No Coming Back (12 page)

“All the same . . .”

“We’re here now. And that’s what’s important. Isn’t it?”

A rueful smile graces her lips. “Who knows what might have happened had things turned out differently for us, right?”

For a moment I wonder what our lives might have looked like had I not been convicted of Jenna’s murder. Would Krauss and I have ended up together, romantically? When it comes to our feminine emotions, men are generally detached from them; the thought has never occurred to me—not because the idea of being with Krauss is repugnant, but because I just never thought of her in that way, the way I thought of Jenna, the way I
lusted
after Jenna. Krauss was more like the sister I never had. Undeniably, we were creatures hurried by hormones, but mine were racing to catch another.

I roll my thumb across the diamond ring on her finger. “Looks like you’re already one leap ahead of me, Kim. You got engaged. So who’s the lucky guy?”

“An asshole.”

“I doubt it.”

“Seriously.”

“Sure. I don’t believe for one second you’d make that kind of mistake. You’re the definition of level-headed.”

“Yeah, and human, too. And with it comes fallibility. Let’s just say I’ve made one or two questionable choices over the years, and there won’t be any wedding anytime soon. That ship has definitely sailed.”

She withdraws her hand, and now it’s my turn to study her enigmatic portrait.

Neither of us are the same naïve teenagers we were when we last drank at this watering hole. Our fresh springs have run into deeper waters, carrying with them the accumulation of our journeys.

“Maybe there’s more than one reason you’re back,” she adds. “Maybe this is our time to shine.”

But she’s unaware of the deadly undercurrent running through me. The swirling blackness. If her intention is to cause ripples, she’s out of her depth.

Before I can ask her more about her engagement, somebody bangs a fist against the window pane, breaking our eye contact. He’s a wiry guy in his early forties, with a blond hairline rapidly receding from a capsized face. A snarl is rolling up his lip.

Gavin Luckman.

“You’re a dead man, Olson!” he growls through the glass, loud enough for us and everybody else in the diner to hear. It’s the same empty threat left on my father’s answering machine, made by the same disaffected person.

Krauss shoos him away with a hand. “Move along, Luckman, or I’ll arrest you for disturbing the peace.”

His lip continues its upward curl. “Go screw yourself, Krauss. This is none of your business. This is man stuff. Strictly between duckweed and me.”

I begin to rise in my seat, automatically, but Krauss pulls me back down. “Jake, it’s okay. I’m a big girl; I can look out for myself.” She gives Luckman a damning stare. “I said take a hike, Luckman. Now!”

He thinks about it, then bangs his fist against the glass one more time before backpedaling across the sidewalk, spiteful eyes fixed on me. “Catch you later, Olson,” he shouts. “You got a comeuppance coming.”

Krauss slaps the palm of her hand against the pane. Luckman gives us the finger and crosses the street. I watch him climb into a black pickup parked alongside my father’s red Bronco. It’s the same truck that followed me earlier.

“Numb nuts,” Krauss breathes as we watch him drive away, tires screeching. “If he gives you an ounce of trouble, you be sure and let me know. We have a holding cell with his name on it. It’ll be my pleasure to lock him up for the weekend.”

Across the street, a woman is talking with a young boy. Both are wrapped up against the cold. She’s in her mid-thirties, with long blonde hair flowing out from beneath a knitted hat. Her son looks to be around ten and is clutching a snowboard under one arm. He’s listening intently to whatever piece of parental advice she’s imparting. I can guess it has something to do with black ice and dangerous driving. He nods; he’s heard it a million times. She pecks him on the nose and they move on. As they reach the corner, she glances my way and I feel a hot flush of adrenalin rush through my stomach.

Jenna?

The glance lasts for a split second, no more, but it’s enough to squeeze the life out of my chest. She is Jenna’s spitting image—or an aged version, a version I have imagined—and suddenly my heart is racing, trying to keep pace with my speeding thoughts. I go to sit up straighter, to get a better look, but the woman has already turned away, and the pair disappear down a side street, gone.

The waitress brings our food. Krauss pushes her pop aside and makes a start.

