She glanced out the window. “You never give me credit.”
“Credit for what? You go to Panama, you leave your damn fingerprints all over a cocktail glass. You go to Duffy’s house, you break in like an amateur.” He shook his head, grumbling. “I must have been crazy to think I could promote you from bedroom detail.”
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. “We all have our own strengths,” she said as she ran her fingertips along the inside of his thigh. “And we all have our weaknesses.”
He knocked her hand away. “That’s not going to work this time. I can only carry you so far. Kozelka doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
“What are you telling me, Nathan?”
He glanced her way, then back at the road. “Mr. Kozelka was very concerned that Duffy would take that cocktail glass to the FBI and implicate you. He was even more concerned that you might turn around and drop the name Kozelka. Now, there were two ways for me to make sure that didn’t happen. One was to make it impossible for Duffy to meet with the FBI. The other… well, I think you understand the other.”
She glanced nervously at his hands on the steering wheel, as if suddenly aware of how huge they were. “Under the circumstances, I wish the frame-up were a little tighter.”
“It should work in the short run. Even with your botched break-in, I can’t see Duffy running to the FBI before he and his lawyer have a chance to sort this out.”
“Then what?”
“Then we reevaluate.”
She managed a weak, awkward smile. “Sure hope this works.”
“Yes,” he said coldly. “I know you do.”
Ryan’s first call was to his mother. She was still at the McClennys’, where he had told her to stay until he returned from Denver. The rain continued to fall as he filled her in on everything from the courtroom disaster to the threatening phone call. By the time he’d finished, he was barely aware that he was completely rain-soaked.
She seemed shocked by the news of Brent’s death, though not exactly saddened. That pioneer spirit that had been missing since the death of her husband was suddenly back. She was circling the proverbial wagons.
“Are you sure he’s dead?”
“I haven’t seen the body, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then how do you know that man wasn’t bluffing?”
“He wouldn’t break into the house and steal Dad’s gun just to bluff. I can drive down Two-eighty-seven and take a look for myself, if that’s what you want.”
“No, don’t do that.”
Her tone alarmed him. “Why not?”
“Because the police could be there already. I don’t think you should talk to them.”
“Why not?”
“Because you have to think this through first. What are you going to tell them?”
“I was going to tell them I think I’m being framed for a murder I didn’t commit. That way, I’ll just beat Kozelka’s thug to the punch.”
“Please, don’t do that.”
“Why not, Mom?”
“Because if you tell the police you’re being framed, you’ll have to tell them why you’re being framed.”
“I think it’s about time we just came clean on this.”
“No.”
Ryan cringed. “What do you mean, no?”
“It’s not totally your call anymore, Ryan. I have a say in this.”
“What are we arguing about, Mom? I’m being framed for murder.”
“Not yet. They’ve only threatened to frame you. The only way you will be framed is if you tell the FBI what your father did. If you keep your mouth shut, Brent’s just another unsolved murder.”
His mouth opened, but words didn’t come. He couldn’t believe what his own mother was saying. “Mom, somebody was murdered here.”
“Not somebody. Brent. I’m sorry, but I’m not shedding any tears over a human slug who took a fist to my own daughter. Brent’s dead. You can’t change that by telling the police you’re being framed. And you can’t tell the police you’re being framed without ruining your father’s good name and reputation. None of that can bring Brent back, even if we wanted him back.”
“Mom, I’ve already done more than I should to keep this blackmail a secret.”
“Damn it. It’s not the blackmail I’m worried about. It’s the rape. I can’t have everyone in Prowers County thinking I was married forty-six years to a rapist!”
Ryan froze. “I thought you didn’t know about the rape. You told me you didn’t know what was in that safe deposit box in Panama. You said you didn’t want to know.”
Her voice was shaking, but she was no longer shouting. “Of course I knew.”
“Why did you lie to me before I went down to Panama?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?”
“Ryan, please.”
“ No,” he said sharply. “You knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was afraid,” she said softly.
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that you would never understand how I could forgive him. Please, Ryan. Let’s not do it this way. Your sister’s husband has just been murdered. She shouldn’t hear about it through the Piedmont Springs grapevine. I need to go to her. Let me be the one to tell her.”
“Don’t try to hide behind Sarah.”
“I’m not hiding. Not anymore. Meet me at her house. Then Sarah, you, and I will discuss this. Like a family.”
“Or what’s left of it.”
“Please, son. See me on this.”
A bitterness swelled from deep within — but he swallowed it. “All right, Mom. I’ll see you there.”
50
Ryan took the long way home, down the lonely gravel side roads he’d discovered years ago as a boy on a bicycle. It wasn’t a shortcut by any means. It was a detour that would keep him from coming upon the scene of the crime on Highway 287. He assumed the police would already be there. After the promise to his mother, he didn’t want to be tempted to stop and say something he might regret.
He drove faster than he should have, kicking up loose gravel that pelted the floorboards. Scattered potholes made the largely one-lane road even more treacherous. A few bumps were so big they brought his chin to his chest. It was a jarring ride at such high speed, almost like off-road. A sane driver would have slowed down. But not Ryan, not tonight. The bumps, the jolts, the disoriented sensation — it was a perfect complement to the jumbled thoughts in his present state of mind.
In all the confusion, the thought of Brent lying dead on the highway was foremost in his mind. He was no fan of his brother-in-law, especially after his testimony this morning. Still, the very thought of money in the attic leading to murder in the family was unsettling. He wondered what Liz would think. He could only imagine what her lawyer might make of it. Even without the gun and the audiotape Kozelka might use to frame him, Jackson was bound to point the finger at Ryan. Who else had such obvious motive?
Perhaps he even deserved some blame. Fact was, Brent was dead because Ryan had threatened Kozelka. That made him feel guilty in a way, mostly because of all the times in years past he had wished Brent were gone. Now he was.
The long dirt road fed into the highway near an old barn and wind-ravaged silo. Ryan steered onto the pavement without slowing down, reaching Sarah’s house in record time. The truck skidded to a stop in the driveway, and Ryan jumped out. The porch light was on, brightening the rain-slicked path to the front door. He didn’t bother to knock. The door was unlocked.
“Mom?” he said as he entered the living room.
“In here.” The reply had come from the kitchen.
Ryan hurried inside. His mother was seated at the kitchen table. Sarah was a lump in the chair right beside her, leaning on her like a grieving widow. Ryan saw sadness in his sister’s eyes. Slowly, it turned to rage.
“Oh, Ryan,” she said with contempt. “How could you?”
“How could I what?”
“I’m giving birth next month. How could you do this to my husband?”
“I didn’t do anything to Brent.” He looked at his mother, pleading. “Mom, tell her.”