Conall's Legacy

Wells/Conall’s Legacy

CHAPTER ONE

Disarming an intricate bomb was never easy. This morning’s was no exception, and Drake Forrester knew it would not be the last. It wasn’t a matter of
if
another lunatic set a bomb, but where, how soon, and how many casualties there would be.

In McClarnon’s Blue Rose Saloon, Drake sat with his back to the bar, dressed in off-duty jeans and a black dog t-shirt. Mundane chatter ricocheted around him, interrupted by occasional bouts of laughter at rowdy TGIF jokes.

His glance slid across patron’s faces. Some he knew. Some were strangers. Any one of them could be delusional, seeing a bomb as the only answer to his or her personal hell. Drake shook off the thought and tried unsuccessfully to turn off his cop instincts. He swung around to the bar and forced his attention to the bottle he held.

The scent of fermented hops sent a shiver up Drake’s spine. A man two stools down had a bottle of the dark brew, the scent drifting to Drake as though deliberately taunting him. The smell of the pungent brew Conall Laughlin had preferred allowed memories to flood in. Drake shook his head and tried to shake away the image of the explosion that day. It didn’t work.

The pages flipped wildly on a calendar hanging behind the bar as a draft poured in the open front door. The fluttering stopped and the pages drifted back into place. His gaze on the life insurance calendar, Drake felt the kick of a mule in his solar plexus. Twelve months--to the day. The Conman had been gone twelve months.
The department shrink would say that’s why I felt like hell all week
.
Anniversaries, yeah right
. Drake shook his head at the thought.

How had Rebecca made it this long? If just the thought of losing his best friend created this kind of reaction in him, how did a young widow and small children get through the days? Not a day went by that Drake didn’t think of Rebecca and her young family--of Rachael, born after her father died. All because of him. In spite of checking on them every week, he wondered how they were really doing and what would happen to them if Rebecca didn’t accept his offer. He shook off the thoughts, as well as he could, knowing they would return all too quickly.

Drake turned away from the calendar, the old barstool squealing a protest as he turned, and let his gaze slide over the room again. The evidence of the blast that changed his life was everywhere. New brick that wasn’t exactly the same as the old, and paint that didn’t quite match the rest. A seam in the linoleum where bright met faded. Bile rose from the bottomless pit that had once been his stomach. He forced it down.
When in hell does the pain stop
?

Even lost in his memories of Conall, he knew the instant Rick Wilson walked into the smoke filled bar. Drake didn’t need the man’s reflection in the streaked mirror to prove it. Dread settled in his chest.

Rick wound through the mash of Friday afternoon, happy-hour addicts. Drake shifted on the faded vinyl stool. Padding oozed from a hole in the seat, and a broken spring poked his ass, but he didn’t really care. He wanted to sit and never get up.

Drake saw the other man’s frown and lifted his drink. “Mineral water. Okay?”

Drake had known him a long time, almost as long as he’d known Conall. He usually knew what Rick thought before he did.

“How’d you know to come here?”

Rick shrugged. “I knew you’d come to the old watering hole.”

“I come here to lose myself in the noise for a while. You know how I like it, the louder the better.” Drake chugged half of the water like sorrow-drowning whiskey.

“You shouldn’t be in here. You’re going to sabotage yourself,” Rick said.

“I can handle it.” A tremor of self-disgust rumbled through Drake’s body. He should be able to control his drinking. He shouldn’t have to fight day by day to stay sober.

“You’re a damn wreck waiting to happen. You haven’t slept for days. Looks like you’ve been livin’ in that shirt.” He lifted a hand as though to touch Drake’s shoulder, but Drake jerked back and stared at his own image in the mirror.

Dark circles ringed the eyes staring back at him. Shaggy, nearly black hair hung across his forehead. Not a pretty sight.

“So what’s your point?”

“You’re becoming a liability, to yourself and everyone around you.”

“I’m all right. I told the review board that, and I’m telling you. Accidents happen.”

