The Price of Redemption

Eric leaned against the door frame and watched as Ricky displayed the unique ability of being able to write both in a cramped place and in the dark. Ruth hovered at Ricky’s elbow. “It’s a woman,” she whispered in his ear.

“Duh,” he responded.

Friendship, even in the worst of locales. Eric missed it, wanted it and didn’t dare pursue it out here in the real world. The people he’d befriended in the past had a way of getting hurt—sometimes fatally.

Two deputies were busy moving boxes away from the corpse. Eric stayed on the stairs by the door. He could see everything and everybody. The coroner stood after a moment and said, “We can take a break now. I’ll call dispatch and get the CSI guys out here.”

The cops moving stuff sighed in relief. It was crowded, hot and dark in the shed. Compared to the smell, those were the good qualities. One of the cops put down the basket he’d just picked up. It teetered on the edge and fell to the ground with a thump only made louder by the self-imposed silence of the people in the shed.

At that moment, more than anything, Eric wished he’d remained on the porch, because when the coroner started packing his medical bag and the basket fell over, Eric spotted another hand.

THREE

Ricky, the reporter, got so excited he dropped his pen. The two deputies froze, probably fearful lest they move something and find yet another body. The coroner simply reopened his medical bag and waited for the deputies to snap out of their stupor and clear the way.

Eric watched Ruth. She didn’t make a sound. The heat from the shed seemed to cloy as the players in this no-win game waited to see what would happen next. It reminded Eric of prison, of being in a place he couldn’t breathe, a place with no soul. The smell of death, human sorrow and just plain wrongness, intensified. Although no one acknowledged the feeling, they all recognized it.

Sheriff Mallery finally snapped his fingers and barked at his deputies, “Well, you two just gonna stand there?”

Suddenly Ruth and Ricky were both pushed back as the need to maneuver boxes and clear the area became frenzied. Ricky obviously knew his job. He blended into the shadows. Ruth stumbled forward, her hand stretched out, her mouth a silent “0” of what? Fear? Shock? Disbelief? The deputies got busy and the hand became an arm, a torso, legs, a complete corpse.

From Eric’s vantage point, he could tell this body had been a dead body longer than the woman’s. The black slithery look was missing because there was no tissue left to rot. Only dingy brown bone remained. This corpse hadn’t preferred the pink, flowered polyester of the first corpse. No, this corpse dressed a bit more conservatively, a bit more dignified.

But police uniforms, like pink polyester pantsuits, were meant to last.

Doctor Winters nodded in Ruth’s direction and took on the same snappish tone the sheriff had just used. “Get her out of here.”

“Nooo,” Ruth keened.

The deputies didn’t move; Ricky didn’t move; the sheriff didn’t move. The coroner was already on his knees in front of body number two. The white-haired doctor frowned. Shaking his head at what he knew to be a bad decision, Eric entered the shed and grabbed Ruth by the elbow. “Let’s go back to the cabin.”

“I need to see—”

“They’ll work faster if you’re not here. You’re making them nervous.”

Ruth glanced at the two deputies who were now both still—again. Nervous didn’t begin to describe the looks on their faces. “Go, Ruthie,” Ricky urged. “I’ll tell you everything. I won’t leave out a thing.”

Her knees crumpled, and Eric held her upright. He moved her toward the open door. The top of her head came to his chest. It would have been easier to pick her up and carry her, but if he knew anything about this woman, it was that she wouldn’t want to show weakness at this time. The sheriff moved aside to let them pass. He didn’t offer to help. He didn’t offer condolences or advice, either. He followed them out into the semifresh air and made a phone call. Doctor Winters did the same.

Eric had too much on his mind to even attempt to eavesdrop, though he was tempted. And each heavy step gave him time to think. Two bodies! There are two bodies in my shed. Maybe he should have waited before calling the authorities. This sheriff inspired about as much confidence as a used-car salesman. Two bodies! Helping Ruth across the front yard, up onto the porch, into the house and finally to the couch, he couldn’t help but shake his head. Two bodies and one of them belongs to her!

He fetched a bottled water from the tiny kitchen, laid it at her feet and waited a moment to see what she’d do.

Nothing. She slumped forward instead of back. Her hands crossed her chest as if holding something—probably pain—inside. Her hair cascaded down and almost touched the floor. This was the first time he’d seen her in civilian clothes, not that black counted as a good first impression.

