Deserves to Die (21 page)

P
escoli had dreaded this day from the minute she heard the sheriff had died.

She was dressed in full uniform, Sturgis with her. The idea had been Joelle Fisher’s, and for once, Pescoli had agreed with the receptionist that Sturgis’s presence would be fitting as the dog had been constantly at Grayson’s side, in or out of the office. Sturgis was part of the department, too, and he always behaved himself.

With a quick look around the crowded auditorium of Pinewood Center, she located her children standing together in the center of one section of chairs. Santana wasn’t with them, but that was no surprise as they weren’t yet a family. In fact, she wondered if there ever would be a time where they existed cohesively . . . and doubted it. She finally found him amidst the standing room only throng, near enough to the wide set of double doors at the back to satisfy the fire marshal.

She moved to the section reserved for law enforcement, where she and her fellow officers would stand during the service.

Though there had been a hum of conversation rising to the tall ceiling before the funeral got underway, a hush fell over the mourners as Blackwater approached the podium and introduced himself. Without any fanfare, he gave the opening remarks about the dedication and service of Dan Grayson. He was sincere and true, without any self-promotion and his remarks were surprisingly spot-on without the usual aggrandizing of the dead’s accomplishments. No flowery phrases. No inordinate sentimentality. He called Grayson a straight shooter who was respected by his peers and those who worked for him, and stated that the sheriff was embraced by the community that had elected him. Blackwater summed up by saying that Sheriff Daniel Grayson would be missed by those he worked with and those he worked for, and that the community had lost an honest, kind, and dedicated officer of the law.

Pescoli grudgingly had to admit Grayson would have approved of the acting sheriff’s remarks.

Flanked by flags of the United States and the State of Montana, a huge picture of the sheriff hung from a wall of navy-blue draping in the front of the hall. In the headshot, Grayson wasn’t smiling, his stern expression offering none of the warmth that had epitomized the man. His sense of humor, his calm hand in running the department, the love he had for the dog at her side weren’t evident.

Considering Pescoli’s emotional state, it was probably a good thing. She, like so many others jammed into the large room, remembered him for the level-headed and kind man he was.

Officers from other jurisdictions as well as the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department, the city of Grizzly Falls’ Police Department, and the Montana State Police were in attendance. Friends and family, townspeople, and neighbors filled the large hall to overflowing.

As she listened to the eulogy given by the chaplain, Pescoli caught glimpses of the wives and husbands of the officers, as well as Trace O’Halleran and Dr. Kacey Lambert along with Grace Perchant and Ivor Hicks. For once, Hicks was quiet, not causing a scene. She hoped he could maintain as much for the duration of the service.

Pescoli noticed Manny Douglas, the reporter for the local paper, taking notes.
God, the guy has no couth.

Sandi from Wild Will’s was in attendance, as was the owner of Dino’s, the local pizza parlor. Pescoli recognized the local veterinarian and the pharmacist. There were several hundred people she didn’t know along with more than a sprinkling of familiar faces.

The Grayson family was seated front and center, everyone dressed in black, each member grim-faced. Dan’s brothers Cade and Big Zed were seated with Hattie, Bart’s ex-wife. She was fighting a losing battle with tears, a tissue wadded in her fist. Her girls were also part of the group.

Nearby, both of Dan’s ex-wives, neither of which Pescoli cared much for, sat ramrod straight. Akina Bellows, seated next to her current husband, Rick, remained dry-eyed, but sober. Their one-year-old daughter, squirming slightly, was seated on Akina’s lap.

Dan Grayson’s first wife, Cara, a petite woman who was related to Hattie—Pescoli frowned.
Maybe a half sister or something?
—sat stiffly next to her husband, Nolan Banks. Their daughter, Allison, who was a little younger than Bianca, sat between her father and brothers and was fiddling with her cell phone despite what appeared to be several reprimands from her father. Nolan’s jaw tightened and finally he rolled his palm toward the ceiling and wiggled his fingers, silently indicating she should hand over the phone. The girl, ever-petulant, slid the offensive cell into a small clutch purse.