“You’re just saying that to push me away and it won’t work. We’re friends.” Rick laid a hand on Drake’s shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

Drake looked closer at his unsavory image. “What you need is a size twelve boot in the ass,” he muttered to himself. To Rick he said, “Just leave me alone. I’ll work through it.”

“I can’t do that. It’s been long enough. You’re putting yourself and your squad in jeopardy.” Silence. “Look, if you won’t let me help as a friend, you’ll have to accept my help as your supervisor.”

A sense of foreboding grabbed Drake, and he slowly turned to Rick, locking gazes with him. “Meaning?”

“You’re suspended with pay until a medical and psych evaluation shows you’re fit for duty.”

A frown creased Drake’s forehead. “You can’t do that.”

“I just did. You need to get away, do some thinking. So I made the recommendation to the chief, and he agreed. You need time off, quiet time to work through your grief.”

“I’m fine. Thanks for the thought, but I’m not taking a damn vacation.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

“It’s a leave of absence and all arranged. You’re going.”

Drake slammed his bottle down on the bar and jumped up, bumping chests with Rick and glaring into his eyes. “The hell I am.”

Rick continued as though Drake hadn’t spoken. “You’re going to a place in Arizona Conall’s folks told me about. They’re worried about you, too. It’s a huge ranch with lots of open space and nature.”

“No way--”

“You go,” Rick emphasized each word, “or I’ll recommend a medical retirement.”

Drake knew the chief would approve that, too. The truth of it hung in the air between them like deadly smoke. A bomb squad couldn’t protect anyone, let alone its own team members, if one of them couldn’t focus on the job.

Anger vibrated through Drake. “I hate quiet,” Drake snapped. “You know I like it loud.”

“You like it that way, because you can’t think in this chaos.” His gaze slid around the room, over the jukebox cranked up to shake the rafters. “You’re going where it’s so quiet you can hear a tarantula walk.”

Drake couldn’t help it. He shuddered. “Swell, that’s something I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Don’t fight me on this. You won’t win.” Rick slapped a stack of papers into Drake’s hand. “Here’s the map and letter of authorization. Pack up and head east. The Bureau of Land Management expects you Monday. Stop at their local Sierra Vista office and pick up the keys.”

“BLM? What have they got to do with this?”

“They own the place and rent it out.” Rick walked a few steps away, and then turned back. “Get your ass in gear. You’re going.”

Rick turned and walked out leaving Drake with his mouth hanging open, ready to argue. He snapped it shut, wondering how badly he wanted to keep his job. His vision of the desert included the tarantulas Rick mentioned, plus rattlesnakes and scorpions. Not to forget the dead quiet and isolation, which to his way of thinking was worse than all manner of venomous creatures. Police work meant everything to him--but exiled for who knows how long? Was it that important?

He admitted, though, something had to give. Maybe it would be a place he could continue to beat the fire out of the metal sculptures he liked to think of as art. Pounding on metal and creating images from the twisted iron released energy and emotion he normally kept locked up. Drake blew out a breath. Anyone looking at his work since Conall’s death wouldn’t even begin to class it as art. More like the product of a lunatic.

In the middle of nowhere, he could work without disturbing anybody with his noise. He surely wouldn’t have neighbors out there. Drake forced the breath from his lungs in a slow sigh and thought again of the perpetual quiet. Maybe he’d have a chance to figure out what to do about Rebecca and his promise to Conall.

Drake didn’t like being forced into anything, and he was still burned at the way Rick had coerced him into this. “What the hell,” he muttered under his breath, slapping a few dollars onto the bar as he swore. “I’m getting too old for this,” he said to himself in his best Danny Glover,
Lethal Weapon
voice.

“Joe,” he called to the bartender, “I’ll see you in a few weeks. Looks like I’m taking a vacation.”

