Eagle bay, p.3
Eagle Bay, page 3
He lifted the mallet. “I did, twice, in the temple. I didn’t want to, but everything has changed.” He removed his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“You bashed my head? Tied me up? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Meddling in my family’s affairs has grave consequences. I’ve got two pieces of evidence that prove you’re conspiring.” Thomas held up the old newsclip photo. “First, you shouldn’t have gone looking for this.”
John extended his bound arms from the floor and glared. “A damn press clipping. So what if our grandfathers were friends? Like you and me? Why’s it matter?”
“You’ve made yourself an unacceptable risk.”
“I’m lost, Thomas. I thought you’d find the family bonds intriguing.”
Thomas stared at him with an extended hand, dangling the pendant. “Secondly, this convinces me you lied about everything.” He swung the medallion like a pendulum as if trying to hypnotize. “You’ve been scheming behind my back.”
“That’s a bullshit piece of fake jewelry. It belonged to my grandmother. End of story.”
“Impossible. It’s one of the assets. You must have others. Where’d you find them? Where are you keeping them? And who else knows? My gut was right—you’ve discovered the past.”
John shot back, “‘The assets’ means nothing to me. You need to get your shit together, Thomas. Tell me this is all some sort of bizarre joke. Deliver the punchline and untie me.”
“I thought about our lunch discussion. I think you’re planning to blackmail us.” Thomas laid the pendant on a workbench. “But you’ve uncovered things no one can know. You should’ve left well enough alone before it was too late.”
John stared and leaned forward, rubbing his temple with the top of a taped wrist.
“You’ve left me no choice.” Thomas opened a cabinet and grabbed a twenty-foot leather bullwhip. He expertly swung the lash like a fly fisherman, snapping its frayed end to deliver a sharp, firecracker-like pop.
“Now you’re threatening me like a wannabe cowboy? Get a grip.”
“What about your lies?”
“I’ve never lied to you.”
Thomas lowered the whip. “Even worse—you’ve betrayed me. You went digging for information about my family and the assets. You’ve sealed your fate.”
“You’ve suddenly become unhinged. None of what you’re saying makes sense, and I could never blackmail you or your family, even if I knew what you were talking about.”
The woven leather whip sprung to life, and Thomas snapped the loose threads of its tapered end against John’s chest. An angry yell preceded a light stream of blood oozing from a slice through his sweatshirt.
“Damnit, Thomas! Stop! Go get Robert!” John pleaded, assuming Thomas was suffering a mental breakdown, even though he’d never seen him act oddly. Perhaps his mother’s condition was genetic. “You’re torturing me?”
Thomas lashed at his friend again, leaving a welt on his bicep. “Tell me everything you know and this will end. Reveal your plans, and I’ll forgive you.”
Wordlessly, Thomas simultaneously begged John for forgiveness. He stepped away, his shadow etched by the glow of an antique gas lantern wired with electricity. Rain tapped on the roof’s wood shingles, filling the barn with a dull hum. Leaking water dripped from a ceiling beam and patted gently on the floor twenty feet away.
John struggled to rub his cheek with tightly constricted forearms, offering every protest he could muster. Nothing he said snapped Thomas out of his confusing state.
Thomas swung the whip a third time. John was ready and moved his duct-taped arms to a defensive position, causing the last two feet of woven leather to coil around his forearms. Thomas attempted to yank it away, but John maneuvered his hands to clutch the weapon, preventing its release.
Thomas dropped the bullwhip to the floor. “Still claiming innocence?”
“Look into my eyes. You know I’m telling you the truth.”
Thomas left the barn and returned minutes later carrying a brown case. He walked to a workbench near the cabinets, opened the container, and stared at its contents for a long pause. He removed a Sig Sauer pistol and inserted two rounds into an ammo clip while keeping eye contact with John. “You and me, we’re cursed,” Thomas said while removing the suppressor and screwing it onto the threaded barrel of the handgun.
“A gun?” John said with panic. “Stop and help me, Thomas. This isn’t you.”