I glance through the window again, hoping to catch sight of Jenna’s lookalike, but she is nowhere to be seen, lost in the advancing shadows. What greets my eyes instead is a police cruiser tearing down the street with its red-and-blues flashing vividly. It slams to a sliding stop outside Varney’s Bait & Tackle and Meeks leaps out. His body language is stiff and adrenalized. A thickset guy in a trapper hat intercepts him on the sidewalk. Even in the twilight I can see the guy’s face is blanched. He starts making dramatic arm gestures and yelling something at Meeks, pointing behind him at the store.

“Looks like Ben’s shortchanged somebody again,” Krauss comments through a mouthful of food.

Meeks says something to the guy in the trapper hat, points at the sidewalk, then disappears inside the bait shop. The guy starts flagging down passersby and waving at people to come join him, like he has something juicy to share. Several pause to hear his story, one or two cross the street out of mild curiosity. He gesticulates wildly toward the bait shop and some of the Saturday strollers get out their phones.

An uneasy feeling starts to spread through my stomach.

Meeks reappears a moment later, looking equally blanched. He rushes over to the curb, folds at the waist and sucks on air.

“That’s different,” Krauss murmurs, sitting up.

Meeks shakes himself like a wet dog, then straightens himself out. He forces his way through the gathering crowd until he engages with the trapper hat guy again. The guy is looking less scared now and more like the center of attention. I see him nod once, twice, then point directly at the diner. Meeks looks over. Even at this
distance
I can see he means business. More flashing lights race in from the opposite direction: a fire department EMS vehicle, followed by another police cruiser. The medics jump out and grab their kits from the back. The accompanying police
officer
leaves his cruiser slantwise across the roadway, lights blinking, then joins his chief on the sidewalk. Meeks deals out orders and the officer starts to corral the crowd, ushering them down the sidewalk, away from the bait shop. Meeks hitches up his pants and begins to cross the street toward us.

I hear Krauss slide out of the booth.

“Stay here,” she says as she grabs up her coat.

Already, onlookers are appearing in store doorways and converging from all directions, drawn like moths to the pretty lights. It’s Saturday and the town is as busy as it gets this time of year. They have no idea what’s happening, but it’s clear this is the biggest show since New Year’s Eve.

Through the window I see Krauss skipping over icy puddles. She intercepts Meeks midway across the street, speaks to him. Meeks growls something back at her, something that makes Krauss’s jaw drop. Then they both look toward the diner, at the window I’m staring through, at me, and I experience that sinking feeling when you know you’re in trouble. Instinctively, I slip out of the booth and get to my feet.

By now, every patron in the diner is peering through the
windows
. One or two are murmuring their curiosity out loud. One or two glancing at the thuggish-looking guy in their midst, wearing the guilty face.

Krauss starts to protest as Meeks gets out his firearm and marches toward the diner’s entrance. She is tight on his heels, still protesting as Meeks throws open the diner’s door, scattering
Merrill’s
patrons.

“Everybody out!” he yells.

Everybody obeys, stampeding for the exit. The snowmobilers go first, followed by the locals, the waitress, and finally the chef, tut-tutting while the food spoils.

Not me. I stay put, looking relaxed despite the tension building in my belly. I know he doesn’t mean me. I know when my number’s called, and this isn’t it.

Face thunderous, Meeks approaches, his gun taking the lead. There is something like festering rage bubbling away in his eyes. The color is coming back to his cheeks, all of it blood-red.

“Hands where I can see them,” he barks.

They already are, but I raise them level with my head, palms facing out. I know the drill.

Krauss is bobbing on his shoulder. Her expression is a monochrome snapshot of concern versus consternation, whereas Meeks’s face is a rough tombstone with the words
you’re a dead man
chiseled into it.

He motions with the gun. “On your knees, Olson. No funny business. Just do as you’re told and you won’t leave here in a bo
dy bag.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Isn’t that obvious? You’re under arrest for murder.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
hose who have never experienced incarceration think that the first night in prison is probably the worst. It isn’t. The first night is a blur. Your mind is too busy reeling from trying to make sense of the inconceivable to fully process the reality of your surroundings. A deadly drive-by with only one victim: you. It’s the second night that’s the worst, followed by every night after that.