Pescoli suspected Allison was her own kind of trouble. Ezekiel and Isaiah, Nolan’s sons from a previous marriage, were leaning forward, elbows on their knees. Both boys, around college age, looked uncomfortable as they whispered and pulled at their collars and ties.

It seemed as if everyone in town had come to pay their respects. The chairs were all full, mourners spilling out into the hallway and anteroom.

After the chaplain, Cade and Zed approached the podium. While Zed didn’t say a word, Cade offered up some anecdotes about Dan Grayson, the man and the brother. Cade’s voice broke as he admitted he’d looked up to Dan, who had often been his ideal and sometimes even a father figure. Dan could get mad enough, but he’d always been able to see the clear path and had helped his hellion of a brother find his way, too.

After a prayer, there was a solo of “Amazing Grace” by Frannie Hendrickson, who led a choir at the Methodist church on Sundays and was known for her purple wig and karaoke renditions at the Tin Roof Saloon in Missoula on Saturday nights. Today, her hair was black, as were her dress and heels, her voice a clear and pure soprano that rose to the rafters.

Once again, Pescoli felt teary. She patted Sturgis’s head and the damn dog licked her hand, then leaned against her. At that moment, she knew that she’d keep the black lab until his dying day. Until then, she’d thought one of Dan’s brothers might want the dog, but it no longer mattered. Sturgis was hers and would be a living reminder of the sheriff. She caught Santana’s eye just before the last prayer and he gave her an encouraging smile and small wink that somehow made her heart swell despite her sadness. Her throat clogged at how suddenly grateful she was to be marrying him.

With the back of one finger she swiped away her tears and mentally reminded herself to toughen up, that if the chaplain were to be believed, Dan Grayson was in “a better place.” She wasn’t certain about that, but it was a nice idea and she liked to think it was true even if she didn’t quite believe it.

Once the service had concluded with another quiet prayer, the flag-draped coffin was wheeled out of the hall by the pallbearers—Grayson’s brothers and four officers from the department.

Pescoli, the dog in tow, left the hall and found her kids outside. They were standing close together, talking, their breath visible in the air as they waited by Jeremy’s pickup, which was parked in the side lot. She and Sturgis made their way to the truck.

“Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”

“ ’Course,” Jeremy said. He’d even dressed for the occasion in a long-sleeved striped shirt and slacks that could’ve stood a pressing, but hey, a vast improvement over his sweats or jeans and sloppy football jersey. He’d found an old suit coat of his father’s that was a little short in the sleeves and slightly faded, but at least he’d taken the time to appear presentable. Bianca, starting to think of herself as a fashionista, was dressed in a short charcoal gray dress with matching leggings and a black coat that hit her at the knees, just an inch above her boots.

“Are you coming to the cemetery?” Pescoli asked them.

“No,” Bianca said quickly.

“Yes, we are,” Jeremy disagreed. He shot his sister a look that suggested she not argue.

“I don’t see why.” Bianca started to go into her petulant routine.

“Because Mom worked for him, and so did I and like, duh”—Jeremy motioned toward Sturgis—“we’ve got his dog.” He was firm as he strode to the driver’s side of his truck. “We’re going, Bianca. Get in.”

Bianca’s shoulders slumped as if she were an eight-year-old being punished and sent to her room.

Pescoli said, “I think it’s a good idea. Respectful. Dan Grayson was good to all of us.”

“Let’s go,” Jeremy yelled from behind the wheel and fired the engine before slamming his door shut.

“Great,” Bianca grumbled but climbed into her brother’s rig as Pescoli made her way to her own Jeep.

Santana was waiting for her. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked, hitching his chin toward Jeremy’s truck as it wheeled out of the lot.

“Nothing serious.” She didn’t want to go into it.

Santana picked up on it. “You want to ride to the cemetery together?”

“Yes. Please. That would be great.” It felt good to let someone else take charge, if only for a little while. “But there’s three of us,” she said, indicating Sturgis.

Santana’s dark eyes sparkled in the sun. “I’m used to that. Come on.” He walked her to the passenger side. She handed him her keys and slid into the Jeep. Sturgis hopped inside.

