Her knee slipped to one side, losing her point of pressure on his back, and he scrambled out from under her, one hand still stuck at his neck. On his hands and knees, he tried to turn to face her.
Noooo!
She hauled back on the chain, and he hacked and choked but swung his weapon backward and fired. A piercing pain bolted up her calf. She leaned back farther, practically on her back to keep the chain taut.
Tara scooted over and, from her position on the ground, kicked and shoved his legs and hips, screaming and effectively pushing his body toward the edge of the cliff.
She’ll hang him.
If I let go, he’ll fall to the rocks and ocean below. If I don’t let go, he’ll hang.
Hot fire burned in her lower leg. She couldn’t think.
One of Tara’s kicks knocked the gun from his hand, but not out of reach. Her foot hit the weapon again, causing it to skid away, and then she continued her barrage to push him off the edge.
“Tara! Stop!”
Harlan made horrible, angry choking sounds, yet Emily held strong to the chains.
Do I let go?
If she let go now, he could grab his weapon.
Tara shrieked and kicked with both her feet at once. Harlan thrashed to push away from the edge, and the ground under his legs crumbled and vanished. His fall yanked Emily forward, and she dug in her heels. He faced her now, most of his body dangling off the edge, held from falling by the chain around his neck. His loose hand grabbed desperately at dirt, seeking a purchase. Emily couldn’t see the terror in his eyes, but she felt it.
Her damaged leg collapsed, and her foot slipped. His body dropped another six inches.
“Tara! Grab him!”
Her sister sat still, her chest heaving, one hand still clamped to her side where she bled. With a soft moan, Tara lay on her back, her energy drained. Harlan’s weight pulled Emily closer to the edge, a slow but steady slide. She saw herself clinging to the cliff as a child, screaming for her father. The old terror sent ice through her veins.
Emily’s vision narrowed, and dizziness swamped her. A pool of blood glistened in the dirt under her leg.
I have to let go.
I’m sorry.
Hands grabbed the chain near hers. Madison. “I’ve got him,” she told Emily. Suddenly Zander was there, stretched out on his stomach, dispersing his weight, and reaching over the edge.
He yanked Harlan up by his belt, and Emily fell back, her muscles powerless. Zander pulled Harlan to a safe distance and unwrapped the chain. The man wheezed and swore. Rolling Harlan to his stomach, Zander fastened his wrists with a zip tie.
He finally turned to Emily, his face close to hers. His mouth moved. “Are you all right?” She barely heard his words as consciousness slipped away.
“I don’t think so.”
37
Two days later
A scabbing red band circled Harlan’s neck.
Sitting across from the man in a small room at the county jail, Zander didn’t feel sorry for him. The band was a glaring reminder of Emily’s and Tara’s fight to live.
Harlan Trapp had aged ten years in two days. Fury and anger burned in Zander. Harlan had left a path of death and destruction behind him for twenty years . . . maybe more. What kind of ego had made him run for mayor in a town that he’d haunted and torn apart?
“Start with Cynthia Green,” Zander ordered. “She was nineteen.”
He shrugged, and Zander ached to punch him.
“Don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“What if I told you we were led to that girl by someone who watched your group leave her body by a downed tree? They were too scared to come forward until now.” A stretch of the truth.
Alice Penn would never be a credible witness. She’d known Harlan for years and never said anything. Did she even know it was him?
Harlan mulled it over, chewing on one lip.
“Cynthia Green’s body wasn’t found by accident. This witness is ready to talk after twenty years.” Another stretch.
Harlan sat back in his chair, a decision on his face. “It was an opportunity. There were a lot of talkers in our group—”
“Your race-hating white supremacist group in Portland.”
“Your words.”
“You bet they’re my words, and they’ll be your prosecuting attorney’s words too.”
“I had a bunch of guys out for the weekend—some new initiates—and we spotted the girl.”
“Membership in your exclusive club required killing someone?”
“No.” He leaned on his forearms, holding Zander’s gaze. “But people were ready to prove themselves. Who was I to stand in their way?”
Zander closed his eyes as he controlled his rage, a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Everyone participated but Lincoln Mills,” Harlan said with disgust. “It’s always the biggest braggers, right? They boast and swagger to fit in when they know they’re not made of the right stuff. He was all talk, and when it came time to man up, he failed. Tried to stop us from taking the girl.”
“Lincoln’s punishment was his death?”
Harlan looked away. “There were rumors that he would go to the police about the black girl.”
“You cleaned house before that could happen.”
“Something like that.”
“Who were the other men?”
“I gave Sheriff Greer a list of names.”
“What about Greer? He hung around with some of you guys back then.”
Harlan scoffed. “Seriously? He has no backbone.”
Zander disagreed. He’d had issues with the sheriff when he first walked the scene of the Fitch murders, but the sheriff had earned his respect. He truly cared about the people who lived in his county.
“Were there any other victims besides Cynthia Green?” Zander had checked closely for missing persons and unsolved crimes in the area involving people of color but hadn’t found any.
Harlan looked away. “I heard there was some activity in Portland. I wasn’t there. Can’t really help you. All I heard were rumors . . . no names.”
Right.
“How did Sean Fitch get involved?”
Harlan shifted in his seat, discomfort on his face. “Simon Rhoads sent him my way. Said he had questions about the history of the area.”
Zander waited.
Licking his lips, Harlan went on. “He had a bunch of questions about shanghaiing around here. One of my ancestors ran a tavern that was infamous for it. Along with the information I had on my relative’s operation, I showed him some old trinkets that I had. Some scrimshaw, some rings and bracelets, a diary.” He scowled. “A pocket watch.”
Aha.
“He flipped the watch open, looked at it, and then set it back with the other stuff. He asked if he could come back again if he had more questions, and I agreed. He was back two days later. He brought a few historic pictures of Bartonville from Simon. Some weren’t that old. He’d told me Simon had identified most of the men in one of the pictures, and he asked if I knew the rest since I was in one of the photos.”
“I think I know the photo you’re talking about. Are Lincoln Mills and the sheriff in it?”