Psychologists call it
the caged animal effect
.

It’s akin to cabin fever. A stream of steadily rising panic fed by claustrophobia. Four walls pressing in, like one of those booby traps in a mummy movie. Under such duress, I have seen grown men break down into uncontrollable tears and curl up in corners. Witnessed others claw at the enclosing walls until their bloodied fingers have worn to the bone. When locked in a box with no way out, we all experience the same caged animal effect to some degree or another. For my own sanity I’d learned to phase it out a long time ago, but not before losing my dignity once or twice.

The jail cell in the Harper police station is located below ground level, down a short flight of stone steps, and is shouldered by storage closets and an odorous washroom. It’s a plain gray-painted box with traditional steel bars separating it from the hallway. A long aluminum bench is bolted to the rear wall, with metal hoops for attaching handcuffs. There are no windows—just a solitary strip light set into the ceiling, out of reach.

This isn’t my first visit.

Eighteen years ago, I sat on this same cool bench, with the same nervous feeling poking holes in my gut. The cell doesn’t look like it’s seen a lick of paint in the meantime. Unlike then, I have yet to be fingerprinted and photographed, but I have been swabbed for gunshot residue.

Beyond the bars, up the steps and down the hall a little, Krauss and Meeks are throwing fire at each other. It’s impossible to pick up every word they’re saying, but I get the gist of it. Krauss is defending me and Meeks is having none of it. He’s beating down her flames with hot air, but she’s sucking in oxygen and raging fiercely.

“Exactly who is it I’m supposed to have murdered?” I asked Meeks, back in the diner, as he tossed a pair of handcuffs onto the table and instructed Krauss to manacle my wrists.

“You know who. Ben Varney.”

It was one of those
wait, what?
moments that prickled my cheeks with heat. “You’re kidding me, right?”

But Krauss’s complexion was snow white, her expression deadly serious. “It’s true, Jake. Ben’s dead. Killed with his own shotgun.”

“And I’m the prime suspect, by virtue of the fact I have a record?” I was genuinely shocked. “What possible motive do I have for killing Ben?”

At that point, Krauss hadn’t picked up the handcuffs, and I hadn’t dropped to my knees. Meeks wasn’t happy about either.

“I’m not getting into the whole debate, Olson,” he said.

“Even though I didn’t kill him?”

“You’re going to say that. Besides, we have a reliable eyewitness saying the opposite.”

“Yeah? And who might that be?”

“Someone who will testify you were the last person to see Ben alive.”

I nodded toward the diner’s window. “You mean the guy in the trapper hat, the one over there, selling his story to anyone who’ll listen? Yeah, he looks like the reliable type. Good luck with that, Meeks.”

Meeks’s eyes became spiteful slits.

He was itching to put a bullet in me, for old time’s sake. I wasn’t sure if he’d actually ever shot and killed another human being in his life before. But there was always a first time, and I didn’t put it past him. He expected me to curl into a ball and cave in. Bullies are like that. They thrive on fear and intimidation. But Meeks didn’t know the grown-up me. No longer was I the spineless little kid he used as a punching bag. He held a position of power in the town but he had no authority over me.

Krauss turned to Meeks, her face even paler than normal. “Are we absolutely sure about this?”

“It’s a slam-dunk,” he said, without taking his eyes off me. “Olson here was seen coming out of Ben’s store five minutes before Ben was found with his head blown off. And your friend here didn’t raise the alarm, which means Ben wasn’t dead when he went in there. According to the eyewitness, no one came in or out in the meantime. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math.”

Krauss faced me, blue eyes scrutinizing. “Is this true, Jake? Did you pay Ben a visit right before coming in here? Did you kill Ben?”

Krauss was never one to beat around the bush.

Before I could answer, Meeks interjected: “Kim, it doesn’t
matter
what he says. He’s a convicted murderer. His word isn’t worth shit. We have a credible eyewitness. Now put the cuffs on him. That’s an order.”

