull buzz in his ears from the gunshot. “I can’t do this. I
have
to know this time. Luis is right. Foxcroft will deny it . . . I don’t have any evidence. It can’t be like before. Not a second time.
No. No. No
!” He pounded his fist into the ground.

Maria dropped to the ground and put her arms around Hubbard, trying to ease a pain she couldn’t understand.

“I’m got to find Foxcroft. I’ve have to know.” Hubbard stood abruptly and looked down at her.
“Rich man
. . . Don’t you understand? Don’t you see?

Maria rose, clutching his arm, pulling him back. “No! What? How can you make him tell you? Nothing could make him confess to a murder.”

Hubbard pulled free. “I can make him. He’ll tell me. No matter how long it takes, I won’t stop. You see, I have
one
thing that I’m good at . . . I’ll going to beat the truth out of him.”

Hubbard headed for his truck, ignoring Maria’s pleas for him to stop.

I’m sorry, Maria. You’re a good person
. . .
I’m not
. . .
Someone will be dead before nightfall. I just don’t know who yet.

29

E
VERYONE
N
EEDS A
H
OBBY

T
HE DRIVE GAVE
H
UBBARD TIME
to reconsider Luis’s forced identification of Foxcroft as the Arab’s murderer. Foxcroft thought Amy needed protection from Amir?

It didn’t add up.

Carla Jo and Missy had told him that Amy had a close friendship with Amir. Also, Amy had been devastated upon hearing that Amir had been killed. Not the reaction of someone who had been hurt by him in some way.

Protecting his daughter? She was in Europe at the time of the murder. If Amir had posed any threat to Amy before, she was safeguarded by her extended visit to Europe. There was no hint of a motive that would compel a deacon in the fundamentalist Baptist Church to fire a shotgun at point blank range.

The contractor’s home was outside of town. Dill Foxcroft was of the same generation as R.J. He was a big man, with thick white hair that he combed back over his head. Hubbard didn’t know Foxcroft well. It seemed that Foxcroft and R.J. were always at odds about one thing or the other. Whatever the reason for that conflict, Foxcroft had expanded his contempt to include his nephew, making Hubbard’s previous interactions with the contractor brief and somewhat brittle. Of course, it was typical for Hubbard’s relationships to be colored by the doppelganger of his uncle.

As Hubbard turned onto Foxcroft’s long, brick-paved driveway, he anticipated the first question that the older man might ask upon the intrusion at his home by R.J. Hubbard’s nephew. He expected a warm greeting such as ‘Why the hell are you here?’ He didn’t have a ready response. ‘To accuse you of murder,’ wasn’t the best conversation starter. He realized grimly that if he was going to make any headway with Foxcroft he would have to take a more direct. . . more forceful approach. It would be messy. Hubbard didn’t care about that, as long as it led to the truth. Truth, at least for this murder, might help him find peace.

He approached the final turn that would lead him out of the thick pines and reveal the Foxcroft compound. The grounds included a large home and three impressive outbuildings that housed all the old man’s toys.

Hubbard’s heart began to pound. There was part of him, the part that paid bills, kept promises, and tried and sometimes failed to do the right thing, which rebelled at what he was about to do. Hubbard felt his nausea rise, but not enough to stop.

He made the final turn and the Foxcroft estate was revealed in its gauche glory. The clearing held a faux Colonial-style home, partially encircled by three mismatched outbuildings. His eyes were drawn to the metal building that housed Foxcroft’s workshop. Directly outside the door into the building, next to a green picnic table, Dill Foxcroft was bent over, working a power saw, trying to push through a thick board. The wood plank was clamped to a saw horse and extended to the table which helped support the board’s weight. It looked like a surprisingly improvised solution for a man who owned a complete workshop. Immersed in his task, he didn’t seem to notice Hubbard as he parked on the drive, thirty yards away.

Hubbard got out, closed the door and leaned back against the side of the vehicle, folding his arms across his chest. He glanced at the big house. It couldn’t see anyone inside. Foxcroft was a widower, and his daughter was on the other side of the Atlantic. He returned his attention to Foxcroft, still struggling to push the saw through a board resisting the progress of the blade.

