'Til Death (A Rebel Ridge Novel) (25 page)

Linc was shouting now. “You’re talking now, but you sat in the
courtroom and let people tell lies about me. You knew all of this, and just sat
and let a seventeen-year-old kid take the blame. That kid was me, you bastard,
and you
did
steal something. You stole my life and
everything that mattered. You’re a thief, Fagan White—the worst kind of thief.
You’re the coward who watches while someone else pulls the trigger. Damn you.
Damn all of you to hell and back for murdering my dad.”

Linc walked out of the house, so mad he was shaking, and
slammed himself down in the front seat of the cruiser. He had to put distance
between himself and White, and while this wasn’t nearly far enough, there was no
way in hell he would be sitting in the back beside that bastard on the way
down.

They brought Fagan out in handcuffs and put him in the backseat
with Deputy Eddy. Marlow got behind the wheel and then stared Linc down.

“Are we good here? You’re not gonna fly off the handle on the
way back and cause a wreck?”

Linc’s voice was deceptively quiet. Once again, he maintained a
calm he did not feel.

“That’s an insult, and I’m sick of your insults. Just don’t
talk to me again. I’m not the fool in this car who might be tempted to get away.
No wonder I went to prison. I was too young and dumb to fight back,” he
snapped.

Marlow hit the main lock. “No one’s going anywhere,” he
muttered, and started the car. “I know you were done wrong, but I’m doing my
best to make it right.”

“Granted, you weren’t party to putting me there, but you have
been no better than everyone else since I came back. You haven’t believed a
thing I said since you drove up on my property the night of my arrival. Not even
when I told you who was stalking Meg. As for helping me clear my name, if it
hadn’t been for me, Meg and Quinn, you’d still be sifting papers at your desk.
You never would have figured this out.”

Then Linc turned around and pointed at Fagan. “You better hope
they put you in jail when this is over, because if you walk away from it a free
man, I’ll kill you myself.”

Fagan gasped. “You heard him! You both heard what he said!” he
screamed.

Eddy elbowed him. “Stop shouting. I can’t hear a damn thing for
all the noise you’re making.”

Fagan curled up in a ball and huddled against the door. He
turned his face to the window as they drove away. He couldn’t bring himself to
look back. It would likely be a long damn time before he saw the mountains
again.

Marlow glared at Linc, but he didn’t have the balls to call him
on his behavior, and he understood the anger. What had happened to him was
unforgiveable, and he would do everything in his power to make it right.

Seventeen

D
etective Kennedy was at his desk, writing
up the last report he’d taken from Lucy Duggan. Even as he was typing he kept
remembering what she’d said the night of the attack. She and her husband were
separated. And once they found out her husband had been shot, under any other
circumstances she would have been their first suspect. But they’d taken her
appearance and her story as a plausible alibi. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking
that they were missing something.

It was impulse that made him pick up the phone and call the
hospital where Duggan was a patient. After being placed on hold a couple of
times, he was finally put in contact with the business office. He identified
himself and then asked for the name of the person responsible for Wesley
Duggan’s affairs, and was given the name of a lawyer.

He thanked them and disconnected. So Duggan had a lawyer in
charge of his affairs and not his wife, which made Lucy Duggan’s little fuss
with her husband a bigger thing that she was willing to admit. He wondered what
else she wasn’t telling, and decided to run a few questions by the lawyer and
see what popped up that didn’t jibe with what Lucy had told them. He quickly put
in a call to the lawyer.

“Simpson and Coyle, partners at law. This is Rhonda.”

“This is Detective Kennedy with the Mount Sterling P.D. I need
to speak to Mr. Simpson.”

“One moment please,” she said, and put him on hold. He got an
entire verse of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” before his call was answered.

“This is Dwight Simpson.”

“Mr. Simpson. I’m Detective Kennedy with the Mount Sterling
P.D. I’m calling about Wesley and Lucy Duggan, who I understand are your
clients.”

“Well, technically Mrs. Duggan is no longer my client,” the
lawyer said.

Kennedy smiled grimly. Looked like Lucy’s “separation” might be
a little more than that. He took a shot. “In the divorce, you mean?”

“Yes. I will be representing Mr. Duggan, so she has been
instructed to look for other representation. I’m sorry, I thought perhaps you
were calling about the other matter.”

The other matter? Interesting.
Kennedy decided to push a little further. “Oh. I didn’t realize you would be
handling the...” He paused, hoping Simpson would fill in the blank. He was not
disappointed.

“The admission of perjury. Yes. We’re expecting the local D.A.
to reopen the case, and my client is expecting that he and his estranged wife
will both be charged. All the same, he’s very much hoping his testimony will
clear the name of that boy—well, he’s a full-grown man now. Eighteen years is a
long time.”

