The Price of Redemption

The Price of Redemption

Pamela Tracy

They say it takes a village to raise a child. In my case a village helped me realize my dreams of publication, and there are many, many villagers who need special thanks.

First, to the members of the Loaded Pencils critique group (established 1993 and still going) who taught me most of what I know: Betty Hufford, Stacy Cornell, Karen Lenzen, Dana McNeely, Bill Haynes and Mark Henley.

Next, to the members of the CCLP critique group (established 2002 and still going) who keep me on task and tell me when I’m meandering: Cathy McDavid, Libby Banks and Connie Flynn.

Also, to my last-minute readers, who catch my silly mistakes: Stacy Cornell, Elizabeth Weed, and Stacey Rannik.

Last, to the editors who make it all come together: Jessica Alvarez, Krista Stroever and Becky Germany.

The word thanks doesn’t seem to say enough.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ONE

It wasn’t his first dead body. Or even his second.

In truth, if Eric Santellis needed to, he could, off the top of his head, remember standing over roughly four, no five, corpses. All died violently. One had been his best friend. Two had been relatives. Two had been strangers who’d had the bad luck and bad judgment to mess with one of his brothers.

But this dead body scared him more than all the others—even though there was no way he could be fingered for her death.

Nope, Eric figured this woman had been dead awhile and he had an airtight alibi courtesy of Florence Prison. And her discovery guaranteed him a spot on the front page of every major newspaper—again.

Unable to stand the stench any longer, Eric stumbled across the shed’s uneven flooring. In places, the boards had given in to age, neglect, and some spots were little more than earth. He tripped up the two narrow steps leading outside and to fresh air, sunlight and wide-open spaces. A moment later, he thought there might not be enough fresh air in the world to rid his nostrils of the stench of his discovery. Once he could breathe again, he flipped open his cell phone and started searching for a location that might allow a signal. Reception, here in the middle of nowhere, was hit-and-miss.

He found a spot and soon connected with the local authorities and a dispatcher. “Sheriff’s Office. How can I help you?” She sounded all of twelve years old.

“Yes, I’m at 723 Prospector’s Way. I’ve just discovered a body in my shed.”

“Are you sure the person is deceased?”

“Very sure.”

“Your name please?”

“Eric Santellis.”

His family had helped establish this small town more than a hundred years ago. His last name often rendered the good people of Broken Bones speechless. Otherwise, he’d have mistaken the silence for a lost connection.

The dispatcher finally cleared her throat. “Did you say Santellis?”

“Yes, I’m at my cabin. There’s a body in my shed. It’s been there awhile. It’s in pretty bad shape and—”

“I’ll get a deputy out there immediately.”

The silence returned, but this time he could legitimately blame a lost connection. He returned the phone to his pocket, and with nothing else to do but wait, stared at the cabin that had been in his family forever.

Family. That word should conjure up good memories and a lifetime of nurturing. It didn’t. But, then, good memories and nurturing were not the stuff the Santellis clan was known for. His grandfather, who’d left him the land and falling-down buildings, had been a bitter old man. Eric had been more than surprised twenty years ago when he’d inherited this place. It was Eric’s last piece of the Santellis fortune.

When he’d entered Florence Prison, his net worth probably figured in the millions if you considered his family’s fortune. When he’d left prison just three months ago, he no longer had family; they no longer had a fortune. His two older brothers were dead, his father had advanced Alzheimer’s and his sister and younger brother had disappeared. Without anyone standing guard, the misbegotten gains of the Santellis crime family fell victim to his sisters-in-law’s lawyers and to the government. Eric would have turned it all over without an argument.

The empire was a legacy paid for with blood—starting with that of his ancestor who’d built this cabin more than a hundred years ago. This land, this cabin, was one of the few Santellis holdings the government hadn’t claimed.

Of course, that all might change now that a deceased female had taken up residence in his shed.