# 

Her ranch,
La Puerta de Paraíso
, meant everything to Luisa Montoya. Home. Peace. Sanctuary. Most importantly--solitude.

She believed if she stayed within its borders, no one could hurt her again. The ranch fit its name, her doorway to Heaven. This little corner of the desert southwest belonged to Luisa. Well, almost. It was hers and the Bureau of Land Management’s.

She peered out the solid glass walls that created the Arizona sun room her father had added to the old ranch house. Crystalline blue sky and a warm, sage-scented breeze tugged at her, drawing her away from memories and her work. Shifting on the desk chair, she arched her back. The stiffness in her shoulders eased as she rolled her head from side to side, and then stretched her arms toward the ceiling. The story on the monitor made the discomfort worthwhile. Warmth spread through her body. A child would hold Luisa’s book in tiny hands, enthralled with her hapless little angel character. Satisfied with the day’s work, Luisa turned off the computer and walked into the living room.

The jarring ring of the phone jerked her out of her contented state. She walked to the phone, slowly lifted the receiver, and answered, reluctant to let anyone intrude on her peace.

The cultured female voice caused her heart to skip a beat. She frowned, then asked, “Mother, how are you?” Luisa twisted the cord around her fingers, let it unravel, and did it again.

“I’m fine, dear.” Marie didn’t sound fine but strained, more so than usual. But then, Luisa hadn’t heard from her in almost a year.

“What’s wrong?” Luisa asked. “Why are you calling?”

“To say hello. Is that all right?”

Guilt clutched Luisa’s throat and stopped her quick response. “Of course. I didn’t expect to hear from you. It’s not my birthday or Christmas.”

Silence descended, pulsed, and grew.

Luisa silently cursed herself. “I’m sorry, Mother.” Sudden, knife-like pain stabbed her temples. “How’s business in sunny California?”

“Fine, really fine.” She sounded distracted, not at all her in-command self.

“What have you been doing?” Luisa asked, glancing at the wall clock. How soon could she get off the phone?

“I’m thinking about coming for a visit. Would you mind?”

Luisa’s breath hitched in her throat. “But ... why?”

“I need to see you. We have something to talk about.”

“Can’t we do it over the phone? You don’t like it here, and I won’t go there.” Why did her mother suddenly want to come to the ranch?

“I have to see you.”

“But... .”
She’s old and tired. Her voice proves it
. She struggled to keep her attention on her mother as she continued.

“I’ll call in a week or two and set something up. I ... I can’t do it now. Bye, dear.”

The phone went dead in her hand. She stared at it and willed it away. It was about the only thing left linking her to the outside world.

Her mother--here? What could possibly be wrong that would bring her to the desert?

Luisa looked around as she hung up the phone, trying to imagine her mother in the house after all these years. Her father’s favorite chair dominated the room. The artwork he’d chosen, the spurs he’d worn, hung on the wall. She walked over and plucked one spur off its hook. The jingle bob rattled in her hand, and she spun the rowel. Catching a sob in her throat, she slapped the spur back in its place and turned away.

Walking through the kitchen, she poured a fresh cup of coffee and walked onto the porch. She leaned against a weathered post, mug in hand. Luisa looked skyward, fighting back sentimental tears. Her mother’s call bothered her more than she cared to admit. She shuddered at the vision of her mother’s designer-suit-clad body on the ranch. City traffic and loud, rude people didn’t intrude here. Her mother wasn’t supposed to either.

Luisa pulled a deep breath into her lungs and once again found comfort in the familiar aromas. The sun prepared to take its nightly dive into the horizon pool. A roadrunner hurried across the drive, stopped, and stared at her. Its tail feathers were up--a warning flag. Deciding Luisa was too close for comfort, it half flew and half ran into the underbrush. The ranch provided sanctuary for more than just her.

Luisa heard an occasional whinny accented by kicks against hundred-year-old, solid pine walls of the barn. She knew inside horses restlessly circled in their stalls, pawing at the doors, impatient for dinner.