In the Waning Light (22 page)

“Dave was riding on your long-standing reputation in this county, Ike, and now—”

“Still a damn fine legacy,” Ike snapped.

“Perception,” Dave said quietly. “Politics is all about perception. And the story will now be all about Meg and the ‘botched Sherry Brogan case.
’
” He dug his fingers into his duty belt and stood there awhile, watching Meg taking photos of his parents’ house. Electricity crackled quiet and deep in his veins. He wanted to win the top job. But Meg Brogan was like a dog with a bone. It didn’t help that Blake Sutton had her back. His thoughts turned to Geoff.

Meg was right about one thing—this case was off. And he had to fix it. Or lose the election.

“You’ve pretty much got it all summed up right,” Lee Albies said, pouring tea. “I joined the Chillmook Criminal Defense Consortium as a volunteer when I retired from my practice in Portland. I believed in Ty Mack. He was a convenient scapegoat for a sheriff with tunnel vision, hell-bent on seeing justice done at any cost in a case he was taking far too personally, and with no oversight.”

She seated herself opposite Meg and Blake, picked up her china teacup and saucer. She was a tanned and slender woman in her late seventies. Short, spiky silver hair, big red-framed glasses. An African gray parrot paced on a stand behind her, repeating the phrase “Hello my pretty. Hello my pretty. And how is my pretty today.”

Lee sipped her Darjeeling with care, and gave an appreciative sigh. “It’s my hobby horse, I’m afraid. I have a vehement hatred for prejudice in law. And in Ty’s case, it was class, economic prejudice. In my view Ike Kovacs had blinders on when it came to Ty Mack, the dark half-breed from the wrong side of the tracks, so to speak, raping the golden girl of Shelter Point. The town homecoming queen.”

“What made you so certain that Ty would be acquitted in the event he was charged and stood trial?” Meg said, checking that the red light on her recorder was still lit.

“While I was prepping in the event that Ty might be charged, and that we might go to trial, I used the services of a private investigator. He dug up a witness who was prepared to testify that Tyson Mack’s bike was indeed at the Forest Lane trailhead at the time he claimed to have dropped Sherry Brogan off.”

“A
witness
?”

She lifted a plate of cookies, held it out to Meg. “Want one?”

“No, thanks. What witness?”

The plate of cookies was offered to Blake. He shook his head, eyes riveted on Lee Albies.

“Her name was Ethel McCray. She was blind. She’s deceased now.” Albies set the plate carefully on the table, and met Meg’s eyes. “Of course, had we gone to trial the prosecution would have moved quickly to discredit her on the grounds that she
was
blind, and old, and possibly confused, but I planned to show a jury how Ethel McCray could identify make and model of vehicles simply by the sound of an idling engine, and she clearly heard Ty’s one-of-a-kind cruiser. There were voices, too, a male and a female, but their words were drowned out by the sound of the engine, according to Ethel.”

“Did Ike Kovacs know about Ethel McCray?”

Albies nodded. “He brought her in to identify Ty out of a lineup, by voice. Which of course she couldn’t do because the engine was too loud and she hadn’t heard him properly. Kovacs dismissed her as unreliable in terms of his investigation.” She leaned forward. “Now here’s the kicker. There was also a vagrant living in his car in the state park. His name was Milo Sinovich, a vet. He’s also deceased now, but he told my PI that he saw a red VW van parked behind trees near the trail that led to this infamous make-out spot where Sherry Brogan was strangled. The van was parked there
after
Tyson Mack had allegedly dropped Sherry off. And it was there during the period the attack might have taken place.” Albies took another sip of her Darjeeling. “Estimated time of death, you see, fell within a time frame that could match Ty’s version of events.”

“Did this Sinovich talk to the cops?”

“No. The police never approached him. He didn’t go in and volunteer the information, either. He was living under the radar, and we were unable to convince him to make a statement, and he vanished shortly after we spoke to him.” She took another sip of tea. “However, our blind witness said that after the bike left—she heard it going down the street—another vehicle drew up to the path where she was walking her beagle. It slowed, engine idling. There were sounds of arguing, angry, hushed voices, male and female. A scuffle, and, get this, the sound of a
sliding
door slamming shut.” She sat back with a smug smile, and Meg could imagine this woman in court, working up to her coup de grace with relish, pacing her breaks of silence to build tension.