But Krauss stayed where she was, her gaze burning into me like Superman’s heat vision.

“Kim, do you really believe I’d kill Ben?” I asked. “Right now I don’t know what’s happened, but it looks like Meeks here is trying to frame me. Again.”

Krauss turned her heat ray on Meeks and started arguing my innocence. It was a glimpse of the snappy defense attorney she’d dreamed of becoming. But her words were seeds falling on hard ground. Meeks wasn’t interested in whether or not I killed Ben
Varney
. He was only interested in erasing me from the equation and removing me from Harper.

Fifteen minutes later, and back at the police station, she is still defending my case. Down the hall and up the steps, Meeks is telling her to back off, to get the hell out of his face. It’s out of his hands now; he’s notified the U.S. Marshals and they’ll be here first thing in the morning to take me back to Stillwater. Krauss tells him he’s overreacted, that he’s an asshole and he should test the water before jumping in feet first. Meeks warns her she’s walking on thin ice. Krauss tells him to go play with himself and comes clattering down the stone steps toward me.

I meet her at the bars.

Her face is flushed and she’s radiating heat. “I swear that man is such an asshole.”

“Kim, it’s okay.”

“No, Jake, it’s anything but okay. He’s adamant you killed Ben and there’s no getting through to him.”

“So, he’s wrong. We’ll figure this out.”

“Like last time? He was wrong about you then and it didn’t stop you from going to prison. It’s like déjà vu.” She blows out hot breath and grinds her teeth.

“Okay. So let’s think about this. I’m innocent. Which means somebody else isn’t. What are we going to do about it?”

Her fiery gaze meets mine. “Everything in my power to get you out of here, that’s what. But first I need to know why you paid Ben a visit in the first place.”

I let out my own heated breath. “I was chasing down a lead.”

“For the paper or for your manhunt?”

“Both, I guess.”

“What kind of a lead?”

“That’s where things get difficult; I made a promise not to say anything.”

Krauss snickers through her anger. “Look at you: already the intrepid reporter protecting his sources.”

“Seriously, Kim, it could bring bad repercussions down on her.”

Krauss makes a wounded expression. “Jake, and it’s me you’re talking to here. You can trust me with your life, remember? Plus, look where you are. If this information can help clear your name and get you out of jail, why hold back?”

Suddenly, I am torn between loyalties. “All right. But this is just between you and me, right?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“If she finds out I’ve told someone . . .”

“Jake, I promise it won’t go any further.”

“Okay. You remember Ruby Dickinson, Jenna’s best friend?”

“Sure. She’s the town’s most colorful drug addict, with a soft spot for hallucinogens, right between her ears.”

“Very funny.”

“It’s true. You wouldn’t believe how many times she’s stood right where you are now, completely spaced out and professing her innocence.”

“Ruby’s a lost soul. She means no harm.”

“That may be. But I wouldn’t trust anything she has to say. She’d convince you black is white if it benefited her addiction. I’m assuming you called on her, too?”

“Earlier, before talking with Ben. You remember what it was like when Jenna went missing? Everything happened way too fast; I didn’t get the opportunity to speak with her back then.”

“So you wanted to know what she remembered.”

I nod. “I needed to see if anything sparked. You know how close the two of them were. Ruby knew Jenna better than all of us, including me. If anyone knows anything, it’s Ruby.”

“Okay, that’s logical. So how does Ben factor into all this?”

“Because of Six Pack.”

Krauss frowns.

I lean a little closer to the bars, keeping my voice to a minimum. “Kim, this is awkward. Promise me you won’t lose your cool or tell anybody else about this?”

She brings her face closer to mine. “Now you’ve really got me wondering. I guess it all depends on what
this
is. Just let me warn you in advance: if it’s something illegal, I have a sworn duty to investigate.”

Our lips are an inch apart, close enough to share more than words.

In hushed tones I recount Ruby’s revelation: that Jenna was no angel, how Ruby became suspicious of her activities, that she followed Jenna one night, how she saw Jenna and another girl engaged in sexual relations with four older men.