“Holy shit,” Kennedy muttered. He hoped Simpson didn’t catch
the surprise in his voice. Apparently not, because the lawyer went on without
missing a beat.

“That’s pretty much what I thought when I first heard about it.
I have to be honest. When I got the news that Mr. Duggan had been gunned down, I
assumed his wife was behind it. Then I learned she was also attacked, and now I
don’t know what to think.”

“How is Mr. Duggan, by the way?”

“My last report from the doctors was that he was holding his
own. And how’s Mrs. Duggan?” Simpson asked.

Detective Kennedy frowned. “It’s a bit hard to say at this
point, but I’m not feeling as sorry for her as I did before I called. Do me a
favor and let me know when Mr. Duggan is well enough for visitors. I’d like to
talk to him.”

“Yes, I will make a note,” Simpson said.

“One other thing. This kid who went to prison...what happened
to him?”

“Oh, Lincoln Fox? He went back to Rebel Ridge just a few weeks
ago to clear his name. I’m told he’s working with a Sheriff Marlow in Boone’s
Gap toward that end.”

“Thanks. I’ll get in touch with Marlow for further info there.
I appreciate your help.”

“Sure thing,” Simpson said, and hung up.

Kennedy looked at the report he’d just typed and hit Save
without sending it to file. He wasn’t even close to being through with this
case. Then he picked up the phone again and called information for the number of
the sheriff’s office in Boone’s Gap, Kentucky.

* * *

Meg was nervous as to what Linc might do when they went
to talk to Fagan, and when she was bothered about anything, the best thing she
could do was work. As soon as she got home she let Honey out and then moved
through the house, fluffing pillows, sweeping ash from around her fireplace, and
then sat down at her desk and wrote out checks for the bills that were coming
due.

Once she’d finished with that she meandered through the house,
unable to focus on anything but what Linc was going through. The place felt
different, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Maybe she was the one that
was off today. Lord knew she was definitely unsettled.

She went into the kitchen and thought about what she would make
for supper, then poked around in the pantry, looking at what she had on hand,
but couldn’t make a decision. Later she went to get herself a snack, but she
couldn’t decide what she wanted, so she abandoned that idea, as well.

It wasn’t until she went into her workroom to quilt that her
anxiety settled. There was something intrinsically calming about putting the
tiny, repetitive stitches into the layers of fabric and batting, turning plain
cloth into usable works of art.

As she worked, she thought of the years of lies and deceit the
White family had practiced. If Linc’s theory proved correct, the depth of damage
they had caused was irreparable. The only positive things about the past couple
of days were the renewal of her relationship with Linc and the news that Prince
White was dead.

She worked at the quilt frame until her neck began to ache and
then stopped. It got dark so early that she decided to go put up the chickens
and feed Daisy. She put on her old coat, wound a red wool scarf around her neck
and grabbed a sock cap to keep her ears warm. She was putting on her work gloves
as she went outside to do the evening chores.

There was an odd gray cast to the sky, and, from the appearance
of the gathering clouds, they were in for another round of bad weather. The air
was sharp—cold enough so that when she took a deep breath it made her throat
burn—and the wind was getting stronger. Her steps lengthened as she and Honey
went to feed and water the chickens; then she gathered the eggs. She took them
back to the house and set them just inside the door before heading off to the
barn to tend to Daisy. She needed to throw some extra hay into the stall
tonight. If a storm was moving in, plenty of food helped the animals to stay
warm.

The old cow mooed, then head-butted her as she entered the
barn. Honey yapped once, as if to tell the cow to back off.

Meg laughed and pushed the cow aside.

“I see you,” she said. “I’m not late, and there’s no need to be
all insulted. Come on, old girl. Let’s get you into a stall where you’ll be nice
and warm. Extra hay for you tonight, and if you don’t butt me again, I might
toss a little ground feed into your trough, as well.”

Honey smelled mice and began nosing around inside the granary
as Meg scooped feed into the feeder and tossed some extra blocks of hay into the
manger in Daisy’s stall. There was plenty of water in the trough, but there was
a thin film of ice over the top. She broke the ice, and then realized she’d left
her pitchfork in the granary and went back to get it, laughing at Honey’s antics
as she moved in and out among the sacks of feed with her nose to the granary
floor.

With the pitchfork in one hand and the feed bucket in the
other, Meg backed out of the granary, right into the barrel of a gun jammed into
her back.

“Drop the pitchfork,” a man said.

She screamed.

Honey came running toward the doorway in attack mode.

“Shut the damn door or I shoot her,” her attacker said.

Meg slammed the door in the dog’s face and then groaned when
she heard Honey’s frantic barking.

“Turn around, bitch.”

Meg took a deep breath, and just like that her panic morphed
into rage. She turned slowly, her fists doubled and her feet slightly apart as
if braced for a blow, and recognized Prince White.