“And, Ethel McCray said the engine that drew up to the path that day was that of a VW van. Older model.”

Meg’s gaze flickered between Blake and Lee Albies. “Is that even possible? To identify a vehicle make like that?”

“We did a few test runs. This woman was ninety-eight percent accurate with the more obvious variations in engine sounds—vans, VWs, different bikes, buses, different sizes of diesel trucks. She’d been blind most of her life, and was always walking near traffic. She had a son, who, when he was little, would guide her on walks to and from school, and because it was his passion, he’d name all the makes and models of vehicles they heard along the way. And, the thing is, those older-model VW van engines do have quite a distinctive sound. Even I can tell one.”

“Why don’t I know of this blind woman, if she lived down my street?”

“She didn’t live in Shelter Point. She and her beagle were staying with her sister for a few months before moving into an assisted living facility.”

Meg ran through several more admin-type questions, then said, “How did you find my mother’s state of mind?”

Lee Albies was silent for a moment, then said, “Tara Brogan was a woman very much filled with the passion of living, and seeking out justice, getting answers before the December trial date looming. I spoke often with her. We grew close in a way. If you’re asking whether I believe Tara took her own life, the answer is no.”

Once the interview and tea were over Lee walked them out to Blake’s truck. The sky was growing low and gray.

“You’re so like her, you know,” she said to Meg as they reached the truck. “Not just in looks, but in movement, too. It’s almost uncanny.”

A strange sensation spiraled through Meg. “Thank you,” she said to Lee. “For helping my mother. For talking to me.” Her voice caught. “For saying I am like her. I never really knew her. I thought she was someone else entirely.”

Lee smiled, and it crumpled her face into pleasant wrinkles. “Do come back, even if just for a social visit. I was terribly shocked by Tara’s death. And I’d love to know how all this turns out.”

“I will.” Meg almost hugged the woman, but held back. She climbed into the truck wishing she had.

Blake started the engine. But before Meg closed the door, she said, “Why was Ty Mack in that cabin, way up the mountain in the woods?”

“It was my grandfather’s cabin,” Albies said. “I moved Ty in there. Fevers in town were running high. I feared pitchforks and a witch hunt. I told the police where he was, in the interests of their investigation, and to show that Ty had no intention of skipping town, and was willing to be cooperative. But I told them the location on the condition they did not reveal it for his own safety.” She paused. Her eyes narrowed sharply, and Meg saw the old defense lawyer at work again. “Clearly that confidence was breached. It was a criminal act, to my mind. And I do believe, as Tara did, that this information was revealed to Jack with the worst of intention. Jack was loaded up like a cannon, and pointed in the direction of Tyson Mack.”

“Who?” Meg said. “Who do you think could have done it?”

“I don’t know. I hope you find him.”

As she closed the door, Albies said, “Be careful, Meg.”

Blake glanced at Meg as he drove. Her mouth was tight and she looked pale.

“You okay?” he said.

Meg nodded. Then said, “No. I’m not.” She rubbed her face. “I’m having trouble with the fact that all this information might have saved my father. And my mother. They could both be alive today.”

He placed his hand on her knee, squeezed gently.

She turned away from him, looking out the window, as if to corral her emotion.

“This kind of writing comes with confrontation, hard questions, dealing with people who are in pain, but when it’s your own story, it takes a different kind of toll.” She swore softly. “I should have pressed Ike harder.”

“You really think Ike might have told your dad where Ty Mack was hiding? You think it was Ike who set him up?”

“But
why
? It doesn’t fit. He was my dad’s friend. He wanted to solve this thing for our family. It’s why he took the lead on Sherry’s case against his better instincts in the first place. He knew from their mutual past just how volatile my father could be, so I don’t believe he’d have told him where Ty was.” She closed her eyes, put her head back.

Blake stole another sideways glance. His chest crunched. She looked vulnerable, and her hair was an untidy mass of curls. But he loved the look. Far more than those sleek and sophisticated photos he’d been seeing of her. She looked more his Meg than Jonah’s Meg. It gave him a small and smug punch of satisfaction.

“What can I do to help?”

She cocked one eye open, smiled slightly. “You’re helping more than you can know. Just being there. Feels good to be part of a team.”