By the time I finish, Krauss’s frown has become a mask of
disgust
.

“Oh my God, Jake, that’s nauseating! Surely you can’t believ
e her?”

“Kim, trust me, I’m having a hard time reconciling the thought of Jenna having sex with a bunch of older men. It’s difficult to digest, I know. Not because it’s impossible, but because me and Jenna were dating for months and we never passed second base.”

“You didn’t?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I can’t help it, Jake. I am. Everybody thought the two of you had it all going on. I’m so sorry. If it’s any consolation, the odds are Ruby’s making the whole thing up.”

“Except for the fact she has nothing to gain from concocting a story.”

“You mean aside from her being a drug addict? Jake, the first rule about users and abusers is they lie through their teeth, for any number of reasons—including to get attention. She’d swear she’s never tried drugs if you offered her a free hit.”

I can’t blame Krauss for trying to derail Ruby’s train. Ruby’s addiction automatically puts her in the untrustworthy camp. In my experience, addicts lie without realizing they’re doing it. The whole fabric of their reality is woven with untruths. But there’s something else here. Something more than disgust that’s causing Krauss to question Ruby’s story. It isn’t just the thought of Jenna
sleeping
around with men old enough to be her father that’s
repugnant
, that’s causing Krauss to withdraw from my words. It’s the fact her dad was a member of Six Pack, and probably still is for all I know.

I reach a hand through the bars and squeeze her arm. “Kim, your dad was the chief back then. As you know, we didn’t exactly hit it off. He didn’t like me and I didn’t like him. But I do believe he’s an honorable man. And I don’t believe for one second he’d condone sex orgies with young girls.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “No, no he absolutely wouldn’t. Not for one second. Not if he knew about it. My dad’s no saint, but he’d never be party to something like that.”

“But he was in Six Pack.”

She stares at me like I’m digging for dirt. “Jake, I can assure you he didn’t know about it.” Her lips form a defensive line. “Fact.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen Krauss worked up since the week I was arrested the first time around. Krauss doesn’t get agitated easily. Normally, she’s the epitome of calm and collected.

“My dad was married to the job,” she continues, defending him in the same way he always defended her. “Sure, he was an active member of the club, but I remember he declined a lot of their exploits. Something like that, sex parties with teenage girls, he’d have shut the whole thing down had he found out about it. I mean, it’s sick, Jake. Really sick. Has Ruby told anybody else about this?”

“No. Only Meeks and Gavin Luckman.”

One of her blonde eyebrows hikes up her brow.

“It was back during the investigation into Jenna’s disappearance,” I explain. “Meeks was collecting statements with Gavin in tow. Ruby tried telling him what she saw that night but he closed her down. Told her she had a dirty mouth and it would be in her best interest to keep it shut, or else.”

“He’s such an asshole. Gavin, too, for that matter. Ruby’s
statement
in itself opens up reasonable doubt. It could have gotten you off the hook.”

“Yet one more reason I don’t like the guy.”

She wraps her fingers around mine on the iron bars. “Jake, I’
m sorry.”

“Kim, it’s not your fault.”

“It is. I should have made them believe you had an alibi, convinced them.”

“You tried your best.”

“Not nearly good enough, as it turned out. I promise to make it up to you—even if takes another eighteen years.” The fingers squeeze. Her touch is warm, reassuring. “All the same, Meeks
probably
did Ruby a favor.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because if it had come out at the time, who knows what they would have done to keep her quiet. These are influential people she’s talking about. She shouldn’t mention it to anyone else. And neither should you. People take those kind of allegations extremely seriously.”

“And that’s why I need a favor, Kim. You’re a cop. You know how these things work. A premeditated murder needs a motive. Everybody loved Jenna. I’ve spent years trying to figure out who harbored a grudge big enough to want to do her mortal harm. Have you any idea how many names are on my list?”

“Surprise me.”

“None. I came up with nobody, Kim. Not one. A few jealous types, sure, but none crazy enough to kill her over it.”

“So now you’re thinking one of the six club members kille
d her.”