A Specter of Justice (26 page)

I walked to the window and looked over Pack Square to Beaucatcher Mountain. Lights were sprinkled across the dark ridge as dusk approached night. There was no time to rally backup, not when stealth was my only option.

I went to my desk, retrieved the Kimber forty-five, slammed one of two magazines home, and loaded a cartridge in the chamber.

On the way out, I dropped a note with three words on Nakayla's keyboard.

I love you.

Chapter Twenty-six

I kept my low beams on as I drove up the back of Windswept Drive to the condominiums atop the ridge. I wanted to keep the headlights from sweeping through the trees, but descending fog also made the low beams more practical.

During my scout of the area the previous afternoon, I'd walked through the woods from the upper parking lot to Helen's Bridge. Now I would have to traverse it without light and in total silence.

I parked the CR-V at the far end, hood facing outward, and took the shortest route to the cover of the forest. It had just swallowed me when headlights from a vehicle ascending from College Street swept the parking lot. I stepped behind a tree trunk and tucked the Kimber into my waistband to keep both hands free to gently push brush and branches away from my body.

Although the descending fog compounded problems of visibility, the dampness helped muffle my footsteps on the newly fallen leaves. I walked like I was back in Iraq, each step potentially triggering an IED.

After fifteen minutes, I estimated I would soon intersect the old carriage path headed for the bridge. Trees thinned and visibility improved as the low hanging clouds reflected the lights of Asheville burning at the foot of the mountain.

I heard a grunt. Then the sound of something being dragged across the ground. My hand clutched the grip of my semi-automatic. Then, not a grunt, but a groan.

I went into a crouch. There might be only seconds. I emerged from the forest into the clearing that spanned the final few yards to the top of Helen's Bridge. One dark shape lay in the middle. A second figure bent over it, holding a length of rope in one hand.

“Don't move. It's over, Pendleton.” I waved the pistol so he would clearly see what he was facing.

The figure froze. “Sam.” Timothy Pendleton barked my name with guttural fury. “Why couldn't you keep your goddamned nose out of this?”

I stepped onto the bridge. “Because what you're doing is wrong, no matter how much you and your sister suffered. Lenore was only in her early twenties, not much older than a kid.”

“Yeah. And what about this son of a bitch? He used every trick he could to set scumbags like Kyle Duncan free.”

“Just like you used every trick in the book to convict anyone you prosecuted. What if you sent an innocent man to jail for life or worse? Should someone come gunning for you?”

He dropped the rope and rose slowly, holding both palms open at his side. “They were guilty. Every last one of them. Just like Clyde Atwood. You think I didn't anticipate Hewitt Donaldson's little stunts? I knew he was aiding the D.A. I knew you have one leg. I knew Heather's cell phone was on and you'd heard everything Clyde was saying. I didn't walk, I ran into those traps to make sure he was convicted.”

“And two little boys were orphaned. How'd that work out for you?”

He took a step forward, not in aggression, but as if anxious to be heard. “I'm sorry about that. I really am. But it set things in motion that I couldn't have dreamed would happen. Every event an opportunity. Like God meant justice to be taken. Those boys will know nothing like we went through. To have your sister raped at eleven, taken back to a bedroom in what was supposed to be a loving, caring family. To hear her crying, and to later learn if she said anything, she was told I'd be killed. And that I was beaten and told to keep silent if I didn't want my sister hurt. We lost our mother, we lost our family, we lost our childhood.” He looked down at Hewitt. “All because of this piece of shit.”

A groan came from Hewitt.

“This was supposed to be a suicide,” I said. “That's why he's still alive. A disgraced lawyer taking his own life. Now you can tell your story in court. It will be as much a judgment about him as about you.”

Pendleton gave a hollow laugh. “Right. My story in the hands of this spin master.”

“Spin master? And how are you spinning Molly's death? What did she ever do to you and your sister?”

“Like you said. She showed up at the wrong time and the wrong place.”

“Bullshit! Then why the double order? The receipts you tagged for Hewitt's credit card were for two grappling hooks and twice the length of rope we found with Molly. You're a coward. You planned to kill Molly to throw suspicion elsewhere. To save your own skin. You've become what you abhor. A cold-blooded killer. A monster.”

“I'm not going in.” He knelt behind Hewitt's body, still keeping his hands in sight. “We'll have our justice now.”

Mist blew across the ground, swirling around the two men. For a split second, I flashed to the dream and Heather's cry, “Coming for you.” Or maybe it was something in Timothy Pendleton's voice.

I wheeled around as a figure in a dark hood rushed at me, arms outstretched to shove me over the bridge. With that split-second warning, I stepped aside and grabbed a wrist as forward momentum carried the attacker by me and over the wall.

“Eileen!” Timothy Pendleton screamed.

Eileen dangled in the air, thirty feet above the hard blacktop. If I dropped the gun to clutch her with both hands, I'd be at the mercy of her brother. He could have had a weapon. I knew he had the grappling hook tied to the end of the noose around Hewitt's neck.

“Do it, Timmy,” Eileen screamed. “Throw him over.”