They drove to the cemetery in a long procession and Pescoli stared out the window. Once they were through the city with its plowed streets and piles of graying snow, they passed by broad fields spangled beneath the bright sun. The cemetery was located on a hill outside the city limits that angled softly upward and offered a view of the valley and the town sprawled below. Tombstones half buried in snow sprouted from the frozen ground and two roads bisected the graves. Ahead was a fresh plot—dark earth turned over in the snow, an oblong hole in the ground surrounded by several floral sprays, a small tent, and fake grass.

Fewer people had made the trek to the cemetery, though a bevy of vehicles were parked and mourners trudged through six inches of frigid powder to stand at Dan Grayson’s final resting spot. The chaplain said a few more words and led another prayer. The Grayson family sat in a sober group near the grave.

Pescoli’s stomach knotted at the finality of it all. When the guns were fired in salute, she fought a fresh spate of tears. Sturgis didn’t so much as whimper as the rifles blasted and afterward the dog, head down, followed Pescoli obediently to Santana’s truck.

It was over.

For everyone.

Sheriff Dan Grayson had been laid to rest.

Jessica woke Sunday morning feeling tired all over, and at work, the diner was a madhouse. While Saturday had been a little slow, the crowd had returned for Sunday breakfast, brunch, lunch, and then later for dinner.

Nell was beside herself, delighted that the receipts were keeping the register busy. “This is just what we needed,” she said, grinning.

Misty was quick on her feet, and obviously thrilled with the tips. “Maybe I will take that winter vacation to Puerto Vallarta after all. My cousin’s got a place down there, ya know. Always asking me to come down, but the airfare’s out of my league. However, with a couple more days like this, I can see myself sitting on a beach and sipping a margarita from some hottie in a Speedo.”

Armando rolled his eyes and muttered something in Spanish under his breath. He and Denise had worked harder than ever getting the orders cooked and plated at a breakneck pace. Though Denise was handling the extra work effortlessly, Armando was at his rope’s end, griping that they were running out of staples and that too many of the orders came in with changes. Jessica, grateful for the fast pace, didn’t have time to think about the fact that she’d promised herself to go to the sheriff’s office the next morning.

But as the shift wound down and the last customers drifted out of the diner, her stomach once again knotted. Could she go through with it?

It was a little before eleven when Misty said, “You run on home. I’ll close.”

Jessica nodded. She was dead tired and told herself to get a decent night’s sleep, then face the music. When she drove out of the lot, she found the city streets nearly deserted, the town of Grizzly Falls seemingly folded in on itself and closed up for the cold winter’s night.

She told herself again that she wasn’t being followed, that the headlights she’d seen in her rearview mirror weren’t zeroed in on her. As she had before, she considered all of her options. She could wait for the bastard to find her, stand her ground, and try to blow him away herself, but then she’d end up in a trial and possibly prison or the mental hospital. Again.

No, thank you.

Fleeing or turning herself in to the police were her options.

If she ran again, she was only putting off the inevitable. Buying a little frantic time. Putting more people in danger. Again, she’d pass.

That left going to the police, telling them her story, and hoping they would believe her, trust her, go against all the evidence.

She turned onto the county road and the streetlights gave way to darkness. No car seemed to be following her and the more distance she put between herself and Grizzly Falls, the more she told herself to relax. She had only one more night on the run, then, come morning, her life would take another turn and change.

Forever.

“So be it,” she said, the beams from her headlights cutting through the deep night. A few snowflakes drifted lazily from the night sky to catch in the light. As she left the city behind she should have felt calm, but instead, she was still uneasy. Restless. She fiddled with the radio and heard an old Johnny Cash song on a country station that kept cutting out. She thought of her family and a bitter taste rose in her throat. Would they come to Montana? Would she be sent to Louisiana where she would face them again through iron bars or through thick glass where they could only speak through phones mounted in the walls? Or would they abandon her?

Did she even care? Those ties had been severed a while back, their frayed ends unable to be stitched back together.

She had, of course, not only betrayed and embarrassed them, she’d renounced them publicly, a sin for which she would never be forgiven. Her mother and father lived by a very stiff and archaic set of standards. A public life that was, to all who looked at it, picture-perfect. No cracks to be seen. But once the doors were closed, their private life was very different and very guarded.