“My father raised me to distrust people. To accept that others might challenge the past. Try to steal from us.” He crumpled his brows. “Bad decision, John. We both know you’re guilty.”
“Of what? You’re paranoid.”
“This didn’t have to happen.”
“Nothing’s going to happen!” Images of Skye and their children bore into his consciousness. He shivered. “You could never pull the trigger . . . never. You know that.” His efforts to loosen his restraints failed; bulging veins appeared through reddened arms.
Thomas strode forward and crouched down. “Last chance to come clean.”
“Take a step back. Get a hold of yourself. You once told me I was the only true friend you had. I’ve always loved you like a brother.”
Thomas hesitated. “You’re my only real friend, John.” In a desperate voice, he added, “You had to know something like this would happen after your sleuthing.”
“Put the gun away,” John said, his face begging. “You’re not well. You look and sound possessed.”
“Perceptive words.”
“Free me. Or get Robert.”
“Robert knows you’re here.” He adjusted his grip and pointed the weapon at John.
“Damnit! You can’t just shoot me, for Christ’s sake!”
“I need information. You’re making me do this.” A tear gathered at a crease on Thomas’s face; he wiped his eye with a sleeve.
“Family secrets? Assets? I swear I don’t know what any of it means.” Still seated, John’s back and neck pressed back against the post. He tried to slow his breathing.
Familiar scents of burning pine and maple from the valley below wafted through the air, typically comforting smells now at odds with the tension. “Let me walk away,” John said, believing he’d glimpsed a flash of sympathy. “Thomas, we can get past this. It’s okay.”
Thomas stepped away and rubbed his forehead with the suppressor barrel, then turned and peered into frightened brown eyes. John watched the weapon get aimed at his chest, now believing this could actually happen—someone he considered family might kill him. With the gun still aimed, Thomas’s facial muscles seemed to relax, and hope began to build.
A single shot rang out.
The bullet entered the right side of John’s chest. Pieces of bone and tissue splattered behind him. John’s constricted body slumped sideways, with his skull suspended inches above the floor. His gaze settled on Thomas.
Shock numbed his pain. Red oozed from the wound. John’s raspy breathing pierced the air. He could smell his blood, and warm sensations cascaded down his chest and arm. It had all become too real.
“Sorry for . . . for whatever you think I’ve done. Let me live.” John twisted his neck and gazed up. “Help me. Please.” The whip remained wrapped around John’s arms.
Thomas yelled through tears, “Tell me what you’ve found! Stop pretending!”
John mumbled, “Everything I know, you know.” His breathing grew more labored.
Ten-foot doors rattled as a gust of wind tested century-old hinges. The clanging of a metal coupling against a flagpole outside mimicked the remote pings of a buoy in Eagle Bay. John grew lightheaded.
Thomas cocked his head and studied the weapon in his hand. Moistening dry lips with his tongue, he moved his gaze to a random depression on the floor.
John peered up. “I’m innocent.”
Thomas’s pistol tilted downward as if it were heavy.
“One day, you’ll accept . . .” John caught his breath, “. . . what I’ve said.” Blood stained his teeth and trickled down the edge of his mouth. “Tell Skye I loved her to the end. Figure out . . . how . . . to do that.”
Anguish covered Thomas’s chiseled face. He stepped forward and fired the second round, grazing John’s heart.
Lying still as his blood pooled, the adrenaline that provided resistance to an execution waned. His lips moved, but no words were released.
Thomas bent forward. “I’m sorry. You’ve always been a better man than me.”
John fought hard to speak. He whispered, “What . . . are you?”
“I’m everything and nothing people think I am.” Seconds passed. “But by tragic design, John. Not by choice.”
John’s vision faded to black.
Chapter:
4
Thomas crouched with his Sig Sauer gripped atop his knee. He watched heat from the burning slug create wisps of smoke that swirled into the cool air. Aromas of spent ammo and scorched flesh were intense. Moist eyes blurred his vision. Slowly, they dried.