When the court had vacated Eric’s conviction, and later during the trial of Cliff Handley’s partners, Ruth had been in attendance, always wearing her police uniform. She’d also worn her hair in a braid that hid the fact that she had a rich, red, luxurious mane.

He went outside, found the same spot for phone reception he’d discovered earlier and called Rosa’s cell. It was fifty-fifty he’d get through. Sam and Rosa would be at the other police officer’s funeral. Eric couldn’t remember the man’s name, but he remembered how the man died. He’d been shot by a fifteen-year-old trying to steal a car. The news stations kept mentioning the kid’s age, as if crime was reserved for adults. The residents of Gila City were shocked. Eric wished he could be shocked, but in his world, fifteen-year-olds knew more about guns than they did about skateboards.

Which is why he wanted to change his world.

He’d chosen Broken Bones because he wanted out of that life, that media circus. Yeah, right, as if he could be that lucky. That world had obviously followed him. No, not followed but preceded, giving him a proverbial Santellis welcome—You can run but you can’t hide.

Rosa picked up after just two rings. “Packard here!”

He almost mentioned how he couldn’t seem to get used to her new surname, but the timing wasn’t right. Banter between him and his last remaining friend was strained, to say the least, mostly on his side. “I think you need to come out here. I found a body earlier, called it in and wound up with quite a few guests.”

“Who’d you find?”

“First body was a female. Second body is wearing a police uniform. The bad news is Ruth is here.”

“Second body? Police officer? Oh, don’t tell me.”

“I’m telling you.”

“We’ll be right there.”

He went back in and sat on the floor. The couch was big enough for two, but he doubted Ruth would appreciate sharing with him—with the brother of the possible, probable, killer. She most likely figured he could tell her which sibling claimed guilt: Tony? Sardi? Kenny?

Of course, the murderer might not be one of his brothers. It could also very well be his brother-in-law. Until just over a year ago, Eddie Graham ran the Santellis Used-Car Lot in Gila City, barely thirty miles away.

Eric again shook his head. Currently, Eddie was doing a dime in Perryville Prison. Word had it he was happy there, that he didn’t want to leave. Mary Graham, Eric’s missing sister, had a temper. Her eight-year-old had gotten into his father’s stash, digested some and had to be hospitalized. So now Eddie was in jail and his newest tattoo probably read I’m Too Scared of My Wife and Her Brothers To Move Back Home. Of course, now that Tony and Sardi were dead and Kenny missing, Eddie might reconsider parole. Maybe that’s why Mary and her son were hiding.

The first thing Eric had done, after being released from prison, was get the electricity turned on out here in no-whereland, and then he spent some time looking for his sister, looking for the one piece of his life that might still need him as much as he needed it. Mary had vanished, and in some ways, he was grateful to know she was out of the life, out of the media’s spotlight and maybe safe. He’d gone to Italy, to relatives he’d never met. So, even if the female had died within the last three months, Eric still had an alibi for much of it.

Thumps came from outside. Then came the sound of a highly agitated sheriff. This investigation bordered on the archaic. The effort to keep the area clean encouraged one mishap after the other. Good thing he’d already accepted that he lived in a fixer-upper, otherwise he’d be hard-pressed to keep the Santellis temper in check.

The damages were to be expected. Tender loving care would not have been in the vocabulary of the grandfather who’d left Eric the cabin. The fact that the place was in any decent shape at all could be credited to his sister. Mary and Eddie had lived in the cabin just after they’d married, and Eddie drove the sixty miles to his job at the Santellis Used-Car Lot in Gila City. Four years later, once their son, Justin, turned two, Mary insisted on moving back to Phoenix. She wanted to be close to doctors, stores, etc.

For the last eight years, the cabin had been deserted. Well, deserted except for Jane Doe and what was probably Dustin Atkins.

“Tell me how he died?” Ruth’s words interrupted his thoughts.

He felt pathetically grateful to leave the images of the past, of his sister, his grandfather, his life, and focus on Ruth. She no longer bowed her head. Hair streamed in her face, obscuring most of her features but not hiding the fact that she’d been crying and hard. No woman he knew could cry that hard and keep silent.