Headlights raked over the bridge and froze. A car stopped on the ascending slope, its beams like spotlights illuminating a stage.

Timothy Pendleton scooped up Hewitt Donaldson, a man who had him by at least twenty-five pounds.

“I'll drop her, Pendleton. I swear I will.”

Pendleton turned, using Hewitt's body as a shield against the headlights.

“Do it, Timmy,” his sister urged even louder. “You promised!”

“Is this the justice you want?” I cried. “Your sister dead because you value revenge more than her life?”

Pendleton's hard expression faltered as he calculated whether I too could be capable of murder.

Fingernails dug into my wrist. With feral tenacity, Eileen took matters under her own control as she fought to loosen my grip.

“No.” I struggled to pull her up.

She clawed at my wrist, digging her talons deeper until they pinched nerves and tendons. I felt my fingers opening.

“Tell her to stop,” I shouted at Pendleton.

“Do it,” she screeched. She violently jerked her body back and forth.

My fingers yielded. She fell through the mist and landed with a sickening smack on the pavement.

I turned, leveling the Kimber at Pendleton. He stared at me, his face pale as a ghost's. Then from somewhere deep inside, a sob of unspeakable sorrow welled up. He twisted as he lunged toward the wall with Hewitt's body.

I fired at his upper chest, the only clean shot I had. The bullet caught him in the left shoulder and his arm went limp. Hewitt toppled onto the wall. I fired again, this time at his center mass. The impact of the forty-five caliber slug knocked him back. Hewitt rolled toward the edge.

I leaped forward, grabbing for Hewitt's belt. Somehow, sheer will kept Pendleton on his feet. He looked over the wall at the sprawled body of his sister.

Then he jumped.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Less than a week ago, Helen's Bridge had been bathed in blue and red flashing lights as Molly's body dangled from the end of rope. Now the bridge was once again aglow as police vehicles and ambulances surrounded two bodies that lay side by side in the middle of the road.

I stayed on top of the bridge, clutching Hewitt's belt until Nakayla pried my fingers loose.

“It's all right, Sam,” she whispered. “We've got him.”

“He's drugged. They were going to hang him.”

“Let the EMTs take care of him. Come with me.” She grabbed my arm, and then looked more closely. “We'll have them clean those scratches.”

Newly took my other arm and together they helped me to my feet.

“My gun's here somewhere. You'll need it for the investigation.”

“We'll take care of it,” Newly said. “One thing at a time. Let's get you checked out and then we can talk.”

“How did you know to come?” I asked him.

“Nakayla called.”

“I found your note,” she said.

“I love you?”

“Yes. Written on the back of the copy of the credit card receipt for the rope and two grappling hooks. You'd underlined the number two, and I put two and two together. Where would they use another hook?”

I stopped and kissed her.

Newly cleared his throat. “You want me to wait in the car?”

“No,” Nakayla said. “Get his statement so I can take him home.”

When we reached the road, Tuck Efird ran up to me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” I gestured up Windswept Drive. “I think you'll find their car at the top of the hill in one of the condominium lots. Probably a rental. I'm pretty sure Angela drove it up after dropping off Peterson and Hewitt. He dragged Hewitt from the closest switchback to the bridge.”

“Donaldson's scratched up all right,” Efird said. “They put him in a Hawaiian shirt like in McPhillips' picture. And Peterson's wearing military shoe covers matching our scrap.”

“Peterson got inside our inner circle where he could get whatever he needed,” I said. “I'm sure he copied the credit card information from his access to the office or Cory's purse. He could have collected strands of Hewitt's hair, seen him wear all manner of Hawaiian shirts he could buy and have on standby, and then he knew Cory's schedule for when it was safe to have the dress and hardware delivered to her address.”

“He faked us out at the Grove Park,” Efird said. “He parked where the surveillance camera could see the back of the van, but he could exit from the passenger's side. We'll never know but I bet Lenore's car was parked up there. He could take the walkie-talkie and her car to bring Molly's body to the bridge. He still communicated with everyone, saying he was at the Grove Park, and because no cell towers were involved, his exact location couldn't be tracked. The bartender at the Sunset Terrace only remembered Peterson was there at some point in the evening.”

Efird's theory sounded spot on.

“And the untraceable walkie-talkies destroyed Hewitt's alibi,” I said. “We couldn't confirm his location because, unlike Peterson, there was no surveillance camera on his van at the time Molly was thrown from the bridge.”

Efird turned to Newly. “If everything's under control here, I'll take Al and Ted up to check on those cars.”

“Go ahead,” Newly said.

“You should find a key on Angela's body,” I said.

Efird stepped a few yards toward the cluster of police cars. Then he abruptly returned and stood toe-to-toe with me. “We've had our differences, Sam. And you know why. I still can't stand Donaldson. But you did a hell of a job.”

He offered his hand. Blue lights flickered across his exhausted face and I could read the toll the case had taken. He'd loved Molly and been denied confronting her killers.

I shook his hand. “We worked together, Tuck. We both wanted the truth.”