“What made you go into this true crime business anyway? Because of Sherry?”

She snorted. “You sound like Jonah. Or Stamos Stathakis. I just like the genre, the promise of justice at the end, of real heroes who save the day. Closure. And the story structure. The bonus is these stories are real.”

He said nothing.

“You don’t buy it?”

He shrugged.

“You think I’ve been seeking closure my whole life, and this is some perverted way of doing it?”

He snorted. “You know me. I don’t think. I just act.” He grinned at her, and she laughed. And it warmed his soul to be able to put light into her eyes like that.

She turned to look out the window again, then shot abruptly up in her seat. “Blake, wait. Stop! Back up, quick.”

“What is it?” He glanced into the rearview mirror, checking traffic, then slowed, pulled over.

“Back up to that signboard over there.” She twisted around in her seat, pointing.

He reversed.

“There!” She gestured at a board that hosted several commercial signs pointing inland, to the Chillmook dairy farming area. “That second logo down—Braden’s Cattle. That was the same logo on the black van I saw at the gas station the night I arrived. The van Tyson Mack’s uncle, Mason, was driving. I didn’t recognize him—but the woman at Millar’s Gas said it was Mason Mack. The way he looked at me, he knew who I was, and he was damned hostile about it.”

“Braden’s Cattle is a small, independent slaughterhouse,” he said. “Used to be part of Braden Farms, until the family started subdividing.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” she said.

“Access to bovine blood.”

“And motive,” she said, her eyes on fire. “And he knew I was in town. Do we have time? Before Noah?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, swinging the wheel hard to the right.

CHAPTER 17

They drove slowly up to the gates of Braden Cattle. The small writing along the bottom of the sign on the gate said,
Family Run. Integrity, Quality.

Meg exchanged a glance with Blake.

“You sure you want to go in?” he said.

“If Mason Mack works here, I want to speak with him. That was definitely the logo on the van he was driving that night.”

“Doesn’t mean he vandalized your house, just because he works here.”

“Neither does it mean he didn’t. If you think about the words on my wall, it fits that they might have been written by someone allied with Ty Mack, or Ty’s family. At the very least, I might find out where I can get a hold of Ty’s father, Keevan.”

“You want to interview Keevan?”

“If he’ll talk.”

They entered the gates. The place seemed deserted. Blake drove around the back. There were two vans parked in the lot behind the main building. “That’s it.” Meg nodded toward the vehicles. “It looked just like one of those vans.”

Meg and Blake got out.

“Hello! Anyone here?” he called into the door of the building.

A woman in her early forties exited the barn on their left. She was carrying a pail. “Can I help you?” she said, using her gloved hand to hold back blonde hair that blew in the chill breeze. “I’m Debra Braden. We’re closed for a few days because of water damage. Had a breakdown with the plumbing system.”

“Meg Brogan.” Meg held out her hand. The woman set her pail down, took off her gloves, and shook Meg’s hand, a furrow forming on her brow.

“And this is Blake Sutton.” He leaned forward, shook Debra’s hand.

The woman looked at Meg. “You’re . . . Sherry Brogan’s sister. You’re the one who’s come back to write the story of her murder. I heard about it on the radio.”

“It’s not the only reason I’m back,” Meg said, forcing a friendly smile. “Did you know my sister?”

“I knew of her. I didn’t go to school in Shelter Bay. I went to Chillmook Secondary. But who didn’t know of Sherry and Tommy? My cousin, Sally Braden, was in Sherry’s class. She was really messed up by the news of the murder. I think everyone was. Such a shock.”

A bolt of recognition shot through Meg. “You’re Lori-Beth Braden’s cousin.”

“Well, she’s Thibodeau now. But yes. Small towns and all that,” Debra said with a genuine smile. “What brings you guys out here?”

“I was wondering if Mason Mack worked for you guys.”

“Oh, right,” she said as the connection dawned on her. “Mason. Yeah. Both him and his brother, Keevan. Been here about seven years in all now.” She frowned again. “This to do with the story, with Ty?”

“It is. I was hoping to interview them.”

Debra raised her brows, looking dubious. “They pretty much keep to themselves. They live on site. Keevan provides security with his dog at nights.” She turned, pointed to a dirt track. “We’ve got two staff bungalows up that road into the woods along the back of the property over there.”