Foxcroft finished the cut, set the circular saw down, carefully separated the boards, and pulled off his protective gear. His hand wiped away the sweat on his forehead before he spotted Hubbard getting out of the pickup.

The old man met his gaze and took a deep breath. He didn’t say anything; but simply returned Hubbard’s steady gaze, his own face expressionless. He offered no words of welcome or irritated objections at his appearance. Just silence.

Hubbard felt a chill race down his spine.
He knows why I’m here.

Foxcroft turned his head toward the ground. When he looked up, he made a weak attempt at a smile. “Had to get out in the fresh air. Been working all day, the dust is playing havoc with my sinuses. You need to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” Hubbard called back. “It appears that I do. I think you know why.”

Foxcroft feigned a brief quizzical look, and then pointed to the door of his workshop. “Well, you’ll have to talk to me while I work. I’m trying to get something done.” Without waiting for an answer, Foxcroft walked inside the workshop without looking back to check if Hubbard was following him.

The afternoon sun was moving toward the horizon. Sunlight highlighted the top of Foxcroft’s white head with a gold-colored cap before he disappeared inside.
How old is he? Sixty? Can I really stomach beating the truth out of an old man . . . I’ve become someone I don’t know. Someone I don’t like.

As Hubbard walked toward the building, he wanted there to be another way to get this done. He would try to talk to him. If that didn’t work . . .

In the doorway, he stood for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the interior light. The workshop was big, perhaps forty feet by twenty. There were almost a dozen projects lining the walls, wooden boats, china cabinets, and other furniture waiting to be finished.

At the far end of the metal building, Foxcroft stood behind his work bench. White peg boards on his right and left held dozens of vintage tools, each tool labeled underneath.

Foxcroft leaned against the tall workbench, one arm draped over the side. “You know, just because your last name is Hubbard doesn’t give you the right to just show up unannounced and uninvited.”

Hubbard nodded, but didn’t respond immediately. He felt an unexpected anxiety flood over him. This felt all wrong. Foxcroft stood at other end of the long building, waiting expectantly, a phony expression of calm on his face, like a spider waiting for a fly to feel safe enough to enter its web. “Sometimes . . . it’s necessary.”

“Well, since you’re here. Let me show you my latest project. Come closer.” He waved his hand at the wood stacked on the work table. “See these boards—old growth mahogany. You don’t see wood with tight grain like this anymore, had a devil of a time trying to make a straight cut. ”

“I want to talk to you about Amir Abadi and your daughter.”

Foxcroft looked up from his precious wooden boards and his mouth tightened. He shifted his position, leaning back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Hubbard began moving forward, taking his time to cover the distance between them. “I think you do,” he said. “You paid Luis a lot of money to dump the body and then give me hell when you thought I was close to uncovering the truth.” Hubbard tried a bluff. “He’s making a statement to the sheriff right now.”

“Statement?’ Foxcroft seemed momentarily surprised, and then recovered his air of righteous indignation. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. Coming here and making an accusation like that. Doesn’t Luis work for your uncle? Is that what this is about? You’re trying to put the blame on me for something your uncle did? You never learn, do you? You’ll protect him on anything. Even murdering your own—”

“Shut up.”

“Okay. Sure. I’ll shut up. Don’t want you to go all crazy on me. That’s what most people think about you, isn’t it? Or do most people think you’re just a pitiful drunk. I guess it’s a tossup.”

Hubbard felt his hand ball into a fist. He forced it to relax. Foxcroft was goading him, trying to distract him. He had to focus “What horrible thing did Amir do to make you forget a lifetime of Sundays sitting in the Baptist Church?”

Foxcroft’s face twisted in scorn. “Who are you to talk to me about my faith? If that crazy Mexican
is
talking to Toil or the state police, which I doubt, let them come ask me their questions. Let’s see whose word they believe. I had no reason to kill that student.”

Hubbard looked down at his boots; they were coated in a thin layer of sawdust— covered like the rug Amir was wrapped in.
This is where he was killed
. He returned his attention to Foxcroft. “Oh, I think you had a motive. Or at least you thought you did. Why did your daughter take the sudden trip to Europe? A trip none of her friends knew about until she was on her way to the airport. No one goes on a long holiday overseas, for several months in fact, without making plans, talking to friends . . .” Hubbard stopped. Several months.
How many months?