Staring at John’s lifeless body, he considered slicing and peeling away the gray tape but realized it would serve no purpose. He strode to the jagged pendant of the sun and picked it up. It was heavy, maybe four ounces of gold and silver. He caressed and studied the centuries-old piece. “Our family histories repeat. You’d discovered the truth.”
Thomas tugged at an oval brass cuff around John’s still-warm wrist; it was too tight to remove. He returned with bolt cutters he’d grabbed from a workbench drawer, sliced through its edge, and removed it. Climbing a ladder into the loft, he hid the cuff behind a beam.
He descended and walked to the far end of the barn, where he opened an oak door. Observing dark hills surrounding his family’s estate, Thomas leaned against a jamb and listened to an owl’s hooting. He felt sick.
Minutes later, his father entered and grimaced. A two-foot crimson arc spread from John’s chest, whose body lay at the base of a thick, rough-hewn post of Oregon Coast Range timber. Robert said, “Well, this is a mess.” With pursed lips, he turned to Thomas. “You’ll need to scrub that area down.”
Thomas didn’t move.
“So, he was figuring things out?” Robert asked as aromatic cherry drifted from his burlwood pipe.
Thomas stood expressionless during a long stretch of silence. “He claimed ignorance,” he finally replied, his cheeks flushed.
“Hmm . . .”
“He was wearing this.” Thomas handed his father the pendant of a fiery sun.
Robert walked to brighter light and admired. “I’ll be damned. You know what this is?”
“Of course, it’s one of the assets.”
Robert smiled. “It’s much more than that.” He patted Thomas’s shoulder. “Good work. It looks exactly as described in the journal.”
“What journal?” Thomas asked while shaking his head with squinted eyes.
“I’ll enlighten you soon enough.” Robert glanced again at the ancient jewelry. “This single piece could have supported John’s family for a generation. Where did he find it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had he ever talked about it?”
“No.”
“Not sure if that’s fortuitous or problematic. I lean toward the latter. It’s good he’s dead.”
Thomas didn’t reply while removing his red and black silk tie. He walked with his head bowed.
“And you said he found the newspaper photo in the Randolph Museum? I’m surprised. I had that tiny place scrubbed clean ages ago.” Robert drew steadily through the warm stem pressed to his lips, then said, “Show it to me.”
Thomas stepped to a table, closed the case holding his Sig Sauer, picked up the newspaper photo, and handed it to Robert.
“Is this the only copy?” Robert asked, in a tone implying it had better be. Thomas didn’t answer, so his father repeated the question.
“Yes, it is.”
“You’re absolutely certain? This isn’t something you can be wrong about.”
Thomas exhaled loudly. “I think it’s the only copy, and I don’t think anyone else knows about it. Your questioning is annoying. At this point, things are what they are. I’ve once again protected your precious Westbrooke legacy, Robert.”
“Most people would consider killing John unwise if you weren’t positive you had every version of this.” Robert extended the newsclip as pipe smoke billowed and floated across the barn.
Thomas flashed ire at the condescending tone. “Most people don’t kill. Don’t get me started. You sit in the house, smoke tobacco, manage Emma’s care, and read about your expanding business empire—the one I’ve expanded.”
“Calm down.”
“Listen carefully, Robert. You’ve become ungrateful. It’s a mistake taking me for granted.”
Robert flashed disappointment before lifting the pendant. “I’ll put this in the vault.”
“Don’t—I’ll take it.”
“No, you won’t. Such decisions lead to sloppiness. It’s valuable, and we’ve got too much at risk for you to be careless again.” Robert placed it into the pocket of his dark tweed jacket.
Thomas’s gaze bore into his father’s. “One day, I may not ask for permission. I’ll simply take what I deserve.”
“My son, the prodigy, spreads his wings. Relax. The assets enable everything important to us, but you mustn’t get lured into worshiping them. You’ve become emotionally attached. They’re a tool, not the end.”