“Mind if we take a drive up?” Blake said.

“Suit yourself. They’re not always the most welcoming, but they get the job done.”

The road curved up into dense forest and led into a small clearing that housed two cabins about fifty yards apart. There was an old beater of a Toyota propped up on blocks outside. Coveralls on a wash line swayed in the breeze. Empty beer bottles filled a rusting container outside one of the cabin doors. Smoke curled from one of the chimneys. There was no one in sight.

Meg and Blake alighted from the truck and walked slowly into the clearing between the two cabins.

“Let’s try that one, with the smoke. Someone must be home there,” Blake said.

They knocked on the door. No answer. “Hello!” Blake called. Nothing but wind hushing through the pines as the forest stirred. Dark clouds were rolling in off the sea, blackening the sky to the west. Meg could feel the temperature dropping as the front closed in.

They walked around the back of the cabin.

A dog lunged on a chain.

Meg gasped, and jumped. Blake’s arm shot out, holding her back. The dog, a German shepherd–Doberman cross, started to bark, mouth frothing as it jerked and clacked against the chain.

Meg started to retreat, but Blake clamped his hand firmly on her arm. Her gaze shot to him. His face was tight. His eyes sparking a warning. “Don’t move,” he whispered.

A click sounded. Then an unmistakable
kachunk.

“Shotgun,” he whispered.

“Where?”

“Can’t see. But someone has us in his sights.” He scanned the shadows in the encroaching forest, then took her arm. “Just move slowly. We’re going back to the truck.”

“Hold it right there.” The voice was rough, bass. It came from behind them. “Turn around, now. Nice and easy.”

Slowly they turned. Mason Mack. A shotgun aimed at Meg’s heart.

“It’s okay, Mason,” she said quickly, and hated the nerves in her voice. “I . . . I’d just like to ask you some questions.”

“Get the fuck off my property. Now.”

“I only want—”

“Your family killed our boy. You come back here again, I’ll repay the fucking favor. You start writing a bunch of shit about Ty, I might do it anyway.”

Blake’s hand moved to his side, and it struck Meg that he might have a gun.

“Easy, Mack,” Blake said. “We’re leaving. Just let her leave.”

But Meg stood her ground. “So you know that I’m writing a book?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“You’re too stubborn for your own good,” Blake hissed quietly at her. “Don’t look, but there’s another weapon trained on us from those trees on our right. We’re outgunned and outnumbered. I suggest a careful retreat.”

“I was hoping to give Tyson Mack a fair shake,” she called out. “I think he might have been innocent.”

Hesitation showed in Mack’s posture.

“Do you know where I could get hold of Keevan Mack? I’d like to talk with him.”

“Right here.” The voice came from the trees. Keevan stepped out of the shadows, black hair ruffling in the wind. Sinewy, tanned. He looked like Ty. Just older, weathered. He had a rifle trained on them.

“Shit,” she whispered.

“Now, unless you get off this property, I’m setting this dog loose, here.” Keevan stepped closer to the growling animal. The man’s eyes were deep blue under his thatch of brow. His features were hard, uncompromising. His threat felt real. Meg shifted closer to Blake.

“Easy and slow,” Blake whispered. “Just take my cue.”

“Did you do it?” she yelled suddenly at Keevan. “Did you shoot out my house with that rifle in your hands there? Did you paint that stuff on my walls?” Her voice was pitched with fear and she felt a mounting rage. Her body was wire stiff, vibrating.

“Megan,” he growled. “Use your brain, for chrissakes.”

Keevan inched closer to the dog. Mason took a few steps closer to Meg and Blake. Meg’s heart began to jackhammer. Sweat dampened her chest, pooled under her arms.

“I didn’t touch your house,” Keevan growled through his teeth. “Wouldn’t go near there. Don’t want anything to do with scum like you. You just get the hell out of my sight, or I might just hunt you down like an animal, like your father hunted my boy after your whore sister seduced him. You Brogans killed my son. He was innocent. Not a bad hair on that boy’s head.”

Meg raised her hands, palms out. “It’s okay, Keevan. I . . . I want to hear you out. I do—”

He raised the barrel of his rifle and fired a crack into the air. She screamed and jumped. The sound unleashed a frenzied frothing and barking in the dog.