His sister, Mary, wailed. Rosa was a gasper. He’d never seen his mother cry. Maybe she did it in secret, or maybe by the time he’d been old enough to notice, she’d forgotten how.

“I don’t know how he died. I was in prison.”

“Somebody would have told you.”

“Right, I had so many visitors. That came up in court, remember?”

“How do you think he wound up in your shed?”

“Just my bad luck,” Eric muttered.

“What?”

“It’s just my incredibly bad luck. If one of my brothers murdered your husband, of course, they’d leave him in my shed. It’s not like I can ever hope to break free of their doings.”

“Did he make one of them angry?”

“How should I know?”

“Were they dealing drugs out of this house?”

“I’m gonna say no.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The amount of dust and debris I’ve shoveled out. And if they had been dealing drugs from here, they’d have had a working stove and refrigerator. The windows would have been covered. Yes, even here in the middle of nowhere. Plus, there’d have been a chemical smell. There’d have been something tangible left behind, be it a broken propane canister, lithium batteries or rubber gloves.”

“Maybe they cleaned up?”

“Yeah, right. They’d leave dead bodies but carry away the drug paraphernalia. No, the dirt was two inches deep.”

“It’s Dustin. I know it’s him.”

“I think so, too,” Eric said.

“I think so three.” Ricky the reporter stood in the cabin’s doorway.

Eric almost stood up, almost shouted that now was not the time or place for any attempt at humor, but the look on Ruth’s face stopped him.

“Have they said anything?” she asked.

“Boy, they’ve bantered his name around enough, but no one’s willing to commit. They just kicked me out.” He sounded indignant.

Eric was pretty amazed they’d let Ricky stay for so long, but then again, Eric had watched as Ricky the ace reporter melted into the shadows of a crime scene.

Walking to the doorway and nudging Ricky aside, Eric stared at his very popular shed. “Why’d they finally kick you out?”

Eric turned in time to catch a look passing between his guests. Finally, Ricky came clean. “They’re saying the woman’s only been dead about two to three months. So, Eric, you are a suspect. And they’re saying Dustin didn’t die in the shed. Somebody moved him and fairly recently.”

FOUR

“Why would somebody move him?” Eric asked himself, a little too loudly. “And not move the female?”

“I don’t know,” Ruth answered. She stood up and paced. There was plenty of room since the only pieces of furniture in his living room were a lamp balanced on a crate in the corner, a couch with the stuffing coming out of one side and a coffee table made from an old door.

Eric thought the place perfect: secluded. He had everything he needed. More than the grandfather who’d left him the land. Eric even had electricity. He’d called and arranged to have it turned on before he arrived. But except for the lamp and the refrigerator, he didn’t need the voltage. Maybe he should get rid of the lamp. All it did was remind Eric of how much work there was to do.

Ruth muttered, “He died somewhere else, and they moved him? Why?”

Ricky managed to restore a shred of respect to his profession, at least in Eric’s opinion—and Eric despised reporters. He actually came up with a feasible supposition. “To frame you,” he said, looking at Eric.

“That’s pretty stupid since I was probably in jail when he bit the dust and travelling in Italy when she did.”

“Maybe whoever moved them didn’t know you’d been in prison,” Ricky said.

“Right,” Eric agreed. “Maybe whoever moved them has been buried under a rock for the last three years.”

“Maybe whoever moved them didn’t care which Santellis got blamed,” Ruth guessed.

“What do you mean by that?” Eric asked. “You think my sister, Mary, might have—”

“I’m thinking more of your younger brother Kenny.” Ruth stopped pacing and stared out the front door. The action by the shed reminded Eric of ants scurrying in and out of the nest.

Eric shook his head. “Kenny won’t set foot near this place. He has a bounty on his head.”

“I agree,” Ricky said. “Besides, why move them for Kenny to find. He’d never have called them in. He’d have torched the shed to get rid of the smell and the evidence.”

Ruth looked a little ill.

“You have the right to be sick at all this,” Ricky said gently, “but all we’re doing right now is supposing. We’re even supposing the body is Dustin’s.”

“It’s Dustin,” Ruth said.

“Who else could it be?” Eric agreed.

“No other cop is missing.” She started pacing again, this time with the quick, jerky motions of someone who was highly agitated. “But why was he in Broken Bones? It’s not our jurisdiction—”

“Why are you in Broken Bones?” Eric asked. “It’s not your jurisdiction.”