“They mean something different to me than to you. That was your doing,” Thomas said, letting his words settle. React, you bastard. Acknowledge your role. He continued, “Wealth is an easy pursuit, as I’ve amply proven. I don’t need more money. The assets have always enthralled me. Consider my passion a threat?”
“I don’t. I’m steps ahead of you in ways you can’t fathom. You’re intelligent to a fault. Let’s finish this.” Robert inspected John’s body. “He was a stationary target. Why’d you shoot him twice?” He looked at the bullwhip and glared at Thomas. “This looks excessive.”
Thomas teared up, something he hadn’t done in his father’s presence in over ten years. “I don’t have to justify anything to you.” He wiped his eyes, looked up to the ceiling, and nodded. “You’re the one who taught me that pain is justice, Robert.” There was no response. “I think I was twelve at the time.” Thomas scratched a forearm while his father remained quiet. “Yes, I’ve memorized a lifetime of your absurd wisdom.”
“These situations should never get emotional,” Robert said. “Whatever’s eating at you, let it go. Emotion leads to poor decisions. Poor decisions lead to scrutiny. Scrutiny is our greatest threat.”
“Eating at me? I just killed my best friend.” Thomas took a deep breath as he surveyed the scene. The surreal image took him back fifteen years to a twisted rite of passage that still tormented him. He stepped away and seated himself on a weathered pine bench. Pulling his Cartier from his wrist, he placed it on an armrest. He removed his custom dress shoes and laced up work boots.
“Burn those when you’re done,” Robert said.
“You think?” Sarcasm dripped from his lips. “I know the routine. I’m the one with a photographic memory.”
“You’re sensitive tonight. That’s curious,” Robert said. “I hope it’s just the adrenaline talking. Regardless, we have a dead man in our barn and need a plan of action.”
“Yes, I’m sensitive. You should be, too.” A long moment of silence passed, then Thomas explained his strategy for the cover-up of John’s murder. He spoke unflinchingly, but his body and mind felt pained.
His father internalized the plot. “Risky, but it should work. There’s a lieutenant we can buy off.” He motioned to four empty horse stalls in a corner of the outbuilding. “You know where to dig.”
The Westbrookes hadn’t boarded horses in the barn for years. Flooring that matched the rest of the restored structure had been extended over the original dirt stalls years earlier. Thomas began removing pieces of a craftsman’s grid of wooden planks. Having exposed the dirt, he walked toward a rack of shovels.
Robert raised his hand and pointed a finger. “Wait. Before it gets too late, reinforce your alibi with Skye.”
Separating himself from Robert, Thomas stretched the long cord of a green wall phone and dialed the McCloud’s home.
Strolling from the table in her breakfast nook to the end of the kitchen counter, Skye glanced at a sunflower wall clock before picking up the white receiver. “Hello?”
“Hey Skye, it’s Thomas.”
“Howdy. You guys all set for the delta?”
He hesitated. “Almost. John’s outside, tuning up the boat. He said to expect one or two salmon tomorrow.”
“Yum. Is he going to hop on to say good night?”
“He’s covered in grease and asked me to call.” Thomas considered John’s final words. “He said . . . he says he loves you.”
“Of course he does.” She smiled at her reflection in the kitchen window. “Have a great time. Good luck, and stay safe.”
“We will. Goodnight, Skye.”
Thomas rubbed his brow with a forefinger while approaching his father. “John’s blood is on you, too. I hate you for this.” Despair sought the comfort of shared complicity.
“Don’t point at me. This was your decision, your murder.”
“You’ve turned me into the killer I never wanted to be.”
“I’ve helped you become great,” Robert said. “Don’t relish what you’ve done, Thomas, but don’t regret it. Killing John was prudent.”
“Prudent?” Thomas asked. “As I said, you’re indebted. The assets will one day be my reward.” Thomas drove a spade into the soil with his boot. He stopped to gaze at Robert, who stood next to a collection of restored antique gas pumps in the middle of the barn—three red, one yellow. On the wall beyond Robert were road signs from the 1920s that Thomas and John had hung during college. On the verge of more tears, he tightened his grip on the shovel and kept digging.