Sirens echoed in the distance and a cloud of dust appeared. Eric headed for his porch and sat to await chaos and suspicion. Three vehicles arrived. First came the sheriff’s SUV. It quickly bumped over the dirt driveway that led to Eric’s porch and skidded to a stop. A few minutes later, and taking the bumps at a precarious speed, a sedan bearing the same logo pulled in behind the sheriff. The deputies parked near the cabin and jumped out—the dispatcher probably hadn’t understood what Eric meant when he said the body had been in his shed ‘awhile.’ Hurrying was unnecessary. Then, surprise, surprise, came a third vehicle, a Cadillac not from the sheriff’s department. It carefully moved up the driveway, parked close to the porch, and a tall, white-haired man climbed out.

The deputies stayed huddled by the sheriff, but the older man came on the porch and said, “James Winters. Call me ‘Doc’, everyone does. I’m the local doctor, retired, but in a pinch, I’m all they have. I hear you’ve found a dead body.”

So the twelve-year-old had gotten something right. “Very dead.”

“I believe you, son.”

The sheriff slammed the door of his SUV. The noise echoed in the silence of the forsaken land Eric now called home. The deputies followed as the sheriff ambled toward Eric. The sheriff, older, chubby, dark-haired and balding didn’t bother to introduce himself or show a badge. He snarled, “Did you touch anything?”

“Yes,” Eric admitted. “I thought I had a dead animal in there. While I was looking for it, I moved some boxes and stacks of junk. I was tossing old clothes into a laundry basket when I accidentally took hold of the arm. Of course, I didn’t know it was an arm at first. That’s when whatever was covering her dislodged, and I saw a skull and realized what I was holding.”

“You might want to call a lawyer,” the doctor advised. “Before you say anything else.”

“No need,” he said wryly. “There’s no way they can pin this on me. I’m guessing she took her last breath at least six months ago, and back then I was a guest of the Arizona penal system.”

“No kidding,” said the doctor, clearly surprised.

“Your second day here and you’ve already got trouble.” The sheriff stared at Eric before slowly taking a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and writing down a few things. Then, he added, “Well, let’s take a look.”

“I smelled decay yesterday.” Eric headed for the shed. “At first, I figured a cat or something.”

He’d been wrong. Dead wrong.

“This morning, I couldn’t take the smell anymore.”

That the shed was in one piece was nothing short of astounding. It had actually been built before the main cabin, and Eric’s ancestors had lived in it while they finished building their permanent residence. The sheriff opened the door and started to take a tentative step. The putrid odor caused him to pause, and then he took a rubber glove from his pocket, held it to his nose and entered. Boards creaked in protest. They creaked even louder after the two deputies, sans the rubber gloves, joined their boss. Eric and the doctor waited a moment.

“I thought I read you got out of jail almost six months ago?” Doc said.

“No, that’s when the paperwork started. It took about three months to get it through the system.”

“System’s a joke,” Doc said, and headed for the shed.

Eric’s lantern still hung from a nail. Its glow, inadequate for the task, simply made the room look spooky. Eric lit a second lantern, and both deputies pulled out flashlights. One immediately started gagging and headed for the door. The doctor applied vapor rub under his nose and handed the jar to Eric. Then, he took out his flashlight and moved toward the far wall and the body. Bending down, he made a careful perusal of the area. Taking out a minirecorder, he said, “First assessment. Remains appear to be of a woman between the age of thirty and fifty. She’s been discovered in a shed and exposed to carnivores.”

The sheriff moved closer and started taking pictures. He glanced at Eric. “What made you think she’d been dead about six months?”

“I have a degree in criminal justice. Finished it while in prison. Plus, I’ve seen dead bodies.”

“Not a bad guess, but you forgot to allow for the heat.” Winters returned to his recorder. “Based on the level of deterioration, the female has already started…”

Eric left the room. He didn’t need to hear any more. While the body was badly decomposed, it didn’t take a scientist to judge it female, since it was wearing a faded pink polyester pantsuit. Still, Eric would have blown his assessment of the corpse’s age, putting her in her seventies or thereabouts based on the style of clothes.