She glared. “I got a call. You know that.”

“Right, you got a call. Probably the same thing happened to Dustin. For some reason, be it a call, a hunch, whatever, he wound up here on Prospector’s Way.”

“Maybe he was looking into your brothers’ involvement in the drug trade.”

“That I believe, but they weren’t working out of this cabin. It’s mine. I told them to stay away.”

“And they’d listen to you?”

“Yes.”

Something flickered in her eyes—briefly replacing the sorrow—and clear enough to let Eric know she neither believed or trusted him.

He’d feel the same way if their roles were reversed.

This time she stopped by a window so dirty there were only a few streaks of cleanliness. She pointed outside, to where the road would be, and demanded, “Why would he be on this road?”

“Because this isn’t the only cabin,” Eric guessed.

She bent and stared out the smudge. “I hate this road, always did.” She turned and glared at him. “What else were your brothers involved in?”

“You’re a cop. You probably know more of their activities than I do. The only other person who might know is my father.”

“Yano? I thought he died.”

“He’s has Alzheimer’s. Right now he’s in assisted living. Half the time, he doesn’t even know when I’m there.”

“He should be in prison,” she said snidely.

Eric thought the same thing. And the part of him that still craved his father’s acceptance, his father’s love, thought that at least in prison the old man wouldn’t be alone. Kenny was missing, Mary and her boy, Justin, were missing. Mom had died years ago. Tony and Sardi were dead, and if Yano’s daughter-in-laws were smart, they’d remarry, have the new hubbies adopt the children and erase the Santellis name from all documentation.

“Off the top of your head, what else were your brothers involved in?”

“Prostitution. Money laundering. Chop shops. Extortion.” He could have gone on, but the sheriff came in, gave Eric a dirty look, glanced back outside at the sound of more cars arriving and said, “Mrs. Atkins, you might want to wait outside. You have no idea how much he’s involved.”

“It’s Officer Atkins, and since this man was in prison when Dustin disappeared, I’d say his alibi is airtight.” Ruth had no idea why she defended Eric. Ricky had been right. He looked like a Santellis—somewhat. Maybe it was the somewhat that swayed her. The men in that family were all solid, dark, walking refrigerators who crushed what got in their way and never smiled. Eric had already shed his prison weight—not the muscles—and was a slender dark man who lived in a hovel and never smiled.

“We will connect him to the murders,” the sheriff argued.

“No, you won’t,” came a voice from the doorway. “He didn’t have to call the bodies in. He could have simply dug their graves a little deeper and forgotten about them.” Rosa Packard, still wearing her dress blues from the funeral—stretched tight due to pregnancy—stepped into the room followed by her husband, Sam, and Steve Dawson, the preacher who had just done Jose’s funeral service.

Sam Packard nodded at Eric but went straight to Ruth, sat down next to her on the couch and wrapped his arms around her. For a moment, Ruth lost herself. She knew this man, had known him for years. She’d been two years behind Dustin and Sam in school and had envied their friendship. They’d done almost everything together: Boy Scouts, high-school baseball team and finally Sam had been the best man at Ruth and Dustin’s wedding. In a pinch, he even babysat Megan.

When Sam joined the police force, he and Dustin had been partners—until Dustin’s disappearance. When Ruth decided to join the police force—good money, good benefits, good way to keep active the investigation into Dustin’s disappearance, Sam had been there to tell her it was a bad idea and later to help her learn to shoot a gun.

She began to train, get in shape, and after two months she earned her badge. A year later, instead of Dustin, Ruth served as Sam’s partner on the Gila City police force. Then, yet another year passed, and Ruth walked down the aisle at Rosa and Sam’s wedding. She’d fought back tears because Dustin deserved to be at his best friend’s side. He deserved the chance to tell Sam that marriage meant bad breath in the morning and long kisses goodbye. Marriage meant fighting over whether or not to put mushrooms in the gravy and going to bed before you’re tired just so you can go to bed at the same time. Marriage meant watching the stick turn blue together and knowing that in nine months there’d be cries in the middle of the night and a little baby that looked like daddy.

A fairy tale.

She cried at Sam’s wedding because she was so very happy for Sam, and so very unhappy without Dustin.