He smiled. “Good evening. If you hadn’t been so damn
unfriendly, we could have done this a different way.”

“Why aren’t you dead?”

His smile widened. “Because I’m smarter than the cops.”

“So shoot and get it over with, or state your business. It’s
too damn cold for chitchat.”

Prince blinked. This was an attitude he hadn’t expected. Why
the fuck wasn’t she crying and begging him not to hurt her? He shifted his
stance and took a firmer grip on the pistol. He should have known she wouldn’t
be easy.

“You have some information I need,” he said. “If you cooperate,
you and I can go our separate ways and no one gets hurt.”

Her mind quickly putting the pieces together, she asked, “Is
that what you said to Wesley Duggan before you shot him?”

Prince blinked again. “Don’t meddle in my damn business,” he
muttered. “I need you to tell me where Bobby Lewis buried his dog, and then you
and me are gonna take a little ride to his place and you’re gonna show me the
spot.

Meg stared back, furious at fate for dumping shit into her life
just when it was starting to get good.

“I already told Fagan I don’t know where the dog is buried. As
for meddling in your business, you’re also meddling in mine,” she fired back.
“So either shoot or get the hell off my place.”

He swung the butt of the gun toward her face so fast she didn’t
see it coming. One second she was on her feet, and the next she was on the
ground and blood was coming out of her mouth.

Prince was dancing now from foot to foot, getting off on the
sight of her in the dirt at his feet.

“Not so smart now, are you, bitch?”

Meg raised a leg, as if she was about to get up, and then
launched herself toward him, kicking him right in the groin with the heel of her
boot.

He shrieked several octaves above his normal vocal range. When
he grabbed his crotch, he dropped the gun.

She bolted to her feet. The gun was on the ground between his
legs—too far out of reach for her to chance it. Before he could pick it up, she
was gone—running out the back of the barn and heading for the hills as fast as
her long legs could carry her.

He fumbled for the gun as he tried to run, but he couldn’t move
fast enough because of the pain rolling through his balls. He shot at her three
times in rapid succession but knew he missed, because the last sight he had of
her, she was flying.

“Son of a bitch,” he moaned, and doubled over, still clutching
his crotch. It took another minute before he could move, but when he did, he
took off after her. He needed to know where that damn dog was buried. Once he
had the twenty thousand dollars Bobby Lewis stole from Wendell, he would be
gone. Lucy’d gotten herself into this mess. For once she could get herself
out—or not. He didn’t really care.

* * *

Meg was running in an all-out sprint, desperate to put
as much distance between her and Prince White as she could. She knew the minute
he could walk, he would follow.

At first she stuck to the trail, because she could run faster
without having to wade through heavy underbrush, but she knew he would see her
footprints and she would be easy to track. She needed to get farther away; then
she could double back and head for Linc’s house. It was the only place she could
think of that felt safe.

The rapid slap of her feet against the ground marked the
distance she was putting between them, but the sound was soon drowned by the
frantic pumping of her heart. The farther she ran, the higher up she went. When
the trail began to get steep, she stopped and then took off her sock cap to
listen. For a few moments she heard nothing, and then all of a sudden a large
buck burst out of the trees and ran past her. Something had spooked it—most
likely Prince.

The anger she’d felt down in the barn was gone now, replaced by
a growing panic. She stuffed the cap into her pocket and started running again,
going farther and higher, straight up Rebel Ridge. She prayed that Linc would
come back before dark. When he got to her place to reclaim his truck and found
her gone, he would know something was wrong. He would come looking. Of that she
was sure. But she couldn’t count on him coming in time to save her, so she kept
on running until her side was aching, her chest was burning and her vision was
blurred with tears.

Please, God, don’t let me die,
she
thought over and over like a chant that would keep her safe.

After a frantic glance over her shoulder, she finally left the
trail. It was less than an hour before nightfall. All she needed was a little
more time. Prince wouldn’t be able to find her in the dark—she hoped.

She moved slower now, needing to stay as quiet as possible.
Sound carried a long way in the mountains, and running through brush, snapping
limbs and moving through dry leaves on the forest floor would lead Prince right
to her.

One minute she was leaning against a pine to catch her breath,
and the next second it was as if God had turned out the lights. All of a sudden
she looked up and it was pitch-black, with a sky so overcast she couldn’t see
stars.

“Sweet Lord,” Meg moaned. Too late to double back now and
virtually impossible to see where she was going no matter which way she
headed.

She didn’t know whether to curl up beneath this tree and pray
to God Prince didn’t find her or keep moving. It was the fear of facing Prince
and that gun again that made her choose the latter.

As she felt her way through the dense growth her eyes slowly
adjusted until she could see different values of black. She continued to feel
her way through the trees, hoping to find a place to shelter.