He headed back to his front porch and sat, waiting. Doc Winters was soon replaced by the coroner. Soon, another law enforcement officer arrived. This one had a bigger camera. The man didn’t meet Eric’s eyes and didn’t bother to introduce himself.

But then, the sheriff hadn’t offered a name, either.

But Eric knew who he was. Rich Mallery. His family had settled the area, alongside Eric’s family. Rich’s family stayed in the area and went into law enforcement, politics and land speculation. Eric’s family left for the city and kept law enforcement busy, paid off politicians and watched as blood soaked the land.

Eric’s family demanded attention; Eric wanted none of it. He’d been at the cabin two days without a single visitor, a dream come true.

Trust his family to ruin everything.

He wondered which brother, or brother-in-law, was responsible for the Jane Doe in the shed.

“This is the sixth cop in ten years. It’s a cruel world and the good die young.”

Ruth Atkins tried not to listen to the words. She also tried not to turn around and stare at the speaker.

“I mean,” the woman continued, “I wouldn’t let my boy be a cop.”

Finally, Ruth recognized the speaker and understood the shrill speculation. Her boy, Ruth knew, was unemployed and lived at home, at the age of fifty.

“And, I can’t believe that now they allow women to be police officers. Why, in my day…”

Ruth turned around and glared.

The older woman smirked. “Well, let’s just say that if I needed someone to protect me, I’d sure expect the cop who showed up to at least be taller than I am.”

A swoosh of air escaped from between Ruth’s teeth as she turned back to face the minister and listen to his eulogy. Eventually, her breathing returned to normal. She’d attended more than one anger-management session during the two years since she joined the police department. The department would be relieved to know the time had been well spent.

Once she had her breathing under control, Ruth stood, made her way to the aisle of the church and headed for the ladies’ restroom where she leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. The sixth cop in ten years. The fourth in the last two years.

Jose Santos, a veteran of the police force for twenty-five years, beloved father of five, had hesitated when faced with shooting the car thief who palled around with his only daughter.

Two families destroyed: Jose’s and the single mother who raised the shooter—a fifteen-year-old boy.

Jose’s wife was burying her husband. Ruth was still looking for hers. In Ruth’s case, there was no closure. Dustin was still listed as missing. No justice. Gracia Santos, Jose’s wife, knew the murderer, could look the boy in the face and cry for justice.

But instead, Gracia, a Christian, cried for both her husband and the teenager.

Ruth had no compassion for the family of those who murdered her husband. She blamed the Santellises, and they were evil. Ruth would not, could not, shed a tear for the death of the two Santellis boys she blamed for Dustin’s disappearance. They’d been shot just a year ago on the front steps of a Phoenix jail, and Ruth had been glad.

Glad!

Nothing would change Ruth’s mind about that, not even the sound of “Amazing Grace” reverberating from the main auditorium. She opened her eyes hearing the bathroom door open. A face peeked around the corner.

“You okay?” Rosa Packard asked.

“I just need a moment. Really.”

Rosa nodded before retreating, the way a best friend should.

Walking to the sink, Ruth grabbed a few hand towels and dabbed at her eyes. Fine time to have a pity party. The whole world, well, at least everyone at the Fifth Street Church, would know she’d been crying in the bathroom.

Last time she’d cried in this bathroom had been eight years ago. At only twenty, and with only twenty minutes to go until she walked down the aisle and said “I Do” to the love of her life, she’d stood in this very place and wept. Not because she was sad, oh, no, but because she was about to enter the fairy-tale life she’d dreamed of. She was marrying a good man; she was going to have a good life.

And she had, for five years.

She’d married a man who was the antithesis of her father. She married a hero. This had been his church. It had also been Jose’s. Her best friends Rosa and Sam Packard attended. For the last few months, Ruth and her daughter had accompanied them. Bible Study with Sam on Wednesday nights was becoming habit. And the new minister, Steve Dawson, seemed to direct some of his sermons right at her—usually the message had to do with forgiveness.