I sat in back of Newly's car with Nakayla beside me and recounted everything that happened since I arrived on the mountain. Newly ran an audio recorder and let me talk uninterrupted.

When I'd finished, he flipped off the device. “I'll get this typed and you can sign it tomorrow or sometime over the next few days. Anything unaccounted for?”

“I'll have to think about it,” I said. “Once Peterson and Cory became a couple, he had the opportunity to collect the evidence planted on Hewitt's property, obtain the credit card information, and exploit the fundraiser plans to murder Molly and Lenore. Molly's death was meant to throw us off, to focus the investigation on the Atwoods. He claimed Molly showed up at Lenore's at the wrong time Friday morning. Maybe. But the extra rope, hook, and dress undercut that argument. And Molly's assignment at the remote bridge location made her the easiest target.”

“Do you know of anything slipping between the cracks?”

I thought for a moment more about the confrontation on the bridge. “I also think Peterson was lying about his deliberate sabotage of Clyde Atwood's case. He went scarlet when I testified about my cell phone call with Heather. I've never known anyone who could command blood to rush to his face. He could have learned from Cory later that Hewitt had schooled D.A. Carter and then claimed to have known it before the trial.”

“Why lie?” Newly asked.

“I think he wanted my respect. Even at the end.” I put my arm around Nakayla. “Something Nakayla noticed before I did. I'd been a chief warrant officer, a tool of the prosecution. He saw everything through that lens. Better for ten innocent people to be convicted than one guilty be freed to wreak havoc in the world. It was important to him that I understood his story. I understand that he and his sister were doomed the moment Kyle Duncan walked into their mother's house.”

“No,” Newly said. “The moment Kyle Duncan walked out of an Asheville courtroom.”

I said nothing.

Efird rapped on Newly's window and the detective lowered it.

“We found the car,” Efird said. “A Chevy Malibu rented in Hendersonville with Tennessee plates. We also found a syringe and ketamine in the glove compartment. That's how they sedated Donaldson.”

Ketamine. I knew it was primarily used by veterinarians as an anesthetic. It was also infamous as a date-rape drug. Because ketamine breaks down so quickly into other chemicals, a positive trace is difficult unless the blood test specifically targets it.

“I notified the hospital so they can treat Donaldson accordingly,” Efird continued. “We found a suicide note in Peterson's pocket signed by Donaldson. Peterson must have planned to leave it at the scene.”

“I doubt if Hewitt will remember much,” I said. “But the drug does make you compliant.”

“He needs to know he came within inches of rolling off that bridge wall to his death,” Efird said. “Maybe he'll think twice about who he takes as a client.”

“Are we done?” Nakayla asked.

“Yes,” Newly said. “Take him home.”

I wondered which one, Nakayla's house or my apartment? Then I realized it didn't matter as long as she was with me.

***

The hospital kept Hewitt Donaldson overnight and into late the next afternoon for observation. Shirley and Cory never left his bedside. I slept for twelve hours, physically and mentally exhausted from the ordeal. Saturday afternoon I went by the police station to sign my statement. I learned that Hewitt had been abducted shortly after leaving the Kenilworth, the scene of Lenore's abandoned car. Peterson had forced him into the trunk of his vehicle at gunpoint, and then injected him with the first dose of ketamine. After that, Hewitt had only foggy memories of being in the dark until transferred from one trunk to another. He had no recollection of being dragged to the bridge or how perilously close he'd come to hanging.

On Monday morning, Nakayla and I drove to his house. He came to the front door, still in his pajamas and with his hair tangled like the beaters of an electric mixer had been run through it.

He held a screwdriver in his hand. “I was just putting this away. Come in. Would you like some coffee?”

Nakayla and I both took a cup and then we sat at his kitchen table. He looked at my bandaged wrist.

“Detective Newland showed me your statement, Sam. You saved my life. Such as it is.”

“We got to the truth. I just wish it had been sooner for your sake.”

“Yeah, for my sake,” he repeated without conviction. His eyes filled with tears and he looked away. Nakayla and I sipped our coffee in silence.

“I'm going to take a little time off,” Hewitt said, still not looking at us.

“I think that's good,” Nakayla said. “You've been through a lot.”

He snapped his head around. “Maybe I haven't been through enough!” He sighed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bark at you. I need to do a little thinking. Shirley and Cory can keep the office running, and I can work on some appeals that are pending. Keep enough cash coming through to cover their salaries. But it's time I stepped back and looked at the big picture.”

I gazed beyond him to the screwdriver lying on the kitchen counter.

“I think that's wise,” I said. I nudged Nakayla's knee under the table. “When you're ready to talk, we're here to listen.”

We left him sitting at the table.

“Is he all right?” Nakayla asked as we let ourselves out the front door.

“He will be. He'll be different. For a while at least.” I took her hand. “I want to check something.”

I led her to Hewitt's garage. The Jaguar was backed in close to the door, but not so close that we couldn't see that there was no license plate. We walked to the roll-out trashcan positioned up against the side of the garage. I lifted the lid.

Lying atop the trash was Hewitt's vanity plate. He'd bent it in half. Facing up were the letters GIL-T.