Keevan bent down, slipped a collar around the dog, unleashed the chain. It barreled toward them.

Fuck.

“Don’t run, Meg! Stand your ground!” Blake unsheathed his pistol, aimed it at the oncoming dog.

Henry left the house in his cherry-red MINI Cooper with its snappy white racing stripes. He’d called work to say he’d be late. He felt dulled inside. His briefcase lay neatly on the passenger seat beside him. The pistol inside was loaded, the weapon cocked. He’d brought spare rounds. He should have gotten help all those years ago, maybe seen a psychologist or something. Maybe he could have had a half-normal life if he’d been able to seek therapy for what he’d gone through. Maybe he could blame his predilection for violent porn on the past, on what had happened to him. Or maybe he couldn’t.

You’re sick, you know that? You’re disgusting, a deviant
. . .

His hands fisted around the wheel. He was going to work—
act normal
.
Appear as if nothing is wrong, even if it’s all falling down about your ears, even if it’s all finally coming to an end
. Emotion punched hard through him. His eyes blurred as he reached the T-junction.

A police cruiser turned in front of him. It went down his street, in the direction of his home. His heart started to stammer, and fear wet his skin. He watched the cruiser in his rearview mirror, indecision swirling through his brain. He pulled a sharp U-turn and followed the cop car, staying a fair distance back. It couldn’t be going to his house, could it? They couldn’t be coming for him. Not yet. Surely? He had to know.

The cruiser slowed and turned into his driveway.

Shit.

Henry tapped his brakes and quickly pulled into a parking space higher up the street, tucking tightly in behind a big Dodge Caravan. He kept the engine running as he watched two sheriff’s deputies alight from the cruiser and make their way to his front door.

Shitshitshit.
Sweat pearled along his brow, leaked down the side of his brow.

He waited there, watching for almost twenty minutes. Then suddenly his front door swung open. Out came Sally. She had her hands behind her back, head bent forward, hair hiding her face. The two deputies led her to the cruiser. One opened the rear door, and the other held the back of Sally’s head as he guided her into the sedan and shut the door.

It pulled off.

Henry stared, dumbfounded. What the hell?

The dog stopped within inches of them, eyes wild, saliva glistening on incisors, foam frothing at its jowls as it growled and barked. Every impulse in Blake’s body screamed to flee.

“Don’t look in its eyes,” he ordered Meg. “Get behind me. Right behind me. Hold on to my waist. We’re backing away, slow. Very, very slow.”

They began to inch away. He prayed she wouldn’t trip. She’d be dead in an instant, that dog on her throat. His only hope was that this was the animal that Debra Braden had mentioned they used as security. Which might mean it was trained. The shock collar Keevan had slipped onto the animal’s neck before unchaining it fueled that hope. It might mean the Macks had control over it. His only other hope was that the Macks
would
stop the dog short of killing them.

The dog followed them, step for step, darting closer, snapping, circling, growing bolder as they retreated. Blake’s mouth turned bone dry. His truck felt a million miles away. The Macks did nothing, just watched.

“Call him off!” Blake yelled.

The men laughed.

His raised voice, the exchange, served only to further incense the
dog. It lunged and grabbed Blake’s jean leg, tore at it, growling low in
its throat. Blake stilled, fighting every molecule in himself. He knew
if he kicked, struggled, it would escalate the attack. He’d served
with military K9 teams. He knew what could go wrong if the victim
tried to fight back. And he kept his Glock aimed at the animal. A
last resort, he thought. A very last resort. But he’d do it, to save Meg.

“I’ll kill it,” he yelled, eyes fixed on the animal. “Call it off or I shoot.” He fired a round into the ground. Dirt exploded with sound. The dog yelped, backed off, then redoubled its charge. Blake aimed his pistol, tightening his finger around the trigger.

Keevan stepped forward suddenly and gave a sharp whistle. The dog hesitated. Keevan whistled again, and yelled, “Steel! Down!”

The animal jerked as it was shocked, giving another small yelp. It lay down, panting, eyes wild.

“Bastards,” Meg hissed over his shoulder. “Fucking bastards.” He could feel her whole body trembling behind his.