Well, she wasn’t ready for that, not when it came to Dustin, but she was learning about Jesus, learning to pray, learning about this grace thing and thinking about being baptized.

The door opened again and Rosa poked her head in. “Ruthie, the service is almost over. People will be heading this way soon.”

“Thanks.” One last sniff, and Ruth followed Rosa into the auditorium and sat down.

Rosa patted Ruth’s knee, a motherly touch, a needed touch, a touch that said I’m here for you.

Heads were bowed for the final prayer, and afterward Ruth joined the long line to say a final goodbye to Jose. His family stood by the casket accepting condolences. Or at least that’s what Ruth thought they were doing.

“Thank you for coming.” Gracia took Ruth’s hand. Her hair was a curious mixture of black and red. She stood about a foot shorter than her children. Yet, she clearly was in charge. “My husband said you changed his mind about female cops. He so admired you for stepping up to the plate after Dustin disappeared. We pray every day for your family, for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Before Ruth had time to say anything else, to do what she’d intended and offer some platitude to help the woman cope, she was gently nudged aside by the person standing behind her.

Trying to shake off the gloom, Ruth stepped out into the August heat and hurried to her car. Clad in black slacks, a black shirt and black cotton jacket, she felt the full weight of the Arizona sun. Black was not the color for summer, as most of the mourners had proven by not wearing what Ruth’s mother had deemed appropriate.

Ruth had first put on her dress uniform, a sign of respect all the other Gila City officers had followed. Then, she’d taken it off. She’d probably receive a reprimand from the captain. But, the captain would no doubt be pleased she’d made it to this funeral. She’d missed the last two. Now her only goal was to make it to her car without any more scenes.

She didn’t want to be a cop mourning a cop.

Ruth had barely touched her key to the ignition when her cell phone vibrated. Ricky Mason, onetime classmate, onetime boyfriend, full-time reporter for the Gila City Gazette, clamored from the other end. Excitement took his naturally tenor voice up to an unnatural soprano. She held the phone away from her ear and in between an annoying amount of static caught the words shed, Santellis, body.

TWO

“Whoa, slow down, take a breath,” Ruth advised. “What about a body?”

“Are you sitting down?” Ricky’s words were rushed, a bit higher pitched than usual.

“I’m sitting down.” Ruth told him. “I’m in the car, outside of Jose’s funeral.”

“Boy, that’s where I should be, was supposed to be, but this is way more important—”

“Tell me about the body!” Ruth’s keys fell to the floorboard. “What body?”

“They won’t let me close yet, but I’m here at Eric Santellis’s place—”

“The old cabin in Broken Bones? What are you doing out in Broken Bones?”

“When a Santellis calls in a dead body, boy, you know there’s a story. I’m here in his kitchen—it’s a mess—and waiting for the go-ahead to take some pictures, ask some questions. Right now they’re not letting anyone close.”

“You’re kidding? Eric Santellis is back? He reported a dead body? Is it Dustin?” The words tumbled from her mouth even as her brain went into overdrive. Dustin’s cruiser had been found on Prospector’s Way, the same road as the Santellis cabin.

“Look, I’ve only been here about fifteen minutes. I’m dating the girl who’s working at the sheriff’s office here, and she clued me in. That’s not to be shared, by the way. They’re annoyed I showed up. Eric—boy does he look like a Santellis—is in the living room. He’s not talking, but he sure knows how to glare. Anyhow, he found a body this afternoon and called it in.”

“I’m on my way. Call me if you find out anything.”

“What and cause a wreck? I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

Ruth hurried out of her vehicle, got down on her hands and knees and fished her keys out from under the driver’s side seat. She almost dropped them again, her hands were shaking so badly.

She aimed her small SUV toward Broken Bones and hit the speed dial on her cell phone and let her mother know she’d be late and to go pick up Megan from the babysitter.

I’m not ready for this.

Ruth clutched the cell phone. She should make one more call to a fellow police officer. She should call Sam Packard, her husband’s best friend. Instead, her hand inched toward the car’s radio. Dare she listen to hear if the news was reporting anything about a body found on Prospector’s Way?