“It was a gift. A surprise trip to Europe for her graduation. Of course, she had to leave a little early, but the school was accommodating. They bend over backward when it’s your name on their new Fine Arts Building.”

Hubbard nodded. “Yeah, I bet. And she’ll return at the end of the year. Or maybe a tad after that.” It all made sense now. She would return in nine months.

“What are you implying?”

“You’re a very traditional man, aren’t you? Is that why Amir was here early on a Sunday morning, dressed in a blue suit? Was he trying to convince an old-fashioned man with family values that he wanted to do the honorable thing?”

“He was never here.”

“Oh, I think he was. And I think he was on his way to
your church to convert to Christianity
—that’s why he had that blue suit on. He was going to win you over by answering the call at the end of the service. How’d that make you feel? Not any better than his own family, I suspect. That’s why his family wrote him off. They had no room in their life for a Christian, just like you had no room—”

Foxcroft’s fist came down on the workbench. “That’s a lie. I didn’t know him. I told you.”

“Well, your daughter certainly knew him, knew him in the biblical sense, which is kind of ironic. What’s the matter? Were you concerned that he might tell the members of your congregation why he was turning his life over to the Lord? Tell everyone that your daughter was carrying his child?”

“Goddamn you and your lies. You have no proof of any of this. You’re slandering my daughter’s good name!”

Hubbard scratched his head. “One thing I don’t get. Why did he let you put a shotgun against his chest without a struggle? Did he think you were bluffing? Did he think it was a test of his courage or character or whatever to prove he was worthy of the love of your only child? Oh, he was
so
young if he believed that.”

“Get out of here, Hubbard. If the police have any questions for me, let them come and ask them. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“Okay. But they won’t need to ask you any questions. Your daughter is carrying all the DNA proof they need in her belly. You sent your daughter to Europe so that she could have the baby, give it up for adoption, and then return here with no one the wiser. Isn’t that right? Just like the old days. Because abortion is murder, but murder of adults is . . . justifiable? . . . Tell me, what are the depths of your convictions? Will you call your daughter now and tell her it’s okay to get an abortion to protect you?” Hubbard turned toward the door; he only made it a few steps.

“Stop.”

Hubbard heard the unmistakable sound of the hammer being cocked. He turned back, holding his breath.

Foxcroft pointed a sawed-off shotgun at Hubbard. Where the hell had he hid it?

“I carry a lot of money, and this rides with me in the truck. You wouldn’t stop, would you?” Foxcroft’s voice had lost its anger. There was a sickening calm to it. The old man came around the bench.

Hubbard took a step back. “People know where I am.”

“No. I don’t think anyone does. You came here on your own.”

Hubbard caught himself before he blurted out Maria’s name. The sick bastard would hunt her down and kill her after he had finished with him. He realized that anyone he named as knowing his whereabouts would be put in jeopardy.
What the hell have I done? I know the truth. Where’s the relief in knowing?

“Stay there. It will be quick. It will be easy, if you stand still.” Foxcroft kept moving forward, the gun pointed at Hubbard’s chest.

Hubbard continued to back away. “I’m not one to judge. But what the hell does your preacher say on Sunday morning? Have you been listening to him?” When would Foxcroft get tired of this game and pull the trigger? Should he charge the old man and hope for the best? He tried to keep his breathing under control.
Don’t panic. Talk your way out of this.

“The Lord knows what’s in my heart.”

“I don’t doubt that. But do you think he’d be pleased at what he sees there?”

“Do you know who that Arab trash was? He’s the son of a goddamn murderer, a terrorist. He’s evil. No one can blame me. He deserved what he got. My daughter’s life would have been destroyed if she married him.”

Foxcroft stopped and shook his head with genuine sorrow. “I’m sorry . . . I told Luis not to hurt you. Just scare you off. You can’t say I didn’t
try
to save your life. There’s no other way now.”

“I have a daughter, too. Please, you can’t do this.”

Tears began to roll down Foxcroft’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’ll ensure that your daughter’s taken care of.
Forgive me. Forgive me. Oh, Lord forgive me
.” Foxcroft sighted down the barrel.