Why were all these thoughts surfacing now? Was it because any tiny shred of hope concerning Dustin was probably about to dissolve? Staring across the room, she studied Eric Santellis. He sat next to Rosa and gazed at her intently. They spoke in low intimate tones.

Next to Ruth, Sam offered platitudes. Then, the minister offered more, and all the while, Rosa and Eric whispered about his big brothers.

His brothers.

If they weren’t already dead…

“Did you know Eric had moved here?” Ruth shifted, freeing herself from the comfort of Sam’s arms.

“Yes,” Sam admitted. “He called Rosa last week.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Never seemed like the right time. Jose died Monday night, and, well, okay, I kept finding reasons to put off telling you.”

“That’s so lame. You knew I’d want to know about Eric Santellis moving to Broken Bones, taking up residence in this cabin, on this road.”

Sam took one of Ruth’s hands and explained to Steve. “This is the road where they found Dustin’s cruiser. From the beginning, the Santellises were suspects. We searched for miles. I know we went inside that shed. If his body was there, back then, we’d have found it.”

“They’re saying his body was moved,” Ruth mumbled.

The minister took Ruth’s other hand. “It might not be Dustin.”

“It’s Dustin,” Eric stated. “Who else could it be?”

“Someone from Phoenix,” Sam guessed, looking at Eric. “Your family made plenty of enemies there. This would be a perfect place to hide a body.”

“My brothers would never have left a body, make that bodies, so exposed that anyone willing to move a box or a laundry basket would stumble over them.”

“True,” Rosa agreed.

“And he’s wearing a uniform,” Ruth muttered.

“You saw it?” Sam asked.

Ruth nodded.

“What’s Mallery thinking?” Sam’s annoyance was obvious. “That crime scene is probably so trampled nothing is left.” He looked at Eric. “What about the first body? The one you called in?”

“It’s a woman. She’s wearing pink polyester. She hasn’t been in there long. She still has features.”

“You know,” Rosa said slowly, “Eric made a good point. His brothers would have buried the bodies so deep only a steam shovel could have unearthed them.”

“Maybe they were in a hurry,” the minister said. Dawson had only been in Gila City for eight months. Eric’s older brothers died before his arrival. For the past few months, the Santellis name had lost much of its luster. No one was left to enforce the reputation. It amazed Ruth how quickly the public forgot, how fickle were their memories, how enhanced hers was—at least when it came to the Santellises and what they’d done in Gila City and Broken Bones. She really hadn’t needed to ask Eric about their other vices. She’d known all about them…every cop did, every cop wanted to bring the family down.

And Rosa had. Yet she and Eric Santellis called each other friend. Maybe Ruth could have forgiven Eric if he’d moved some place like Miami or New York City—some place far, far away.

“Ma’am?” It was one of the two deputies. “Sheriff said to show this to you.” He had a Ziploc baggy in his hand. “See if the number belonged to your husband.”

Ruth took what he offered and almost dropped it. Then, she grasped it so tightly that the edges dug into her palm leaving red indentations. When she finally opened her hand and stared at the badge, she felt almost surprised by how ordinary it looked. It hadn’t tarnished; Dustin would be pleased. He shone the thing every morning. And it was Dustin’s badge. It bore his number and traces of his blood.

Sam jumped up, pushed past the deputy and ran across the yard. Numbly, Ruth followed, stood on the porch, suddenly afraid to go any farther, and listened. Rosa and Eric soon joined her. Rosa took her hand and squeezed. “I’m so, so sorry. So sorry.”

Numb, Ruth swallowed back the tears and squeezed in return. The Santellises had been responsible for the death of Rosa’s parents and brother. If anyone understood Ruth’s pain, her sorrow, it would be her best friend, Rosa.

A loud confrontation began inside the shed. Ruth recognized Sam’s shouts. Words like proper procedure, common sense and idiot punctuated the air. Then, it got quiet. Next, those waiting on the porch were privy to a higher-pitched shout. Ruth guessed it to be Sheriff Mallery—a man she’d bugged off and on for the last two years, always trying to find out some info on her husband. He delivered the final blow. “…last one to see her alive.”

The deputy who’d delivered the badge looked relieved not to be part of the shed’s crowd. The door to the shed opened, and the other deputy hurried toward the porch. Sam was on his heels.