No, it was too soon. And if Ricky wasn’t privy to information, neither were other reporters.

Oh, this was hard. She’d prayed for closure, and now that it was almost here all she felt was dread. Dread! She hated to admit it, but there’d always been this tiny germ of hope that Dustin would someday be discovered leading a secret life in some small community in Mexico. Amnesia. It would be amnesia.

Well, it could happen!

She turned onto the two-lane highway and got stuck behind a tractor trailer. The slow-moving vehicle gave her way too much time to think. Why had Eric Santellis returned to Arizona? He’d dropped off the earth after he’d gotten out of prison. Rosa said he’d gone looking for his sister. Ruth wished he’d stayed missing.

Leaving Gila City limits behind, Ruth entered a dirt road that jutted to the left and went a good two, three miles before introducing travelers to a type of one-horse town still alive and well in Arizona. She’d lived here for a few years back during her childhood. She remembered her mother cleaning houses to make a living, her father spending time in bars and in jail, and she remembered sleeping on a brown, smelly couch because there had only been one bedroom in the small house.

Broken Bones had thrived in the late 1800s; now it catered to an iffy tourist crowd and a dedicated modern-day gold prospectors crowd, most of whom stayed year-round.

By checking the dashboard clock, Ruth knew it had taken almost an hour to travel from the Fifth Street Church all the way to the Santellises’ cabin.

It felt like forever.

The small SUV parked in front of the cabin blocked the entryway, and took up more room than necessary. The woman, slight of build and dressed in black, strode confidently to the door. She didn’t knock. She opened the door and stepped in, zeroing in on Eric. The reporter started forward, took one look at both the woman and Eric and settled back to wait.

Small-town justice was an entity in itself. No doubt Officer Ruth Atkins figured any Santellis with a body in his shed would have news about the body she most wanted to find: her husband.

Eric had seen her in court all those months ago. On his behalf, in a halting voice, she outlined the investigation she’d been involved in and how she’d investigated the policeman who actually committed the murder Eric went to prison for. Of all who’d testified on his behalf, she was the only one who did it without a hint of compassion. It seemed that his last name, in her opinion, was enough to warrant a life sentence in Florence Prison. But, she was a cop through and through, as her husband had been, and she would testify truthfully, even if it broke her heart.

He felt guilty just looking at her and wondering which family member was responsible for making her a widow.

She stood, hands on her hips, with a Don’t-you-dare-mess-with-me look in her red-rimmed eyes, and stated, “So, you found a body?”

“I did.”

“Is it my husband?”

This he hadn’t expected. For the last few hours his place had been an open-door invitation to both law enforcement and the medical field. The term female remains had been bantered around so often it sounded like a refrain from a rap song.

“No, the remains are female.”

“I just found out.” This was from the reporter who’d been banned from the shed. Now at least Eric knew who the snitch was.

“It’s a middle-aged woman, probably dead about six months,” Eric said. “Whoever put her in the shed didn’t really try to hide her. She was buried under clothes.”

Ruth seemed to deflate but only for a moment. Then, she raised an eyebrow. Eric knew she was thinking the Santellises would be a bit more thorough, a bit more cruel.

Sheriff Mallery stomped into the room and frowned at Ruth. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard you had a body.”

“Well, great guns, the news has probably made it to the moon by now.” He motioned to Ricky. “You might as well head over there, don’t touch anything and make sure to get the facts right.” Ricky didn’t need a second invitation. Ruth didn’t even wait for one.

Mallery headed outside, leaving Eric alone with the ghosts of his ancestors both present and past. Not the position Eric wanted, so he slowly followed them. They had the shed’s door propped open. August, in Arizona, was bad enough, hot enough. Add the stench of a dead body to the sweltering air and suddenly Siberia looked pretty inviting.

Every few minutes someone would exit and someone else would return. The coroner, annoyed at the chaos, threatened dire consequences should any feet stray too close to his victim and contaminate the area.